Vanka Page #2

"Vanka" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that tells the tale of a young orphan boy named Vanka Zakhlebnin, who is forced to work as an apprentice to a cruel shoemaker in Moscow. As Christmas approaches, Vanka writes a heartfelt letter to his grandfather, hoping to escape his harsh life and return to the warmth of his family. Through Vanka's poignant reflections and desperate longing for love and belonging, Chekhov highlights the themes of loneliness, exploitation, and the stark realities of poverty in 19th-century Russia. The story captures the innocence of childhood and the harshness of fate, leaving a lasting impression on the reader.

								

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.
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