I have nothing left here. You can search it.
The visitor sighed and shook his hand, wrapped his things in a handkerchief, and left without saying anything or ordering.
Corba Cove came in from the next door. He looked pale and shook his head nervously as if he had just drunk a cup of bitter medicine. His eyes were shining with tears.
What exactly did you give me? Pasha asked him when to give it.
What is the thing? Corba Cove said, shaking her head again. She cried in front of you.
Let me ask you what you gave me, cried Pasha.
Emperor, she’s noble, proud and pure, and she wants to kneel down and beg a whore like you. Alas, it’s my fault that I pushed her to this point.
He hugged his head and groaned
No, I can never forgive myself. I can never forgive myself. Get out of here, bitch. He yelled in disgust and hurried back from Pasha, shaking his hand and pushing her. She wanted to kneel. Who’s begging you, Emperor?
He quickly got dressed and ran away from Pasha to the gate in disgust.
Pasha cried after lying down. At this time, she already felt sorry for herself and went shopping on impulse. At the same time, she felt aggrieved. She recalled that she had beaten herself three years ago because of a businessman, and she cried even more sadly when she thought of it here.
In 1886
Wanka
Wankazhukov, a nine-year-old boy, was sent to the shoemaker Lyakhin’s house three months ago. On Christmas Eve, he didn’t lie down and sleep. He waited for the boss and his wife to do morning prayers and took a small bottle of ink from the boss’s closet. He put a rusty pen in front of him and smoothed out a crumpled piece of white paper. Before writing the first word, he looked back several times in fear. He squinted at the door window and glanced at the black icon. There were shoe last stands on both sides. The paper was spread on the bench. He knelt in front of the bench.
Dear grandpa Constantine Makarech, he wrote, I am writing to you to wish you a merry Christmas. May God bless you and wish you everything. I have no father or mother, and you are the only family left.
Wanka’s eyes turned to the dark window, where candles were reflected. In his mind, the vivid image of his present grandfather Constantine Makarech was the night watchman of the local chairman’s house. He was a short, lean man with unusually flexible hands and feet. The little old man was about sixty-five years old, and his face was always smiling and squinting. During the day, he slept in the servant’s kitchen, or he talked with the chefs at night, wearing a fat sheepskin coat and patrolling around the manor. He was followed by two dogs with drooping heads. One was an old bitch, Kaxitanka. The loach is called loach because it has black hair and slender body, like a weasel. The loach is very obedient and affectionate to people. No matter whether it meets family members or outsiders, it doesn’t fawn and look at people meekly. However, it is unreliable. There is an extremely cunning and sinister heart behind it. No dog is so good at seizing the opportunity to sneak in and bite people’s legs or crawl into the freezer or steal farmers’ chickens to eat its hind legs. It has been interrupted more than once or twice. People simply hang it up and it will be beaten to death every week, but it will die every time.
At this time, his grandfather might have squinted at the gate and looked at the bright red window of the country church. The servants stamped their heels in high felt boots and laughed and hung them on his belt. He was so cold that he clapped his hands from time to time and narrowed his neck. He squeezed a handful at the maid’s body for a while and twisted an old giggle at the cook’s body for a while
Let’s have some snuff together, he said, and send his snuff box to those women.
The women smelled a little snuff and sneezed repeatedly. Grandpa was so happy that he cried with a series of happy smiles.
Wipe it off or your nose will freeze.
He even sniffed the dog’s snuff. Kaxitanka sneezed and wrinkled his nose, so he went to the side of the loach to show deference and didn’t sneeze. The weather was excellent just by wagging his tail. The night was dark, clear and fresh. In a village, wisps of smoke from the chimney on the white roof were covered with heavy frost and turned into silver-white trees. Snowdrifts were clearly visible. The stars were blinking happily, and the Milky Way was so clearly exposed as if someone had scrubbed it before the festival.
Wanka sighed, dipped his pen in ink and continued to write
Yesterday, I got a beating. My boss grabbed my hair, dragged me to the yard to take the master’s work, and pimped me hard. I blamed me for sleeping in the cradle when their little doll accidentally fell asleep. Last week, my boss told me to pick up herring, so I picked it up from my tail and poked it in my face. The masters always made fun of me and sent me to a small wine shop to play wine, accusing me of stealing the boss’s cucumber. My boss beat me to eat whatever he caught casually, so don’t eat bread in the morning, porridge for lunch and tea and vegetable soup in the evening. Ah, the two couples in that club have a drink. They told me to sleep in the aisle. When their little baby cried, I couldn’t sleep. I shook the cradle all the time. Dear grandpa, take me away from here and go home to the village like that. I can’t live. I will kowtow to you. I will always pray for the emperor to take me away from here, or I will die.
Wanka curled her mouth, grabbed a dirty fist, rubbed her eyes and sobbed.
I’ll rub tobacco leaves for you, and he went on to write, "You pray that if I do something wrong, you can smoke me like a Siddall goat. If you think I have no work to do, I’ll ask the housekeeper to wipe his boots for Christ’s sake or herd cattle and sheep for Federca. Dear grandpa, I can’t live. I want to run back to the village, but I don’t have boots. I’m afraid of the cold. When I grow up, I’ll support you with your kindness and don’t let others bully you. When you die, I’ll pray for the emperor to rest your soul
Moscow is a big city. There are a lot of horses for the gentlemen, but there are no sheep and dogs. The children here don’t walk around holding the stars. 15 choirs are not allowed to take part casually. I saw some fishing hooks in a shop window. All the fishing lines are ready for sale. All kinds of fish can be caught. A hook can stand a big catfish. I also saw several shops selling all kinds of guns, which are almost the same as the guns of the gentlemen. I’m afraid they will sell 100 rubles per gun. But where are these things from? The guys in the shop refused to say.
Dear grandpa, when there is a Christmas tree hanging on the surface of the master’s house, you can pick me a gold paper wrapped with walnuts and put it in that little green box. You can ask Miss Olga Ignatieffna for it, just say it’s for Wankaliu.
Wanka sighed with a trembling voice and looked at the window carefully. He recalled that Grandpa always went to the Woods to cut down the Christmas tree for his grandfather’s house and took his grandson with him. At that time, Grandpa was really happy. He kept coughing and cackling, and the trees were frozen and cackling. Wanka also cackled. Before cutting down trees, Grandpa often smoked a bag of cigarettes for a long time and sniffed snuff, making fun of Wanka, who was frozen. Spruce covered with white frost stood there motionless, waiting to see which of them died first. A rabbit ran from nowhere and ran past Grandpa like an arrow in a snowdrift.
Grab it, grab it, grab it. Hey, shorttail
Grandpa dragged the cut spruce back to the master’s house, and everyone began to decorate it. The most busy thing was that Wanka loved Olga Ignatieffna. At that time, Wanka’s mother Pilagaya was still alive and worked as a maid in the master’s house. At that time, Olga Ignatieffna often gave Wanka candy to eat and teach him to read and write from one to one hundred, and even taught him to dance the Kadrill dance. But when Pilagaya died, the orphan Wanka was sent to the servant’s kitchen to stay with grandpa, and then from the kitchen to the Moscow shoemaker Lyakhin’s shop.
Come on, my dear grandpa Wanka went on to write, I beg you to take me away from here for Christ’s sake. Have pity on me, an unfortunate orphan. Everyone here beats me. I’m starving and lonely. I can’t say I’m always crying. The other day, my boss hit me on the last of my shoe and knocked me unconscious. I finally woke up. I’m more miserable than a dog. I don’t even give my regards to Aliona, the one-eyed yerka coachman and my accordion. Don’t give it to Sun Yifan. Come on, my dear grandpa.
Wanka folded the written paper into 40 folds and put it in an envelope bought by Gaby last night. He thought about dipping his pen in ink to write the address.
Grandpa Xiang
Then he scratched his scalp and thought about adding a few words. Fortunately, when he finished writing the letter, no one bothered him. He was so happy that he ran into the street with a hat and a shirt.
Last night, he asked the butcher’s buddy and told him that after the letter was thrown into the mailbox, the drunk driver drove the letter from the mailbox and rang the bell to distribute it everywhere. Wanka ran to the nearest mailbox and stuffed the precious letter into the mailbox.
He put aside a worry with good wishes and slept peacefully for an hour. In his dream, he saw a grandfather sitting on the stove with his bare feet reading letters to the chefs. The loach came and went by the stove and wagged his tail.
In 1886
