Dear readers,
Here's another one! Before you read, please note that Christmas in Russia is according to the old calendar, on the 7th of January. I know the scene in ST doesn't look like January, but assume it is. It doesn't always snow in winter in England.
This ST character appears VERY briefly, and I hope you recognize him! «Vanka Zhukov» is a short story by Anton Chekhov. The italic parts are almost directly translated from Chekhov's story - although I take a few liberties with the translation. The regular writing is about the ST character. The bold at the end talks about both Vanka and the ST character.
VII. Prosaic Elegy for Vanka Zhukov
When one does something, anything whatsoever, even something as simple as eating a piece of bread crust or gazing from the window, one might wonder - if one is bored and distracted enough, of course – if someone else is doing exactly the same thing at the same time. Someone else in the same house, or perhaps the same village, the same town, the same country…or the same world. And kismet happens. Even when we aren't quite aware of it.
And yet, on that cold, windy January night, the little boy, so small, so thin, as though he had already partly left the earth before the noose even tightened around his neck, did not think of such coincidences. Quill pen in his tiny hand, a piece of creased paper on the wooden table, at which so many others, young and old, had lain their heads, trying to shut out the hammering of the gallows outside, he glanced around himself, and began to write. Only the letter, this letter that might mean everything, mattered to him now.
On that cold, windy Christmas night, little Vanka did not sleep. Having waited for the masters of the workshop to retire to their bedchambers, he took an ancient, rusty quill pen and a piece of creased paper from the drawer. Kneeling before the bench, that ancient bench on which so many had sat, thought so many thoughts, onto which he placed the paper, he fearfully glanced around himself, casting, for a moment, his eyes on the dark icon before which the candle burned low, and flickered, and began to write. Only the letter, this letter that might mean everything, mattered to him now.
His elbows were red, red against that black table. He placed the quill on the paper, that paper the guard had given him, scrunched and crumpled, from his pocket. The guard with the severe mouth, and yet, with sympathy, confusion and kindness in his eyes. He placed the quill on the paper, and wrote, his letters large, childish, unformed.
"Dear Grandfather George,
I am writing you a letter. I hope you are well. I have no mother, no father, only you alone who can help me."
The boy paused in his writing for a second, and looked at that tiny cell window, with its iron bars, at what little he could see of the night sky, and thought of his grandfather. That big, burly man with his kind hazel eyes and a head of ginger hair, like his father's, like his, the kind man who was a favourite with all the village women, and even men. The man who always had his trusty dog, Huntsman, by his side. Ah, that dog. It's name was nothing but that – a name. That fluffy little creature couldn't even hunt flies. And yet, though it seemed so kind, so reverent to his master, he had the most cunning little mind; he knew exactly when to nip one on the leg, when to steal a ham from an idle hand. He knew how to survive. Now, grandfather was probably standing at the gates of his house in his village, smoking, watching the sky, if it was clear. To his grandson, in his mind, the village sky was always clear. As if it had been scrubbed with snow.
The candle flickered, and Vanka got glimpses of the Holy Virgin's face, so kind, so soft, looking down upon him in Her grace. And he could not help but smile back, hesitantly, the way a bashful young boy usually does, the smile beginning with a raising of the eyebrows, with an adoring glance. He turned his head back to the letter, and wrote, his letters large, childhish, unformed.
Dear Grandfather Konstantin Makarych!
I am writing you a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and everything from the Lord God. I have no mother, no father, only you alone are left.
Vanka paused in his writing for a second, and looked at the darkened window, in which he could see his candle, flickering, and thought of his grandfather, who had worked as a night guard for the Zhivariov family. That small, thin and yet incredibly agile man with an eternally laughing face and drunken eyes. That jovial man who was always joking with the village women, and whom his dog Kashtanka and his horse, Vyun, would always follow. Ah, that horse. His name was much more than just a name. "Vyun" was a reflection of this horse's agility, unmatched by any. He would always know how to steal a chicken from a man's idle hand, how to nip one on the leg.
Now, Konstantin Makarych was probably standing by the gates, squinting at the bright red windows of the village Church, and, sniffing his snuff. The women would sniff it, and sneeze. Kashtanka would sniff, and sneeze, and, affronted, turn her back to her master. Vyun, however, out of respect, does not sneeze, and yet moves his tail. The night is dark, the village light in its white-topped houses and smoking chimneys, and the sky always clear. Clear, bejeweled with winking stars, and one can see the milky well so well that it seems that the sky had been scrubbed with snow for Christmas.
The boy sighed, tearing his gaze away from the bars, and returned to his paper and pen.
"A month ago, I was caught stealing bread. I had no choice, I was starving. I was dying out on the streets, where I have been since mother and father died. I had been let off then, and now they took me in again. I didn't do anything, please, Grandfather George, believe me. They just took me in, and sentenced me to hang in a week's time. I am in prison now, writing this, and I am hungry and cold. In the morning, they gave me bread. In the afternoon, I got a bowl of burnt porridge. At night, bread again. Dear Grandfather, please get me out of here. I don't want to die."
The boy wiped his wet eyes with a black fist, leaving smears of soot on his face.
"I will do anything you ask of me. If I wrong you in any way, you can beat me till I'm half dead, but please, just get me out of here. I thought of escaping, and yet I have no friends and no food, and no warm clothes – how am I to get to you?"
Vanka sighed, tearing his gaze away from the black window, and returned to his paper and pen.
"Yesterday, I was dragged by my hair out of the house and into the yard, because I fell asleep while I was supposed to be minding the master's baby. Also, last week, the mistress poked a fish in my face because I didn't clean it right. They all laugh at me here, and the master beats the life out of me. And I am hungry – in the morning they give us bread, in the day, porridge, and bread again in the evening. As for the soup and tea, the masters keep it all for themselves. Dear Grandfather, do a Godly, merciful thing and take me out of here, take me home. If I stay here, I will surely die."
Vanka crooked his mouth, and wiped his wet eyes with his black fist.
"I will powder your snuff for you, I will pray to God for you, and if I do something wrong, you can beat me like a goat, if you want. I wanted to run away to the village myself, but I have no boots, and I am afraid of the cold. When I grow up, I'll provide for you, I'll feed you, I won't let anyone hurt you, and when you die I will pray for your soul just as I prayed for my mother, Pelageya."
"London is a big town," wrote the red-headed boy, "many big houses and cabs drawn by horses, and no sheep and goats and chickens at all. And the dogs aren't mean, they're all on leashes with their masters, and quiet. They have many expensive shops here, and stalls right out in the street at St. Dunstan's market, with pears and apples and all sorts of things, only you cannot just come up and take one, you have to pay. It's not like in the village any more. Dear Grandfather, they now put up fir trees for Christmas and decorate them with all sorts of trinkets. The queen started the fashion. We'll have a tree back home next Christmas too, won't we?"
The boy sighed once again, and once again looked at the sky, the sky split by those black iron bars. If he just imagined that the sky and the bars were one, he could imagine he had an open window. A window through which he could fly away, away to his Grandfather, where he used to take him hunting, and although they never caught anything, it was such a happy time. He even remembered Agatha, that lady that had fed him sweets when no-one looked, the lady that had taught him to read, write and even dance. When his mother died, he was sent to his Grandfather, and then to London…
"Come, dear Grandfather, please come and get me out, I beg you. Have mercy on an innocent orphan like me. Save me from death, I did nothing to deserve it. My life is worse than any dog's. Say hello to Agatha, if she's still there!
I remain, your grandson.
Dear Grandfather please come!
"Moscow is a big town. All the houses are big and rich, and there are many horses, and yet no sheep, and the dogs are not mean at all. No-one carries the star at Christmas here; there are many stalls at the market, with fish, and meat, and even guns…they probably each cost a hundred roubles!
Dear Grandfather, when the masters have a Christmas tree and treats, take a gilt walnut for me, and hide it in the green chest. Ask mistress Olga Ignatievna, and say, that its for Vanka."
Vanka sighed tremulously, and once again, stared at that window. The candle still flickered in it, the flame dancing, dancing. He remembered, how, when Grandfather went into the woods to get the Christmas fir tree, he would take Vanka with him. Sometimes, in the bitter cold, Grandfather would stand before the tree for a while, just sniffing his snuff, laughing at the shivering Vanka…those young trees, swaddled like babies in snow, stood there, motionless in their winter silence, waiting to learn which of them would die. And there, suddenly, like an arrow, a rabbit would shoot across the snow. And Grandfather would shout, "Ah, hold him, hold the devil!"
They would drag that felled tree to the masters' house, and then they would set about decorating it. Olga Ignatievna loved, above all else, to decorate the tree. Olga Ignatievna, Vanka's favourite. When Pelageya was still alive, Olga would feed Vanka sweets and taught him to read, write, and even dance the escadrille. Then, when Pelageya died, Vanka was sent to his Grandfather, and then to Moscow…to the shoemaker Alyakhin's workshop.
"Come, dear Grandfather, I beg you in the name of Christ. Have mercy on a poor orphan, being beaten every day and left hungry every night. My life is worse than any dog's…I send my respects to Alyona, cross-eyed Yegorka and the horseman, and please don't give away my harmonica! Keep it for me.
I remain, your grandson Ivan Zhukov,
Dear Grandfather please come!
His hands shaking slightly, casting a glance at those barred skies, at the droplets of water that dripped from the stone wall to the right, the red-headed boy folded the precious letter. Folded that creased paper, the guard's paper, in four, and put it in the envelope. The guard had a kind heart.
He thought for a while, dipped the quill pen in the ink, and wrote:
To the village, for Grandfather.
Then, he scratched his head, his ginger head, and added: "George Milton".
Content with his work, he walked over to the bars, and handed the guard his letter, and thanked him. He remembered how the guard told him that letters get put into postboxes, and then are delivered all over the world in special carriages. Her Majesty's carriages.
Vanka folded the precious letter four times, and put it in the envelope he had bought the night before for a kopeyka. After a few seconds' thought, he dipped the quill pen in the ink, and wrote:
To the village, for Grandfather.
Then, he scratched his head, thought a little more, and added: "Konstantin Makarych".
Happy that he hadn't been prevented from writing, he put on his hat, and, not even bothering to wear his coat, he ran out into the frosty winter air, just in his shirt…He remembered how some men from the meat stalls, whom he had questioned the night before, told him how letters are put in post boxes, and from the post boxes they are delivered all over the world in three-horse carriages - troykas - with drunken drivers and loud bells. Vanka reached the first postbox and pushed the precious letter through the slot…
An hour later, they both slept, one in London and the other in far-off Moscow, one on his prison bunk and the other on his little bed in the stable, both lulled by sweet hopes. They both dreamt that night. Of a hot stove in a village cottage. On the stove sat Grandfather, swinging his bare feet, reading a letter, a letter on creased paper, to the women. By the stove lies a dog, wagging his tail…
