Anton Pavlovich Chekhov 



   Vanka

    Vanka Zhukov,  a boy of nine,  who had been for three months apprenticed to 
Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waiting till his master 
and mistress and their workmen had gone to the midnight service, he took out of 
his master's cupboard a bottle of  ink  and  a  pen  with  a  rusty  nib,  and, 
spreading out a crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, began writing.  Before 
forming the first letter he several times looked round fearfully  at  the  door 
and the windows, stole a glance at the  dark  ikon,  on  both  sides  of  which 
stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The paper lay on the 
bench while he knelt before it. 
    "Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch,"  he  wrote,  "I  am  writing  you 
a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings  from  God  Almighty. 
I have neither father nor mother, you are the only one left me." 
    Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of his candle was 
reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch,  who was 
night watchman to a family called Zhivarev. He was a thin  but  extraordinarily 
nimble and lively little old man of sixty-five, with an everlastingly  laughing 
face and drunken eyes. By day he slept in the servants' kitchen, or made  jokes 
with the cooks; at night, wrapped in an ample sheepskin, he  walked  round  the 
grounds and tapped with his little mallet. Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called  on 
account of his dark colour and his long body like a weasel's, followed him with 
hanging heads. This Eel was exceptionally polite and affectionate,  and  looked 
with equal kindness on strangers and his own masters, but had not a  very  good 
reputation. Under his politeness and meekness was hidden  the  most  Jesuitical 
cunning. No one knew better how to creep up on occasion and snap at one's legs, 
to slip into the store-room, or steal a hen from a peasant. His hind  legs  had 
been nearly pulled off more than once, twice he had been hanged,  every week he 
was thrashed till he was half dead, but he always revived. 
    At this moment grandfather was, no doubt, standing at the gate, screwing up 
his eyes at the red windows of the church, stamping with his high  felt  boots, 
and joking with the servants. His little mallet was hanging on his belt. He was 
clasping his hands, shrugging  with  the  cold,  and,  with  an  aged  chuckle, 
pinching first the housemaid, then the cook. 
    "How about a pinch of  snuff?"  he  was  saying,  offering  the  women  his 
snuff-box. 
    The women would take a sniff and sneeze. Grandfather would be indescribably 
delighted, go off into a merry chuckle, and cry: 
    "Tear it off, it has frozen on!" 
    They give the dogs a sniff of snuff too. Kashtanka  sneezes,  wriggles  her 
head, and walks away offended. Eel does not sneeze, from politeness,  but  wags 
his  tail.  And  the  weather  is  glorious.  The  air  is  still,  fresh,  and 
transparent. The night is dark, but one can see  the  whole  village  with  its 
white roofs and coils of smoke coming from the  chimneys,  the  trees  silvered 
with hoar frost, the snowdrifts. The whole  sky  spangled  with  gay  twinkling 
stars, and the Milky Way is as distinct as though it had been washed and rubbed 
with snow for a holiday... 
    Vanka sighed, dipped his pen, and went on writing: 
    "And yesterday I had a wigging. The master pulled me out into the  yard  by 
my hair, and whacked me with  a  boot-stretcher  because  I  accidentally  fell 
asleep while I was rocking their brat  in  the  cradle.  And  a  week  ago  the 
mistress told me to clean a herring, and I began from the  tail  end,  and  she 
took the herring and thrust its head in my face. The workmen laugh  at  me  and 
send me to the tavern for vodka, and tell me to steal  the  master's  cucumbers 
for them, and the master beats me with anything that comes to hand.  And  there 
is nothing to eat. In the morning they give me bread, for dinner, porridge, and 
in the evening, bread again; but as for tea, or soup, the master  and  mistress 
gobble it all up themselves. And I am put to sleep in  the  passage,  and  when 
their wretched brat cries I get no sleep at all, but have to rock  the  cradle. 
Dear grandfather, show the divine mercy, take me away from here,  home  to  the 
village. It's more than I can bear. I bow down to your feet, and will  pray  to 
God for you for ever, take me away from here or I shall die." 
    Vanka's mouth worked, he rubbed his eyes with  his  black  fist,  and  gave 
a sob. 
    "I will powder your snuff for you," he went on. "I will pray for  you,  and 
if I do anything you can thrash me like Sidor's goat.  And if you think I've no 
job, then I will beg the steward for Christ's sake to let me clean  his  boots, 
or I'll go for a shepherd-boy instead of Fedka. Dear grandfather,  it  is  more 
than I can bear, it's simply no life at all.  I  wanted  to  run  away  to  the 
village, but I have no boots, and I am afraid of the frost. When I grow up  big 
I will take care of you for this, and not let anyone annoy you,  and  when  you 
die I will pray for the rest of your soul, just as for my mammy's. 
    Moscow is a big town. It's all gentlemen's houses, and there  are  lots  of 
horses, but there are no sheep, and the dogs are not spiteful.  The  lads  here 
don't go out with the star, and they don't let anyone go into  the  choir,  and 
once I saw in a shop window fishing-hooks for sale, fitted ready with the  line 
and for all sorts of fish, awfully good ones, there  was  even  one  hook  that 
would hold a forty-pound  sheat-fish. And I have seen  shops  where  there  are 
guns of all sorts, after the pattern of the master's  guns  at  home,  so  that 
I shouldn't wonder if they are a hundred roubles each... And in  the  butchers' 
shops there are grouse and woodcocks and fish and hares, but the shopmen  don't 
say where they shoot them. 
    "Dear grandfather, when they have the Christmas  tree  at  the  big  house, 
get me a gilt walnut, and put it away in the green trunk. Ask  the  young  lady 
Olga Ignatyevna, say it's for Vanka." 
    Vanka gave a tremulous sigh, and again stared at the window. He  remembered 
how his grandfather always went into the forest to get the Christmas  tree  for 
his master's family, and took his grandson with  him.  It  was  a  merry  time! 
Grandfather made a noise in his throat, the forest crackled with the frost, and 
looking at them Vanka chortled too. Before chopping down  the  Christmas  tree, 
grandfather would smoke a pipe, slowly take a pinch  of  snuff,  and  laugh  at 
frozen Vanka... The young fir trees, covered with hoar frost, stood motionless, 
waiting to see which of them was to die. Wherever one looked, a hare flew  like 
an arrow over the snowdrifts... Grandfather could not  refrain  from  shouting: 
"Hold him, hold him ... hold him! Ah, the bob-tailed devil!" 
    When he had cut down the Christmas tree, grandfather used to drag it to the 
big house, and there set to work to decorate it...  The  young  lady,  who  was 
Vanka's favourite, Olga Ignatyevna, was the busiest of all. When Vanka's mother 
Pelageya was alive, and a servant in the big house,  Olga  Ignatyevna  used  to 
give him goodies, and having nothing better to  do,  taught  him  to  read  and 
write, to count up to a hundred, and even to dance a quadrille.  When  Pelageya 
died, Vanka had been transferred to  the  servants'  kitchen  to  be  with  his 
grandfather, and from the kitchen to the shoemaker's in Moscow. 
    "Do come, dear grandfather," Vanka went on with his letter.  "For  Christ's 
sake, I beg you, take me away. Have pity on an unhappy  orphan  like  me;  here 
everyone knocks me about, and I am fearfully hungry;  I  can't  tell  you  what 
misery it is, I am always crying. And the other day the master hit  me  on  the 
head with a last, so that I fell down. My life  is  wretched,  worse  than  any 
dog's... I send greetings to Alyona, one-eyed Yegorka, and  the  coachman,  and 
don't give my concertina to anyone. I remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov.  Dear 
grandfather, do come." 
    Vanka folded the sheet of writing-paper twice, and put it into an  envelope 
he had bought the day before for a kopeck... After thinking a little, he dipped 
the pen and wrote the address: 

                    To grandfather in the village. 

    Then he scratched  his  head,  thought  a  little,  and  added:  Konstantin 
Makaritch. Glad that he had not been prevented from writing,  he put on his cap 
and,  without putting on his little greatcoat, ran out into the  street  as  he 
was in his shirt... 
    The shopmen at the butcher's, whom he had questioned the day  before,  told 
him that letters were put in post-boxes, and from the boxes were carried  about 
all over the earth in mailcarts with drunken drivers and ringing  bells.  Vanka 
ran to the nearest post-box, and thrust the precious letter in the slit... 
    An hour later, lulled by sweet hopes, he was sound asleep...  He dreamed of 
the stove. On the stove was sitting his grandfather, swinging  his  bare  legs, 
and reading the letter to the cooks... 
    By the stove was Eel, wagging his tail. 

    1886

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   Notes
    Vanka: a dimutive of the name Ivan.  

    Mallet: a Russian night watchman used a wooden  noisemaker  to  signal  his 
presence, thus alerting his employer that he  was  on  duty  and  also  warning 
potential troublemakers that the grounds were patrolled. 

    Kashtanka: a common name for a dog in Russian. 

    Wigging: scolding. 

    Star: it was a common Christmas custom in rural Russia to go in  procession 
from house to house carrying a star symbol while telling  stories  and  singing 
religious songs. 

    Get me a gilt walnut: a nut wrapped in gold foil as a Christmas treat. 

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