What is the story of Holy Night? Lagerlöf Selma Ottilie Lovisa

04.04.2019

Selma Lagerlöf

Legends about Christ

Holy night

When I was five years old, I experienced great grief. It seems like I haven’t known a stronger one since then: my grandmother died. Until her death, she spent her days sitting in her room on the corner sofa and telling us stories.

Grandma told them from morning to evening, and we children sat quietly next to her and listened. It was a wonderful life! No other children had as good a life as we did.

Only a little remains in my memory of my grandmother. I remember that she had beautiful hair, white as snow, that she walked completely hunched over and was constantly knitting a stocking.

I also remember that, having finished telling some tale, she usually put her hand on my head and said:

And all this is as true as the fact that we see each other now.

I also remember that she knew how to sing wonderful songs, but she did not sing them often. One of these songs was about a knight and a sea princess, and it had a chorus: “A cold, cold wind blew over the sea.”

I also remember a short prayer and psalm that she taught me.

I have only a pale, vague memory of all the fairy tales she told me. I remember only one of them so well that I could retell it now. This is a little legend about the Nativity of Christ.

That's about all I can remember about my grandmother, except what I remember best is the feeling of great loss when she left us.

I remember that morning when the sofa in the corner was empty, and it was impossible to imagine when this day would end. I will never forget this.

And I remember how we, the children, were brought to the deceased so that we could say goodbye to her and kiss her hand. We were afraid to kiss the dead woman, but someone told us that it was last time when we can thank our grandmother for all the joys she brought us.

And I remember how fairy tales and songs left our house with my grandmother, packed in a long black box, and never returned.

Something disappeared from life then. It’s as if the door to the wide, beautiful, Magic world, in which we formerly roamed freely. And no one was found who could unlock this door.

We gradually learned to play with dolls and toys and live like all other children, and it might seem that we no longer yearn for our grandmother or remember her.

But even at this moment, many years later, when I sit and remember all the legends I have heard about Christ, the legend about the Nativity of Christ, which my grandmother loved to tell, appears in my memory. And now I want to tell it myself, including it in my collection.

It was on Christmas Eve, when everyone had gone to church except grandma and me. We were, it seemed, alone in the whole house. They didn't take us because one of us was too young, the other was too old. And we both grieved that we could not attend the solemn service and see the glow of Christmas candles.

And when we were sitting alone with her, grandmother began her story.

Once upon a time, in a dead, dark night, one man went out into the street to get some fire. He went from hut to hut, knocking on doors, and asked: “Help me, good people!

My wife just gave birth to a baby and I need to start a fire to keep her and the baby warm.”

But it was deep night and all the people were sleeping. Nobody responded to his request.

When the man approached the sheep, he saw that three dogs were lying and dozing at the shepherd’s feet. At his approach, all three woke up and bared their wide mouths, as if about to bark, but did not make a single sound. He saw how the fur stood on end on their backs, how their sharp, white teeth sparkled dazzlingly in the light of the fire, and how they all rushed at him. He felt that one grabbed his leg, another grabbed his arm, and the third grabbed his throat. But the strong teeth seemed to disobey the dogs, and without causing him the slightest harm, they moved aside.

The man wanted to go further. But the sheep lay so closely pressed together, back to back, that he could not get between them. Then he walked forward straight along their backs, towards the fire. And not a single sheep woke up or moved...

Until now, my grandmother had been telling the story without stopping, but here I couldn’t resist interrupting her.

Why, grandmother, did they continue to lie quietly? Are they so shy? - I asked.

“You will soon find out,” said the grandmother and continued her story: “When the man came close enough to the fire, the shepherd raised his head.” He was a gloomy old man, rude and unfriendly to everyone. And when he saw the stranger approaching him, he grabbed the long, pointed staff with which he always followed the herd, and threw it at him. And the staff flew with a whistle straight at the stranger, but without hitting him, it deflected to the side and flew past, to the other end of the field.

When grandma got to this point, I interrupted her again:

Why didn't the staff hit this man?

But my grandmother did not answer me and continued her story:

The man then approached the shepherd and said to him: “Friend, help me, give me fire! My wife just gave birth to a baby and I need to start a fire to keep her and the baby warm!”

The old man would have preferred to refuse, but when he remembered that the dogs could not bite this man, the sheep did not run away from him and the staff flew past without hitting him, he felt uneasy, and he did not dare refuse his request.

“Take as much as you need!” - said the shepherd.

But the fire had almost burned out, and there were no more logs or branches left around, only a large heap of heat lay; the stranger had neither a shovel nor a scoop to take the red coals for himself.

Seeing this, the shepherd again suggested: “Take as much as you need!” - and rejoiced at the thought that a person could not take fire with him.

But he bent down, picked out a handful of coals with his bare hands and put them in the hem of his clothes. And the coals did not burn his hands when he took them, nor did they burn through his clothes; he carried them as if they were apples or nuts...

Here I interrupted the narrator for the third time:

Grandma, why didn’t the coals burn him?

“Then you will find out everything,” the grandmother said and began to tell further: “When the angry and angry shepherd saw all this, he was very surprised: “What kind of night is this when dogs are meek like sheep, the sheep know no fear, the staff does not kill and Doesn’t the fire burn?” He called out to the stranger and asked him: “What kind of night is this? And why are all animals and things so merciful to you? “I can’t explain this to you, since you don’t see it yourself!” - the stranger answered and went his way to quickly make a fire and warm his wife and baby.

The shepherd decided not to lose sight of this man until it became clear to him what it all meant. He stood up and followed him to his very abode. And the shepherd saw that the stranger did not even have a hut to live in, that his wife and newborn baby were lying in a mountain cave, where there was nothing but cold stone walls.

The shepherd thought that the poor innocent baby might freeze to death in this cave, and although he was a stern man, he was touched to the depths of his soul and decided to help the baby. Taking his knapsack off his shoulders, he took out a soft white sheepskin and gave it to the stranger so that he could lay the baby on it.

And at that very moment, when it turned out that he, too, could be merciful, his eyes opened, and he saw what he could not see before, and heard what he could not hear before.

He saw that angels with silver wings stood in a dense ring around him. And each of them holds a harp in his hands, and they all sing in loud voices that on this night a Savior was born who will redeem the world from sin.

Then the shepherd understood why everything in nature was so happy that night, and no one could harm the child’s father.

Grandma told them from morning to evening, and we children sat quietly next to her and listened. It was a wonderful life! No other children had as good a life as we did.

Only a little remains in my memory of my grandmother. I remember that she had beautiful hair, white as snow, that she walked completely hunched over and was constantly knitting a stocking.

I also remember that, having finished telling some tale, she usually put her hand on my head and said:

And all this is as true as the fact that we see each other now.

I also remember a short prayer and psalm that she taught me.

I have only a pale, vague memory of all the fairy tales she told me. I remember only one of them so well that I could retell it now. This is a little legend about.

That's about all I can remember about my grandmother, except what I remember best is the feeling of great loss when she left us.

I remember that morning when the sofa in the corner was empty, and it was impossible to imagine when this day would end. I will never forget this.

And I remember how we, the children, were brought to the deceased so that we could say goodbye to her and kiss her hand. We were afraid to kiss the deceased, but someone told us that this was the last time we could thank our grandmother for all the joys that she brought us.

And I remember how fairy tales and songs left our house with my grandmother, packed in a long black box, and never returned.

Something disappeared from life then. It was as if the door to the wide, beautiful, magical world in which we had previously roamed freely had been locked forever. And no one was found who could unlock this door.

We gradually learned to play with dolls and toys and live like all other children, and it might seem that we no longer yearn for our grandmother or remember her.

But even at this moment, many years later, when I sit and remember all the legends I have heard about Christ, the legend about , which my grandmother loved to tell, arises in my memory. And now I want to tell it myself, including it in my collection.

It was when everyone went to church, except for grandmother and me. It seemed like we were alone in the whole house. They didn't take us because one of us was too young, the other was too old. And we both grieved that we could not attend the solemn service and see the glow of Christmas candles.

And when we were sitting alone with her, grandmother began her story.

Once upon a time in the wilderness, dark night one man went outside to get some fire. He went from hut to hut, knocking on doors, and asked: “Help me, good people!

My wife just gave birth to a baby, and I need to start a fire to keep her and the baby warm.”

But it was deep night and all the people were sleeping. Nobody responded to his request.

Until now, my grandmother had been telling the story without stopping, but here I couldn’t resist interrupting her.

Why, grandmother, did they continue to lie quietly? Are they so shy? - I asked.

“You will soon find out,” said the grandmother and continued her story: “When the man came close enough to the fire, the shepherd raised his head.” He was a gloomy old man, rude and unfriendly to everyone. And when he saw the stranger approaching him, he grabbed the long, pointed staff with which he always followed the herd, and threw it at him. And the staff flew with a whistle straight at the stranger, but without hitting him, it deviated to the side and flew past, to the other end of the field.

When grandma got to this point, I interrupted her again:

Why didn't the staff hit this man?

But my grandmother did not answer me and continued her story:

The man then approached the shepherd and said to him: “Friend, help me, give me fire! My wife just gave birth to a baby and I need to start a fire to keep her and the baby warm!”

“Take as much as you need!” - said the shepherd.

Seeing this, the shepherd again suggested: “Take as much as you need!” - and rejoiced at the thought that a person could not take fire with him.

Here I interrupted the narrator for the third time:

Grandma, why didn’t the coals burn him?

“Then you will find out everything,” said the grandmother and began to tell further: “When the angry and angry shepherd saw all this, he was very surprised: “What kind of night is this, in which dogs are meek like sheep, sheep know no fear, the staff does not kill and Doesn’t the fire burn?” He called out to the stranger and asked him: “What kind of night is this? And why are all animals and things so merciful to you? “I can’t explain this to you, since you don’t see it yourself!” - the stranger answered and went his way to quickly make a fire and warm his wife and baby.

And at that very moment, when it turned out that he, too, could be merciful, his eyes opened, and he saw what he could not see before, and heard what he could not hear before.

Then the shepherd understood why everything in nature was so happy that night and no one could harm the child’s father.

Looking around, the shepherd saw that angels were everywhere. They sat in a cave, went down the mountain and flew into the sky; They walked along the road and, passing the cave, stopped and cast their gaze on the baby. And rejoicing, joy, singing and fun reigned everywhere...

The shepherd saw all this in the darkness of the night, in which he could not see anything before. And he, rejoicing that his eyes had opened, fell to his knees and began to thank God... - At these words, the grandmother sighed and said: - But what the shepherd saw, we could also see, because angels fly into the sky every Christmas night . If only we knew how to look!.. - And, placing her hand on my head, my grandmother added: - Remember this, because it is as true as the fact that we see each other. The point is not in candles and lamps, not in the sun and moon, but in having eyes that could see the greatness of the Lord!

One Christmas she stayed with her grandmother because the rest of the family had gone to church. The granddaughter was sad that she wouldn't see the Christmas decorations and lights, so her grandmother decided to tell her the story of that night.

The main character of the story - names are not named, but it is clear that it is Joseph - is looking for coals for a fire to warm Mary and the newborn Christ. He comes across a shepherd and his flock, and sees a smoldering fire. Joseph is given three obstacles: dogs try to tear him apart, he has to walk over the sheep and a shepherd throws a stick at him. However, none of this can hurt him, and the shepherd, amazed, allows him to take the coals, thinking that now he will get burned. But Joseph takes them with his bare hands and they do not harm him.

What kind of night is this, exclaims the shepherd. He follows the hero and sees Mary and Jesus lying in a cold stone cave. And even he, a callous and cruel man, feels sorry for them, and he gives Christ one of the sheep’s skins to keep him warm. And when the shepherd shows mercy, his eyes open: he sees angels around the cave singing and praising the born Savior.

Grandmother says that they too could see angels today if they were worthy.

The story teaches that only people with an open, pure and kind hearted truly able to see the beauty of the world.

Picture or drawing of Lagerlöf - Holy Night

Zoshchenko: Holy Night

One day, during the May holidays, a collective farm invited me to visit. There they wanted to show me their achievements and their new, rebuilt life.

And so I went on the appointed day. But an unfortunate incident happened - I mistakenly passed the station I needed. And only an hour later I got off at some completely shallow stop.

Frankly, I was even a little confused. There are fields all around. There is no housing in sight. And evening was already approaching.

I wanted to spend the night at the stop, but the duty officer advised me to go to the nearest farm and get a horse there.

That's exactly what I did.

And soon I enter the hut. I ask the owner to give me a horse. The owner of the farm received me cordially, but rejected my request for a horse.

“What are you doing, what are you doing,” he said, “go and wash yourself with cold water.” My horse worked all day in the field, and today I can’t give it to you.

I said no more about the horse and asked to spend the night.

This second request of yours,” said the owner, “also makes it difficult for me.” Are you aware of where I will put you?

Indeed, the hut was full of people. Three women, an old man and five children were sitting at the table.

The table was decorated festively and even solemnly. There was fried pork and all sorts of food on the table.

A very decrepit old woman sitting at the table said to the owner:

On a night like this, Fedya, you can’t drive anyone away.

The owner said:

You, grandma, noticed this correctly.

Then we will put this coming guest in the canopy. So? Let him lie down there on Petka’s ottoman.

Dear, please sit down at the table with us. I'll tell you now fried potatoes I'll give. And then we will arrange for you.

I asked:

Tell me, what kind of night is it today that you suddenly allowed me to stay and, on top of that, you’re eating so festively?

The old woman said:

Today is Easter holy night.

This question of mine made the owner terribly angry. Clasping his hands, he said:

I myself am not much of a believer, but to forget what is happening tonight is, you know, out of the ordinary... With this question you are making me repent that I allowed you to spend the night.

I speak:

Don't be angry with me, I really forgot that today is Easter. It’s not marked on the calendar, and I’m not a religious person. I haven’t been to church for, I think, twenty years. And I forgot this date straight from my memory. So you, dad, are nervous for nothing. By doing this you are only reducing your Easter mood.

The owner sighed and said:

Doctors determined that I have nervous system loose.

I say, sitting down at the table:

So you are angry that a person forgot Easter, but what are you doing? Without waiting until nightfall, sit at the table and break your fast.

The owner remarked confusedly:

Today we decided to break our fast early. We church rules We don’t adhere blindly.

After eating, we went to bed.

They laid me on a soft chintz couch, standing in the warm hallway. The owner lay down nearby, on an awkward box.

Feeling grateful for the hospitality, I said:

Master, maybe you would like to lie down on the couch? And then let me lie down on your uncomfortable goats.

“Well, no,” the owner objected quickly. - I won’t lie down on this ottoman. There are a lot of fleas in it. And I sleep anxiously when they bite me. My eldest son Petya is the only one who sleeps on this ottoman... But for some reason he is insensitive to bites.

The owner did not go to bed for a long time. He sat on his box and looked thoughtfully at the small kerosene lamp.

I, fearing an attack by the night cavalry, did not lie down on my couch right away. I sat on a stool and smoked.

The owner suddenly said:

For example, collective farms... People there are now happy with many things. Their new houses are now built, the surroundings are clean. And they say there are extremely few fleas there. So I myself want to enroll there soon to improve my culture a little. But I don’t know, what about religiosity? Do you think this will interfere with enrolling? Although I'm not much of a religious person.

I speak:

Of course it won't hurt. The state does not prohibit people from having their own faith.

Moreover, - said the owner, - not only am I not very religious, I will tell you frankly, completely, that is, as it is, an unbeliever. But Easter week For some reason I recognize and respect. During Easter week I become overly tender towards all events, and my heart demands justice.

I speak:

As for justice, Dad, for example, the May Day holiday is a fairer holiday, because it is a holiday for workers. And by celebrating it, you can satisfy your quest for justice. And your tenderness can be timed to coincide with this holiday, since you yourself are a worker.

“I have been a worker for fifty years,” said the owner. - I have been a worker almost from the cradle. And I agree to respect the May Day holiday very much. But I also respect Easter night very much. Easter night, if you want to know, literally turns me over, because then I feel pity for people and for everything earthly. This is a holy night, and it cleanses me for six months.

While talking with the owner, I, having forgotten myself, lay down on my bed and immediately understood why the owner avoided this ottoman. From the very first minute the fleas began to sting me surprisingly ferociously.

I caught one of the jumping world shamelessly sitting on my hand.

The owner, suddenly switching from a quiet, contemplative mood to anger, said angrily:

I will not allow you to kill any animal, any insect today. Keep this in mind.

Out of surprise, I released my captive.

“In my house,” said the owner, his voice trembling with emotion, “today I don’t allow anyone to kill anything.” Starting tomorrow you can kill, but today stop doing it.

I began to prove to the owner that such an idealistic philosophy was unprofitable, but he began to shout at me. And then, covered with my coat, I turned to the wall.

But I absolutely could not sleep from the bites.

The owner was also awake. He groaned, smoked and spun around on his box like crazy.

Finally, he got up from his bed and, barefoot, in pink underpants, suddenly walked towards the exit. He opened the door to the street and, taking off his shirt, began to vigorously shake and beat it.

Dad,” I said, “what are you doing?”

And what? - he answered angrily.

It’s frosty outside, I say. And there your pets will certainly die from hunger, cold and other hardships. Where is your tenderness and Christian meekness?

The owner smiled sheepishly. He said:

They ate so much that they were completely in the swamp. It was impossible to fall asleep directly from them. As a last resort, if you want, you can also start killing them...

After talking with the owner about this and that, we finally fell asleep.

And in the morning my dear owner took me to the collective farm. And myself with my tender soul went to visit one of the collective farmers.

Have you read the story - Holy Night - by Mikhail Zoshchenko.

What is the story of Holy Night? Lagerlöf Selma Ottilie Lovisa

Picture or drawing of Lagerlöf - Holy Night

Other retellings for the reader's diary

Zoshchenko: Holy Night