第3章 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 submissive and affectionate,and looked with equal kindness on strangers and his own masters,but had not a very good reputation.Behind his submissiveness 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 submissiveness,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 wrong 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 tim!randfather 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 hi!h,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.

万卡

九岁男孩万卡·茹科夫被送到鞋匠阿利亚欣那里当学徒已经三个月了，圣诞节前夜，他端坐在那里。等老板夫妇和工人们都去做午夜祷告后，他从老板的小柜里取出一瓶墨水和一支带有锈笔尖的钢笔，然后在面前铺开一张皱巴巴的纸，开始写了起来。写第一个字母之前，他胆战心惊地回了好几次头去看门口和窗户，还偷瞟了一眼黑色圣像。圣像两边摆满了鞋楦的架子，他时不时还唉声叹气。纸铺在长凳上，他就跪在凳前。

“亲爱的爷爷康斯坦丁·马卡雷奇！”他写道，“我在给您写信。祝您圣诞节快乐，愿上帝保佑您万事如意。我没爸没妈，就剩下您一个是我的亲人了。”

万卡抬眼看着黑色圣像，只见烛光映照在圣像上面，他清晰地想起了祖父康斯坦丁·马卡雷奇——日瓦列夫家的守夜人，他是一位身材瘦小却又异常机敏活泼的六十五岁老人，始终笑容满面，醉眼迷离。白天，他在仆人的厨房里睡觉，或者跟厨娘们开玩笑；夜里，他裹上宽敞的羊皮袄，绕着庄园四周走来走去，敲着梆子。

他身后跟着两条耷拉着脑袋的狗——老卡什坦卡和泥鳅。泥鳅之所以被这么叫，是因为它浑身黑色，身子像黄鼠狼那样长。泥鳅异常恭顺亲热，无论是对生人还是主人，都用同样善意的目光瞧着，但名声并不很好。它的恭顺温和后面隐藏着极其阴险狡猾的用意。哪条狗都不如它善于一有机会就悄悄逼近，有时在人的腿上猛咬一口，有时溜进储藏室，或者偷吃农民的母鸡。它的两条后腿已经不止一次地险些被人打断，曾有两次它还被吊起来，每星期都被打得半死，但总是起死回生。

此刻，爷爷肯定正站在大门口，眯紧眼睛瞧教堂的红窗，跺着高统毡靴，跟仆人们开玩笑。他的小梆子挂在腰带上。他冻得握手、耸肩，拧一下女仆，捏一下厨娘，发出苍老的哧哧笑声。

“来嗅点鼻烟怎么样？”说着，他献上鼻烟盒让女人们嗅。

女人们总是一嗅，就打喷嚏。爷爷常常乐不可支，爆发出开心的笑声，喊道：“快擦掉，不然就冻上了！”

他们也给狗嗅鼻烟。卡什坦卡直打喷嚏，扭扭头，不快地走开。泥鳅出于恭顺，不打喷嚏，只是摇尾巴。天气宜人，空气静止不动，新鲜透明。尽管夜色黑暗，但整个村子和村里的白屋顶，烟囱里冒出的袅袅青烟，披着银霜的树木，一处处的雪堆，都能看见。

整个天空布满了欢快闪烁的星星，银河清晰可见，仿佛有人为过节用雪擦洗过一样……

万卡叹了口气，蘸了蘸钢笔，继续写道：“昨天我挨了一顿痛打，主人揪着我的头发把我拽到院子里，用靴撑狠狠地打我，因为我在摇他们摇篮里的孩子时不小心睡着了。一周前，女主人吩咐我洗一条青鱼，我从鱼尾开始洗。于是，她夺过那条青鱼，把鱼头戳到了我的脸上。工人们嘲笑我，打发我去酒馆打伏特加酒，唆使我去偷主人的黄瓜给他们。主人抓到什么就拿什么打我，什么吃的也没有。早上他们给我面包，午饭给我稀粥，晚上又是面包，至于茶或汤，主人和女主人自己都喝得一干二净。他们让我睡在过道里，他们那个讨厌的娃娃一哭，我就根本睡不成觉了，我不得不摇那个摇篮。亲爱的爷爷，发发上帝的慈悲，把我从这里带回家，到村子里去吧，我再也受不了了。我给你磕头了，我会永远为您向上帝祈祷，带我离开这里吧，不然我会死的。”

万卡的嘴唇抽动了一下，他用黑乎乎的拳头揉了揉眼睛，抽噎起来。

“我愿意为您搓鼻烟，”他接着写道，“我愿意为您祈祷。要是我做了什么错事，您可以像抽西多尔的山羊那样抽打我。要是您认为我没活干，那我就恳求管家看在基督的分上让我给他擦皮靴，或者替费季卡去放牧。亲爱的爷爷，我再也受不了了，简直活不了了。我本想跑回村子，但我没有靴子，我怕严寒。等我长大了，我愿意这样照顾您，不让任何人惹您生气。等您死了，我就为您的灵魂祷告，就像为我妈妈的灵魂祷告那样。”

“莫斯科是一座大城，全都是老爷们的房子，有好多马，却没有羊，狗也不凶。这里的男孩子不跟着星星出门，他们不让任何人加入唱诗班。有一次，我看到一个橱窗里出售钓鱼钩，都安有钓线，各种各样的鱼都能钓，好得不得了。有一个钓鱼钩甚至能钓得起一条四十磅重的大鲶鱼。我还看到一些商店有各种各样的枪，跟主人家的枪的样式一样，所以每支枪恐怕要卖一百卢布……肉铺里有松鸡、山鹬、鱼、兔子，但肉铺里的人不说是从哪里打来的。”

“亲爱的爷爷，等他们在大房子摆圣诞树时，给我弄一个镀金的核桃，存放在那只小绿箱里。向奥尔佳·伊格纳季耶芙娜小姐要，就说是送给万卡的。”

万卡的声音颤抖地叹了口气，又凝视着窗户。他想起爷爷总是走进森林去给主人家砍圣诞树，而且是带着孙子一起去的。那真是一段快乐时光啊！爷爷的喉咙里发着声响，林木冻得噼啪直响，看着这些，万卡也发出了咯咯的笑声。在砍倒圣诞树前，爷爷常常抽一袋烟，慢慢地嗅一捏鼻烟，冲冻僵的万卡发笑，那些披着白霜的小杉树站在那里一动不动，等着看它们当中谁先死去。不知从哪里飞身跑来一只野兔，像箭一样越过雪堆，爷爷禁不住喊道：“抓住它，抓住它，抓住它！啊，短尾巴鬼！”

砍倒圣诞树后，爷爷常常拖到大房子里，开始着手装点它。其中最忙活的是奥尔佳·伊格纳季耶芙娜小姐，她是万卡最喜爱的人。万卡的母亲佩拉格娅健在时，在大房子里做女仆，奥尔佳·伊格纳季耶芙娜常常给他糖果吃，没事可做时还教他念书写字，从一数到一百，甚至教他跳四对方舞。佩拉格娅死后，万卡被送到仆人的厨房跟爷爷在一起，后来又被从厨房送到了莫斯科的鞋匠这里。

“请一定来，亲爱的爷爷。”万卡接着写信。“看在基督的分上，我求您，带我走吧，可怜可怜我这个不幸的孤儿吧；这里人人都打我，我饿得要死，我无法告诉您是多么痛苦，我总是哭。前几天，主人用鞋楦打我，我倒在地上。我的生活悲惨，连狗都不如。我向阿辽娜、独眼叶果尔卡和马车夫表示问候，不要把我的六角手风琴送给任何人。您的孙子伊凡·茹科夫。亲爱的爷爷，请一定来啊。”

万卡把信纸叠了两下，放进前一天他花一戈比买来的信封里，想了一小会儿后，他把钢笔蘸一下墨水，写下地址：寄给村里的爷爷。然后，他挠挠头，想了一下，补充道：康斯坦丁·马卡雷奇。

他很高兴没有人妨碍他写信。他戴上帽子，没有穿小大衣，穿着衬衣就跑出了门，奔到了街上……

前一天，他问过肉铺的伙计，伙计告诉他，信件要放在邮筒里，然后这些信就会被从邮筒里取走，装进醉醺醺的车夫驾驶的响着铃铛的邮车，送向世界各地。万卡跑到距离最近的一个邮筒，把那封宝贵的信塞进了邮筒里……

一小时后，他怀着美好的希望平静下来，酣睡起来。他梦见了一个壁炉，爷爷正坐在炉台上，晃动着两条光腿，在给厨娘们念那封信，泥鳅在炉边，摇着尾巴。