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Compiled by Tatyana Strygina
Christmas stories by Russian writers
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Series "Christmas Gift"
Approved for distribution by the Publishing Council of the Russian Orthodox Church IS 13-315-2235
Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821–1881)
Boy at Christ's Christmas tree
Boy with a pen
Children are strange people, they dream and imagine. Before the Christmas tree and right before Christmas, I kept meeting on the street, on a certain corner, one boy, no more than seven years old. In the terrible frost, he was dressed almost like summer clothes, but his neck was tied with some kind of old clothes, which means that someone had equipped him when they sent him. He walked “with a pen”; This is a technical term and means to beg for alms. The term was invented by these boys themselves. There are many like him, they spin on your road and howl something they have learned by heart; but this one did not howl and spoke somehow innocently and unusually and looked trustingly into my eyes - therefore, he was just starting a profession. In response to my questions, he said that he had a sister who was unemployed and ill; maybe it’s true, but only later did I find out that there are a lot of these boys: they are sent out “with a pen” even in the most terrible frost, and if they don’t get anything, then they will probably be beaten. Having collected kopecks, the boy returns with red, numb hands to some basement, where some gang of negligent workers are drinking, the same ones who, “having gone on strike at the factory on Sunday on Saturday, return to work no earlier than on Wednesday evening.” . There, in the basements, their hungry and beaten wives are drinking with them, and their hungry babies are squealing right there. Vodka, and dirt, and debauchery, and most importantly, vodka. With the collected pennies, the boy is immediately sent to the tavern, and he brings more wine. For fun, sometimes they pour a scythe into his mouth and laugh when, with his breathing stopped, he falls almost unconscious on the floor,
...and I put bad vodka in my mouth
Ruthlessly poured...
When he grows up, he is quickly sold off to a factory somewhere, but everything he earns, he is again obliged to bring to the careless workers, and they again drink away. But even before the factory, these children become complete criminals. They wander around the city and know places in different basements where they can crawl into and where they can spend the night unnoticed. One of them spent several nights in a row with one janitor in some kind of basket, and he never noticed him. Of course, they become thieves. Theft turns into a passion even among eight-year-old children, sometimes even without any consciousness of the criminality of the action. In the end they endure everything - hunger, cold, beatings - for only one thing, for freedom, and run away from their careless people to wander away from themselves. This wild creature sometimes does not understand anything, neither where he lives, nor what nation he is, whether there is a God, whether there is a sovereign; even such people convey things about them that are incredible to hear, and yet they are all facts.
Boy at Christ's Christmas tree
But I am a novelist, and, it seems, I composed one “story” myself. Why do I write: “it seems”, because I myself probably know what I wrote, but I keep imagining that this happened somewhere and sometime, this is exactly what happened just before Christmas, in some huge city and in a terrible freezing.
I imagine there was a boy in the basement, but he was still very small, about six years old or even younger. This boy woke up in the morning in a damp and cold basement. He was dressed in some kind of robe and was shaking. His breath flew out in white steam, and he, sitting in the corner on a chest, out of boredom, deliberately let this steam out of his mouth and amused himself by watching it fly out. But he really wanted to eat. Several times in the morning he approached the bunk, where his sick mother lay on a thin bedding like a pancake and on some kind of bundle under her head instead of a pillow. How did she end up here? She must have arrived with her boy from a foreign city and suddenly fell ill. The owner of the corners was captured by the police two days ago; the tenants scattered, it was a holiday, and the only one left, the robe, had been lying dead drunk for the whole day, without even waiting for the holiday. In another corner of the room, some eighty-year-old old woman, who had once lived somewhere as a nanny, but was now dying alone, was moaning from rheumatism, groaning, grumbling and grumbling at the boy, so that he was already afraid to come close to her corner. He got something to drink somewhere in the hallway, but couldn’t find a crust anywhere, and for the tenth time he already went to wake up his mother. He finally felt terrified in the darkness: evening had already begun long ago, but the fire had not been lit. Feeling his mother’s face, he was amazed that she did not move at all and became as cold as a wall. “It’s very cold here,” he thought, stood for a while, unconsciously forgetting his hand on the dead woman’s shoulder, then he breathed on his fingers to warm them, and suddenly, groping for his cap on the bunk, slowly, gropingly, he walked out of the basement. He would have gone even earlier, but he was still afraid of the big dog upstairs, on the stairs, which had been howling all day at the neighbors' doors. But the dog was no longer there, and he suddenly went outside.
Lord, what a city! He had never seen anything like this before. Where he came from, it was so dark at night, there was only one lantern on the entire street. Low wooden houses are closed with shutters; on the street, as soon as it gets dark, there is no one, everyone shuts up in their homes, and only whole packs of dogs howl, hundreds and thousands of them, howl and bark all night. But there it was so warm and they gave him something to eat, but here - Lord, if only he could eat! and what knocking and thunder there is, what light and people, horses and carriages, and frost, frost! Frozen steam rises from the driven horses, from their hot breathing muzzles; Horseshoes ring on the stones through the loose snow, and everyone is pushing so hard, and, Lord, I really want to eat, even just a piece of something, and my fingers suddenly hurt so much. A peace officer walked by and turned away so as not to notice the boy.
Here is the street again - oh, how wide! Here they will probably be crushed like that; how they all scream, run and drive, and the light, the light! what is this? Wow, what a big glass, and behind the glass there is a room, and in the room there is wood up to the ceiling; this is a Christmas tree, and on the tree there are so many lights, so many golden pieces of paper and apples, and all around there are dolls and little horses; and children are running around the room, dressed up, clean, laughing and playing, and eating, and drinking something. This girl started dancing with the boy, what a pretty girl! Here comes the music, you can hear it through the glass. The boy looks, marvels, and even laughs, but his fingers and toes are already hurting, and his hands have become completely red, they no longer bend and it hurts to move. And suddenly the boy remembered that his fingers hurt so much, he began to cry and ran on, and now again he sees through another glass a room, again there are trees, but on the tables there are all kinds of pies - almond, red, yellow, and four people are sitting there. rich ladies, and whoever comes, they give him pies, and the door opens every minute, many gentlemen come in from the street. The boy crept up, suddenly opened the door and entered. Wow, how they shouted and waved at him! One lady quickly came up and put a penny in his hand, and she opened the door to the street for him. How scared he was! and the penny immediately rolled out and rang down the steps: he could not bend his red fingers and hold it. The boy ran out and went as quickly as possible, but he didn’t know where. He wants to cry again, but he’s too afraid, and he runs and runs and blows on his hands. And melancholy takes over him, because he suddenly felt so lonely and terrible, and suddenly, Lord! So what is this again? People are standing in a crowd and marveling: on the window behind the glass there are three dolls, small, dressed in red and green dresses and very, very lifelike! Some old man is sitting and seems to be playing big violin, the other two stand right there and play small violins, and shake their heads to the beat, and look at each other, and their lips move, they talk, they talk completely, but from behind the glass you can’t hear. And at first the boy thought that they were alive, but when he realized that they were dolls, he suddenly laughed. He had never seen such dolls and did not know that such existed! and he wants to cry, but the dolls are so funny. Suddenly it seemed to him that someone grabbed him by the robe from behind: a big, angry boy stood nearby and suddenly hit him on the head, tore off his cap, and kicked him from below. The boy rolled to the ground, then they screamed, he was stupefied, he jumped up and ran and ran, and suddenly he ran into he doesn’t know where, into a gateway, into someone else’s yard, and sat down behind some firewood: “They won’t find anyone here, and it’s dark.”
He sat down and huddled, but he couldn’t catch his breath from fear, and suddenly, quite suddenly, he felt so good: his arms and legs suddenly stopped hurting and it became so warm, so warm, like on a stove; Now he shuddered all over: oh, but he was about to fall asleep! How nice it is to fall asleep here: “I’ll sit here and go look at the dolls again,” the boy thought and grinned, remembering them, “just like life!..” and suddenly he heard his mother singing a song above him. “Mom, I’m sleeping, oh, how good it is to sleep here!”
“Let’s go to my Christmas tree, boy,” a quiet voice suddenly whispered above him.
He thought it was all his mother, but no, not her; He doesn’t see who called him, but someone bent over him and hugged him in the darkness, and he extended his hand and... And suddenly, oh, what a light! Oh, what a tree! And it’s not a Christmas tree, he’s never seen such trees before! Where is he now: everything glitters, everything shines and there are dolls all around - but no, these are all boys and girls, only so bright, they all circle around him, fly, they all kiss him, take him, carry him with them, yes and he himself flies, and he sees: his mother is looking and laughing at him joyfully.
- Mother! Mother! Oh, how nice it is here, mom! - the boy shouts to her, and again kisses the children, and he wants to tell them as soon as possible about those dolls behind the glass. -Who are you, boys? Who are you girls? - he asks, laughing and loving them.
“This is Christ’s Christmas tree,” they answer him. “Christ always has a Christmas tree on this day for little children who don’t have their own tree there...” And he found out that these boys and girls were all just like him, children, but some were still frozen in their baskets, in which they were thrown onto the stairs to the doors of St. Petersburg officials, others suffocated in the chukhonkas, from the orphanage while being fed, others died at the withered breasts of their mothers during the Samara famine, others suffocated in third-class carriages from the stench, and yet they are all here now, they are all now like angels, they are all with Christ, and He Himself is in the midst of them, and stretches out His hands to them, and blesses them and their sinful mothers... And the mothers of these children are all standing right there, on the sidelines, and crying; everyone recognizes their boy or girl, and they fly up to them and kiss them, wipe away their tears with their hands and beg them not to cry, because they feel so good here...
And downstairs the next morning, the janitors found the small corpse of a boy who had run and froze to collect firewood; They also found his mother... She died before him; both met with the Lord God in heaven.
And why did I compose such a story, which does not fit into an ordinary reasonable diary, especially a writer’s? and also promised stories mainly about actual events! But that’s the point, it seems and seems to me that all this could really happen - that is, what happened in the basement and behind the firewood, and there about the Christmas tree at Christ’s - I don’t know how to tell you , could it happen or not? That's why I'm a novelist, to invent things.
Anton Chekhov (1860–1904)
The tall, evergreen tree of fate is hung with the blessings of life... From bottom to top hang careers, happy occasions, suitable games, winnings, buttered cookies, clicks on the nose, and so on. Adult children crowd around the Christmas tree. Fate gives them gifts...
- Children, which of you wants a rich merchant's wife? - she asks, taking a red-cheeked merchant's wife from a branch, strewn from head to toe with pearls and diamonds... - Two houses on Plyushchikha, three iron shops, one porter shop and two hundred thousand in money! Who wants?
- To me! To me! - Hundreds of hands reach out for the merchant’s wife. - I want a merchant's wife!
- Don’t crowd, children, and don’t worry... Everyone will be satisfied... Let the young doctor take the merchant’s wife. A person who devotes himself to science and enrolls himself as a benefactor of humanity cannot do without a pair of horses, good furniture, etc. Take it, dear doctor! You're welcome... Well, now the next surprise! Place on Chukhlomo-Poshekhonskaya railway! Ten thousand salary, the same amount of bonuses, work three hours a month, an apartment of thirteen rooms and so on... Who wants it? Are you Kolya? Take it, honey! Next... Place of housekeeper for the lonely Baron Schmaus! Oh, don't tear like that, mesdames! Have patience!.. Next! A young, pretty girl, the daughter of poor but noble parents! Not a penny's dowry, but she has an honest, feeling, poetic nature! Who wants? (Pause.) No one?
- I would take it, but there’s nothing to feed me! – the poet’s voice is heard from the corner.
- So no one wants it?
“Perhaps, let me take it... So be it...,” says the small, arthritic old man serving in the spiritual consistory. - Perhaps...
– Zorina’s handkerchief! Who wants?
- Ah!.. For me! Me!.. Ah! My leg was crushed! To me!
- Next surprise! A luxurious library containing all the works of Kant, Schopenhauer, Goethe, all Russian and foreign authors, a lot of ancient volumes and so on... Who wants it?
- I'm with! - says the second-hand bookseller Svinopasov. - Please, sir!
Svinopasov takes the library, selects for himself “Oracle”, “Dream Book”, “Writer Book”, “ reference book for bachelors”... throws the rest on the floor...
- Next! Portrait of Okrejc!
Loud laughter is heard...
“Give me…” says the owner of the museum, Winkler. - It will come in handy...
The boots go to the artist... in the end the tree is torn down and the audience disperses... Only one employee of humor magazines remains near the tree...
- What do I need? - he asks fate. - Everyone received a gift, but at least I needed something. This is disgusting of you!
- Everything was taken apart, nothing was left... However, there was only one cookie with butter left... Do you want it?
– No need... I’m already tired of these cookies with butter... The cash registers of some Moscow editorial offices are full of this stuff. Isn't there something more significant?
- Take these frames...
- I already have them...
- Here’s the bridle, the reins... Here’s the red cross, if you want... Toothache... Hedgehog gloves... A month in prison for defamation...
- I already have all this...
– Tin soldier, if you want... Map of the North...
The comedian waves his hand and goes home with the hope of next year’s Christmas tree...
1884
Yule story
There are times when winter, as if angry at human weakness, calls upon the harsh autumn to its aid and works together with it. Snow and rain swirl in the hopeless, foggy air. The wind, damp, cold, piercing, knocks on the windows and roofs with furious anger. He howls in the pipes and cries in the ventilation. There is melancholy hanging in the soot-dark air... Nature is troubled... Damp, cold and eerie...
This was exactly the weather on the night before Christmas in one thousand eight hundred and eighty-two, when I was not yet in the prison companies, but served as an appraiser in the loan office of retired staff captain Tupaev.
It was twelve o'clock. The storeroom, in which, by the will of the owner, I had my night residence and pretended to be a guard dog, was dimly illuminated by a blue lamp light. It was a large square room, littered with bundles, chests, whatnots... on the gray wooden walls, from the cracks of which disheveled tow peeked out, hung rabbit fur coats, undershirts, guns, paintings, sconces, a guitar... I, obliged to guard this stuff at night, lay on a large red chest behind a display case with precious things and looked thoughtfully at the lamp light...
For some reason I felt afraid. The things stored in the storerooms of the loan offices are scary... at night, in the dim light of the lamp, they seem to be alive... Now, when the rain was grumbling outside the window, and the wind was howling pitifully in the stove and above the ceiling, it seemed to me that they were making howling sounds. All of them, before getting here, had to pass through the hands of an appraiser, that is, through mine, and therefore I knew everything about each of them... I knew, for example, that the money received for this guitar was used to buy powders for consumptive cough... I knew that a drunkard shot himself with this revolver; my wife hid the revolver from the police, pawned it with us and bought a coffin.
The bracelet looking at me from the window was pawned by the man who stole it... Two lace shirts, marked 178 No., were pawned by a girl who needed a ruble to enter the Salon, where she was going to earn money... In short, on each item I read hopeless grief, illness, crime, corrupt debauchery...
On the night before Christmas, these things were somehow especially eloquent.
“Let us go home!” they cried, it seemed to me, along with the wind. - Let me go!
But not only things aroused a feeling of fear in me. When I stuck my head out from behind the display case and cast a timid glance at the dark, sweaty window, it seemed to me that human faces were looking into the storeroom from the street.
“What nonsense! - I invigorated myself. “What stupid tenderness!”
The fact is that a person endowed by nature with the nerves of an appraiser was tormented by his conscience on the night before Christmas - an incredible and even fantastic event. Conscience in loan offices is only under the mortgage. Here it is understood as an object of sale and purchase, but no other functions are recognized for it... It’s amazing where I could have gotten it from? I tossed from side to side on my hard chest and, squinting my eyes from the flickering lamp, tried with all my might to drown out a new, uninvited feeling within myself. But my efforts remained in vain...
Of course, physical and moral fatigue after hard, whole-day work was partly to blame. On Christmas Eve, the poor flocked to the loan office in droves. On a big holiday, and even in bad weather, poverty is not a vice, but a terrible misfortune! at this time, a drowning poor man looks for a straw in the loan office and receives a stone instead... for the entire Christmas Eve, so many people visited us that, for lack of space in the storeroom, we were forced to take three quarters of the mortgages into the barn. From early morning to late evening, without stopping for a minute, I bargained with ragamuffins, squeezed pennies and pennies out of them, saw tears, listened to vain pleas... by the end of the day I could barely stand on my feet: my soul and body were exhausted. It’s no wonder that I was now awake, tossing and turning from side to side and feeling terrible...
Someone carefully knocked on my door... Following the knock, I heard the owner’s voice:
– Are you sleeping, Pyotr Demyanich?
- Not yet, so what?
“You know, I’m wondering if we should open the door early tomorrow morning?” The holiday is big, and the weather is furious. The poor will swarm in like flies to honey. So you don’t go to mass tomorrow, but sit at the ticket office... Good night!
“That’s why I’m so scared,” I decided after the owner left, “because the lamp is flickering... I need to put it out...”
I got out of bed and went to the corner where the lamp hung. The blue light, faintly flashing and flickering, apparently struggled with death. Each flicker illuminated for a moment an image, walls, knots, a dark window... and in the window two pale faces, leaning against the glass, looked into the pantry.
“There’s no one there...” I reasoned. “That’s what I imagine.”
And when I, having put out the lamp, was groping my way to my bed, a small incident occurred that had a significant impact on my further mood... Suddenly, unexpectedly, a loud, furiously screeching crash was heard above my head, which lasted no longer than a second. Something cracked and, as if feeling terrible pain, it squealed loudly.
Then the fifth burst on the guitar, but I, gripped by panic, covered my ears and, like a madman, stumbling over chests and bundles, ran to the bed... I buried my head under the pillow and, barely breathing, freezing with fear, began to listen.
- Let us go! - the wind howled along with things. - Let go for the sake of the holiday! After all, you yourself are a poor man, you understand! I myself experienced hunger and cold! Let go!
Yes, I myself was a poor man and knew what hunger and cold meant. Poverty pushed me into this damned place as an appraiser; poverty made me despise grief and tears for the sake of a piece of bread. If it were not for poverty, would I have had the courage to value in pennies what is worth health, warmth, and holiday joys? Why does the wind blame me, why does my conscience torment me?
But no matter how my heart beat, no matter how fear and remorse tormented me, fatigue took its toll. I fell asleep. The dream was sensitive... I heard the owner knocking on me again, how they struck for matins... I heard the wind howling and the rain pounding on the roof. My eyes were closed, but I saw things, a shop window, a dark window, an image. Things crowded around me and, blinking, asked me to let them go home. On the guitar, the strings burst with a squeal, one after another, bursting endlessly... beggars, old women, prostitutes looked out the window, waiting for me to unlock the loan and return their things to them.
In my sleep I heard something scratching like a mouse. The scraping was long and monotonous. I tossed and shrank because the cold and dampness blew heavily on me. As I pulled the blanket over myself, I heard rustling and human whispers.
“What a bad dream! – I thought. - How creepy! I wish I could wake up."
Something glass fell and broke. A light flashed behind the display window, and the light began to play on the ceiling.
- Don't knock! – a whisper was heard. - You'll wake up that Herod... Take off your boots!
Someone came up to the window, looked at me and touched the padlock. He was a bearded old man with a pale, worn-out face, wearing a torn soldier's coat and braces. A tall, thin guy approached him with a terrible long arms, in an untucked shirt and a short, torn jacket. They both whispered something and fidgeted around the display case.
“They’re robbing!” – flashed through my head.
Although I was sleeping, I remembered that there was always a revolver under my pillow. I quietly groped for it and squeezed it in my hand. The glass in the window tinkled.
- Hush, you'll wake me up. Then you will have to stab him.
Then I dreamed that I screamed in a deep, wild voice and, frightened by my voice, jumped up. The old man and the young guy, with their arms outstretched, attacked me, but when they saw the revolver, they backed away. I remember that a minute later they stood in front of me, pale and, blinking their eyes tearfully, begging me to let them go. The wind was breaking through the broken window and playing with the flame of the candle that the thieves had lit.
- Your honor! – someone spoke under the window in a crying voice. - You are our benefactors! Merciful people!
I looked at the window and saw an old woman’s face, pale, emaciated, soaked in the rain.
- Don't touch them! Let go! – she cried, looking at me with pleading eyes. - Poverty!
- Poverty! – the old man confirmed.
- Poverty! - the wind sang.
My heart sank with pain, and I pinched myself to wake up... But instead of waking up, I stood at the display window, took things out of it and frantically shoved them into the pockets of the old man and the guy.
- Take it quickly! – I gasped. - Tomorrow is a holiday, and you are beggars! Take it!
Having filled my beggar's pockets, I tied the rest of the jewelry into a knot and threw it to the old woman. I handed the old woman a fur coat, a bundle with a black pair, lace shirts and, by the way, a guitar through the window. There are such strange dreams! Then, I remember, the door rattled. As if they had grown out of the ground, the owner, the policeman, and the policemen appeared before me. The owner is standing next to me, but I don’t seem to see and continue to knit knots.
- What are you doing, scoundrel?
“Tomorrow is a holiday,” I answer. - They need to eat.
Then the curtain falls, rises again, and I see new scenery. I am no longer in the pantry, but somewhere else. A policeman walks around me, sets me a mug of water at night and mutters: “Look! Look! What are you planning for the holiday!” When I woke up, it was already light. The rain no longer beat on the window, the wind did not howl. The festive sun played merrily on the wall. The first person to congratulate me on the holiday was the senior policeman.
A month later I was tried. For what? I assured the judges that it was a dream, that it was unfair to judge a person for a nightmare. Judge for yourself: could I, out of the blue, give away other people’s things to thieves and scoundrels? And where has this been seen, to give away things without receiving a ransom? But the court accepted the dream as reality and convicted me. In prison companies, as you can see. Can't you, Your Honor, put in a good word for me somewhere? By God, it's not my fault.
Christmas stories of Russian writers / comp. T. V. Strygina. – M.: Nikeya, 2017. – 432 p. – (Christmas gift).
Yuletide stories in Russian literature are an almost forgotten phenomenon. The years of Soviet power tried to erase the feeling of miracle and Christmas from the consciousness of Russian people. But the memory remained, and modern writers still returned to it in their works. And this collection - bright that confirmation.
What are the Christmas stories about? Christmas stories traditionally contain a miracle, and the heroes overcome trials with the strength of spirit and love, do good, despite obstacles outside world. This book contains stories of classic writers such as A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky, N. Gogol, N. Leskov, A. Kuprin, I. Shmelev and stories of modern prose writers such as N. Klyuchareva, O. Nikolaeva, V. Kaplan , B. Ekimov, N. Agafonov, K. Parkhomenko and others.
Regarding the genre features of the Yuletide story (and they were created strictly according to certain literary canons), the Russian writer Nikolai Leskov accurately said: “A Yule story is absolutely required that it be timed to coincide with the events of the Yuletide evening - from Christmas to Epiphany, so that it is somewhat fantastic, had some kind of morality..., and finally, so that it would certainly end cheerfully.”
And this is confirmed by the intriguing story of Nikolai Leskov about the family treasure “Pearl Necklace” or the fatal love affair of the protagonist in the story by Alexander Bestuzhev-Marlinsky “Terrible Fortune-telling”, or the dangerous journey of the blacksmith Vakula to get slippers for his beloved Oksana from Nikolai Gogol’s story “The Night Before Christmas” ", Alexander Kuprin’s phantasmagorical story “Millionaire” about the thirst for wealth of a “little man” and the illusory nature of achieving this golden dream. Memoirs of Ivan Shmelev, written in distant emigration, in the stories “Christmas and Christmastide” about the anticipation of Christmas in distant childhood, about home preparations for the holiday and about those poor and unfortunate people who were welcomed by the hospitable family of the writer these days. Nikolai Pozdnyakov’s Christmas stories “On the Balance” and “Revolver” show the facets human personality, fatal actions, for which one is later ashamed.
The story of Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov “The Werewolf” tells about the celebration of Christmas by monks in a poor revived monastery, about prejudices and about the real Christmas miracle of mercy and love. The story "Readers" illuminates the complex life story former singer and cathedral reader Sergei Avdeev, whose once amazing voice led one of the seminarians to deep faith. Boris Ekimov’s Christmas story “For Warm Bread” shows the lonely old age of two elderly people and the hopeless poverty and lack of necessities. And, despite the fact that grandfather Arkhip’s trip to the city to buy coal turns into disappointment and resentment, the taste fresh bread revives him and returns the desire to live. Vasily Kaplan’s poignant story “Learning with a Star” plunges us into the era of the criminal 90s, the difficult path to faith of one of the heroes and the acquisition of simple human happiness through suffering. Did physics teacher Mikhail Nikolaevich think, returning from the night Christmas service, that life would soon present him with a terrible surprise, but God’s providence would be stronger than the fierce laws of life.
The Yuletide excerpt from the story “It’s No Thing” by Olesya Nikolaeva shows the story of rejection, hatred and love of two pure and beautiful-hearted young people - Anastasia and Alexei. Disagreements on the subtleties of faith, prejudices and doubts prevented two lovers from finding their happiness for a very long time. And they would never have been reunited if not for one criminal circumstance. And in Maxim Yakovlev’s Christmas story “Kalyamka” main character, little boy from an orphanage, taken into a foster family, he really wants to find out whether Santa Claus is real sitting under the thuja in the garden and what he has in his bag. The discovery shocked little Kalyamka so much that the already elderly Nikolai Petrovich cannot forget this episode from his distant childhood. In the story “A Random Gift,” the main character is at a crossroads: to help a boy begging for alms or to pass by indifferently. And if he helps, then what will happen...?
The stunning short story by our countrywoman Natalya Klyuchareva, “Yurka’s Christmas,” shows the tragedy of a drinking family and the forgotten schoolboy Yurka. The lesson life taught him made his heart cold and cruel. And only a Christmas tree can melt this deep ice... And the Christmas story of Archpriest Konstantin Parkhomenko, “The Christmas Miracle of Arctic Circle» tells about amazing journey to Yakutia, St. Petersburg student Susie and her desire to help a boy dying of leukemia. What trials awaited the inexperienced traveler Susie, and what miracle shocked her - the author of this mystical short story talks about this very vividly and fascinatingly. Larisa Podistova's story “Christmas, Mom” is dedicated to the relationship between mother and son, and his main meaning is that good must be done on time, and parents must be loved while they are alive. In the story of priest Alexander Shantaev “On a Holiday” and “Katin’s Dream”, Christmas appears as a miracle of life transformation, giving a warm light of hope. In the stories of Sergei Durylin “In the Native Corner” and “The Fourth Magus” there are touching childhood memories of the Christmas holiday and the wonderful discoveries associated with it, about the light human soul, about unearthly joy and hope that it will always be like this.
The collection of Christmas stories by Russian writers is very bright, emotional and kind. The topics raised in it are eternal and will never lose relevance. A bright holiday Christmas will become closer and more desirable after reading this book.
Stories about Christmas by L. Charskaya, E. Ivanovskaya.
Interesting and educational Christmas stories for children of primary and secondary school age.
The Legend of the First Christmas Tree
When little Christ was born, and the Virgin Mary, having swaddled Him, laid Him in a simple manger on the hay, Angels flew from heaven to look at Him. Seeing how simple and wretched the cave and manger were, they quietly whispered to each other:
- Does he sleep in a cave in a simple manger? No, you can't do that! It is necessary to decorate the cave: let it be as beautiful and elegant as possible - after all, Christ Himself sleeps in it!
And so one Angel flew to the south to look for something to decorate the cave with. It's always warm in the south, and beautiful flowers are always blooming. And so the Angel picked a lot of roses as red as the dawn; lilies, white as snow; cheerful colorful hyacinths, azaleas; picked tender mimosas, magnolias, camellias; He also picked several large yellow lotuses... And he brought all these flowers to the cave.
Another Angel flew north. But it was winter there at that time. The fields and forests are covered with a heavy blanket of snow. And the Angel, not finding any flowers, wanted to fly back. Suddenly he saw a sad green tree among the snow, thought and whispered:
“Perhaps it’s okay that this tree is so simple.” Let it, the only one of all the plants of the north, look at little Christ.
And he took with him a modest northern Christmas tree. How beautiful and elegant it became in the cave when the walls, floor and manger were decorated with flowers! The flowers looked curiously into the manger where Christ slept and whispered to each other:
- Shh!.. Hush! He fell asleep!
The little Christmas tree saw such beautiful flowers for the first time and was saddened.
“Oh,” she said sadly, “why am I so ugly and simple?” How happy all these wonderful flowers must be! But I have nothing to wear myself on such a holiday, nothing to decorate the cave with...
And she cried bitterly.
When the Virgin Mary saw this, She felt sorry for the tree. And She thought: “Everyone should be happy on this day, this Christmas tree shouldn’t be sad.”
She smiled and made a sign with her hand. And then a miracle happened: a bright star quietly descended from the sky and adorned the top of the tree. And others followed her and decorated the remaining branches. How suddenly it became light and cheerful in the cave! Little Christ, who was sleeping in the manger, woke up from the bright light and, smiling, reached out to the Christmas tree sparkling with lights.
And the flowers looked at her in surprise and whispered to each other:
- Oh, how pretty she has become! Isn't it true that she is more beautiful than all of us?
And the Christmas tree felt quite happy. Since then, people decorate Christmas trees for little children every year in memory of the first tree - the one that was decorated with real stars from the sky.
In a dense forest stands a beautiful, lush, young Christmas tree... Neighboring friends look at it with envy: “Who was such a beauty born into?..” The friends do not notice that a disgusting, ugly branch has grown at the very root of the Christmas tree, which is very spoiling elegant young Christmas tree. But the Christmas tree itself knows about this branch, moreover, it hates it and grieves and complains about fate in every possible way: why did it reward it with such an ugly branch - a slender, pretty, young Christmas tree?
Christmas Eve has arrived. In the morning, Santa Claus decorated the Christmas trees with a lush snowy veil, covered them with frost - and they stand decorated like brides, standing and waiting... After all, today is a great day for Christmas trees... Today people will come to the forest to pick them up. They will cut down the Christmas trees and take them to big city to the market... And there they will buy Christmas trees as gifts for children.
And the beautiful Christmas tree is waiting for her fate... She can’t wait, is there something waiting for her?
The runners creaked and heavy peasant sleighs appeared. A man in a warm sheepskin coat came out of them, with an ax tucked into his belt, walked up to the Christmas tree and hit its slender trunk with all his might with the ax.
The Christmas tree sighed quietly and sank heavily to the ground, rustling its green branches.
- Wonderful tree! - said the old footman Ignat, looking from all sides at the beautiful Christmas tree that he had just bought at the market on behalf of the owner, a rich prince, for the little princess.
- Noble Christmas tree! - he said.
And suddenly his eyes stopped on a gnarled twig, sticking out quite inappropriately at the side of our beauty.
- We need to level the tree! - said Ignat and in one minute he swung away a gnarled branch with an ax and threw it to the side.
The beautiful Christmas tree sighed with relief.
Thank God, she was freed from the ugly branch that so spoiled her fabulous beauty, now she is quite pleased with herself...
Footman Ignat once again carefully examined the Christmas tree from all sides and carried it upstairs - to the huge and luxuriously furnished princely apartment.
In the elegant living room, the Christmas tree was surrounded on all sides, and within an hour it was transformed. Countless candles shone on its branches... Expensive bonbonnieres*, golden stars, multi-colored balls, elegant trinkets and sweets decorated it from top to bottom.
When the last decoration - a silver and golden rain - streamed down the green needles of the Christmas tree, the doors of the hall swung open and a lovely girl ran into the room.
The Christmas tree expected that the little princess would clasp her hands at the sight of such a beauty, and would jump and gallop in delight at the sight of a lush tree.
But the pretty princess only glanced at the tree and said, pouting her lips slightly:
-Where is the doll? I asked dad so much that he give me a talking doll, like Cousin Lily’s. Only the Christmas tree is boring... you can’t play with it, but I have enough sweets and toys without it!..
Suddenly the pretty princess's gaze fell on an expensive doll sitting under the Christmas tree...
- Ah! - the girl cried joyfully, - this is wonderful! Dear dad! He thought about me. What a lovely doll. My dear!
And the little princess kissed the doll, completely forgetting about the Christmas tree.
The beautiful Christmas tree was perplexed.
After all, the ugly branch that had so disgraced her was chopped off. Why didn’t she - a lush, green-haired beauty - cause delight in the little princess?
And the gnarled branch lay in the yard until a thin, poor woman, exhausted from everyday hard work, approached him...
- God! No branch from the Christmas tree! - she cried, quickly bending over the gnarled branch.
She carefully picked it up from the ground, as if it were not a gnarled twig, but some kind of precious thing, and, carefully covering it with a scarf, she carried it to the basement, where she rented a tiny closet.
In the closet, on a shabby bed, covered with an old cotton blanket, lay a sick child. He was in oblivion and did not hear his mother enter with a Christmas tree branch in her hands.
The poor woman found a bottle in the corner and stuck a gnarled Christmas tree branch into it. Then she took out the wax cinders stored in her shrine, which she brought to different times from the church, carefully attached them to a thorny branch and lit them.
The Christmas tree lit up with welcoming lights, spreading the pleasant smell of pine needles around it.
The child suddenly opened his eyes... Joy shone in the depths of his pure, childish gaze... He stretched out his emaciated little hands to the tree and whispered, beaming with happiness:
- How sweet! What a nice Christmas tree! Thank you, my dear mother, for her... I somehow felt better when I saw a cute lit tree.
And he stretched out his little hands to the gnarled twig, and the gnarled twig blinked and smiled at him with all its joyful lights. The gnarled bitch didn’t know that he brought so much joy to the poor patient on a bright Christmas Eve.
* Bonbonniere - a box for sweets. (Ed.)
- Give me alms, for Christ's sake! Give alms, for Christ's sake!..
No one heard these plaintive words, no one paid attention to the tears that sounded in the words of a poorly dressed woman standing alone on the corner of a busy city street.
- Give me alms!
Passers-by hurriedly walked past her, carriages rushed noisily along the snowy road. Laughter and animated conversation could be heard all around.
The holy, great night of the Nativity of Christ fell to earth. It shone like stars and shrouded the city in a mysterious haze.
“I’m asking for alms not for myself, but for my children...” The woman’s voice suddenly broke off, and she began to cry quietly. Trembling under her rags, she wiped away her tears with numb fingers, but they again flowed down her emaciated cheeks. Nobody cared about her...
Yes, she didn’t even think about herself, about the fact that she was completely cold, that she hadn’t eaten a crumb since the morning. Her whole thought belonged to the children, her heart ached for them.
They sit, poor things, there, in a cold, dark kennel, hungry, frozen, and wait for her. What will she bring or what will she say? Tomorrow is a great holiday, all the children have fun, but her poor children are hungry and unhappy.
What should she do? What to do? All lately she worked as hard as she could, worked hard last strength. Then she fell ill and lost last job. The holiday approached, she had nowhere to get a piece of bread.
For the sake of the children, she decided, for the first time in her life, to beg. The hand did not rise, the tongue did not turn. But the thought that her children were hungry, that they would celebrate the holiday hungry and unhappy - this thought tormented her. She was ready for anything. And in a few hours she managed to collect a few kopecks.
"Alms, good people, serve it! Give it to me, for Christ’s sake!”
And as if in response to her despair, the bell for the all-night vigil was heard nearby. Yes, we need to go pray. Perhaps prayer will ease her soul. She will pray earnestly for them, for the children. With unsteady steps she made her way to the church.
The temple is illuminated, filled with lights. There are a lot of people everywhere, everyone has cheerful, happy faces. Hiding in a corner, she fell to her knees and froze. All the boundless, maternal love, all her grief for the children poured out in fervent prayer, in dull, mournful sobs. “Lord, help me! Help! - she cries. And who, if not the Lord, Patron and Protector of the weak and unfortunate, should pour out all his grief, all his mental pain to her? She prayed quietly in the corner, and tears streamed down her pale face.
She did not notice how the all-night vigil ended, did not see how anyone approached her.
-What are you crying about? - a gentle voice came from behind her.
She woke up, raised her eyes and saw in front of her a small, richly dressed girl. Clear children's eyes looked at her with sweet sympathy. Behind the girl stood an old nanny.
-Are you in trouble? Yes? Poor you, poor you! “These words, spoken in a gentle, childish voice, deeply touched her.
- Woe! My kids are hungry; they haven’t eaten since morning. Tomorrow is such a great holiday...
- Didn’t you eat? Are you hungry? — Horror was expressed on the girl’s face. - Nanny, what is this? The children didn't eat anything! And tomorrow they will be hungry! Nanny! How is this possible?
A small child's hand slid into the muff.
- Here, take it, there is money here... how much, I don’t know... feed the children... for God’s sake... Oh, nanny, this is terrible! They didn't eat anything! Is this possible, nanny?
Large tears welled up in the girl’s eyes.
- Well, Manechka, let’s do it! They are poor! And they sit, poor people, in hunger and cold. They are waiting to see if the Lord will help them!
- Oh, nanny, I feel sorry for them! Where do you live, how many children do you have?
- My husband died - it will be about six months. There are three guys left. I couldn’t work, I was sick all the time. So I had to walk around the world with my hand. We live not far away, here, in the basement, on the corner, in the large stone house of the merchant Osipov.
- Nanny, almost next to us, but I didn’t even know! Let's go quickly, now I know what to do!
The girl quickly left the church, accompanied by the old woman.
The poor woman mechanically followed them. In the wallet she was holding, there was a five-ruble note. Forgetting everything except that she could now warm and feed her children, she went into the store, bought provisions, bread, tea, sugar and ran home. There are still enough wood chips left to heat the stove.
She ran home as fast as she could.
Here is the dark kennel. Three childish figures rushed towards her.
- Mama! I'm hungry! Did you bring it? Dear!
She hugged all three of them.
- The Lord sent! Nadya, light the stove, Petyusha, put on the samovar! Let's warm up, let's eat, for the sake of the great holiday!
In the kennel, damp and gloomy, a holiday began. The children were cheerful, warm and chatting. The mother rejoiced at their animation and their chatter. Only occasionally did a sad thought come to mind - what next? What's next?
- Well, the Lord will not leave! - she said to herself, placing all her hope in God.
Little Nadya quietly approached her mother, pressed herself close to her and spoke.
- Tell me, mom, is it true that on Christmas night the Christmas Angel flies from the sky and brings gifts to poor children? Tell me, mom!
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The boys also approached their mother. And, wanting to console the children, she began to tell them that the Lord takes care of poor children and sends them His Angel on the great Christmas night, and this Angel brings them gifts and gifts!
- And a Christmas tree, mom?
- And a Christmas tree, children, a good, shiny Christmas tree! Someone knocked on the basement door. The children rushed to open the door. A man appeared with a small green tree in his hands. Behind him was a pretty blond girl with a basket, accompanied by a nanny who was carrying various bundles and packages behind her. The children timidly clung to their mother.
- Is this an Angel, mom, is this an Angel? - they whispered quietly, looking reverently at the pretty, smart girl.
The tree had been on the floor for a long time. The old nanny untied the bags, pulled out delicious buns, pretzels, cheese, butter, eggs, and decorated the tree with candles and gifts. The children still could not come to their senses. They admired the "Angel". And they were silent, not moving from their place.
- Here you go, have a merry Christmas! - a child's voice sounded. - Happy holiday!
The girl put the basket on the table and disappeared before the children and mother came to their senses.
The “Christmas Angel” flew in, brought the children a Christmas tree, gifts, joy, and disappeared like a radiant vision.
At home, Manya’s mother was waiting, warmly hugged her and pressed her to her.
- My good girl! - she said, kissing her daughter’s happy face. “You yourself gave up the Christmas tree, the gifts and gave everything to the poor children!” You have a heart of gold! God will reward you.
Manya was left without a Christmas tree or gifts, but she was all beaming with happiness. She really looked like a Christmas Angel.
The pre-New Year days flew by quickly, in a cheerful bustle, and sometimes in a tiring bustle. The last children's matinees have died down, schoolchildren are on vacation, the chimes have already counted 12 strokes, and the New Year. Of course, there is plenty of fun and entertainment these days, but there is one activity that today, unfortunately, is half-forgotten behind the roar of the TV. This is a family read.
Not all works are equally interesting to every family member. But there are others. They usually have two properties: the great talent with which they are created, and the event to which they are dedicated. The Nativity of Christ is what determines our future destiny, which goes beyond this life. And Christmas stories remind us of this.
Selma Lagerlöf. "Holy Night"
The famous creator of “Nils's Wonderful Journey with the Wild Geese” called her childhood very happy. And all because of grandma. The writer remembers with great love both herself and her wonderful fairy tales, stories and songs. “Holy Night” is a short work where Lagerlöf retells what his grandmother said.
This story can be partly called apocrypha with obvious folklore roots, but this does not harm the essence and meaning of the Event. It tells about a man who came to a shepherd to ask for some coals - he needed to warm his Wife and newborn Child. The world is cruel, as we know, but all the obstacles that confront a person crumbled to dust: they did not cause him any harm. evil dogs, not a thrown stick, but the sheep continued to sleep peacefully when he walked towards the fire along their backs. And he carried away the hot coals themselves right in his cloak.
The perplexed shepherd asks him how this could happen. “I can’t explain this to you if you don’t see it yourself,” says the man.
And this is the main thing in the short, leisurely story of the writer. She reminds us in the words of her grandmother that a Christmas miracle occurs every year, and the star lights up and the angels praise God. And it is very, very important that our eyes (and I think we are talking about spiritual vision) see and our hearts perceive this miracle.
Ivan Shmelev. "Christmas"
These are perhaps the most famous memories of the holiday. And they are good because they can be read literally from infancy, from the age of five, and return to them with pleasure at any age. The amazing, unlike anything else, language of the writer, who thinks and paints in a childlike way, finds a response in every soul. And even though we are far from the atmosphere of the rich patriarchal merchant house where Vanechka grew up, it is difficult not to love that magical and at the same time such real world his childhood.
Typically, children, especially those to whom books are regularly read, are sensitive to this atmosphere; they are not embarrassed by the abundance of outdated concepts and phenomena in the text, especially since this can be a reason for a detailed conversation with their parents.
If the child is ready for such a conversation, you can explain to him that the writer is addressing his son, that they live in France, and Shmelev really misses the homeland he left behind and wants the boy to understand how good that Russia, lost to him forever, was.
Alexander Kuprin. " Wonderful doctor»
This, as they say, textbook Christmas story reveals the holiday from one more side: it talks about mercy. About how a man who has a lot to do, a family, and gifts in hand for the kids, suddenly becomes imbued with the misfortune of a completely unknown and completely unsympathetic person. And what is important here is not only the fact of helping a needy family, but also the fact that this benefit was done, one might say, incognito. After all, only the next day, receiving medicine from the pharmacist, Mertsalov learns that his benefactor is the famous military surgeon Nikolai Ivanovich Pirogov.
This story is a good basis for talking about mercy, about free help, about why, according to the word of the Lord, “let left hand your right one does not know what the right one is doing” (Matthew 6:3-4).
Nikolai Leskov. "Christ visiting a man"
It's deep and beautiful, but complex story: children will probably understand it from the age of 12, and even then with appropriate parental comments.
Christianity sets us a task that was unknown before: not just to forgive, but also to love the enemy
Here the theme of mercy deepens and becomes more complex: the hero must not only show mercy, but show it to his blood enemy. “To whom much is given, much will be required” (Luke 12:48) - Leskov confirms this truth, talking about a very pious man who lives in a Godly way, loving God, but not ready to meet Him. Because Christianity sets before us a task that was previously unknown and impossible for humans: not only to forgive, but also to love our enemy.
“Christ Visiting a Man” is a story about a miracle, which, on the one hand, can be explained in everyday terms, but on the other, one can only marvel at the incomprehensibility of God’s Providence and His ways. This is a real Christmas story with a very happy and deep ending: you can’t help but wonder who received the mercy - the one who asked, or the one who showed it?
Vasily Nikiforov-Volgin. "Silver Blizzard"
The boy from Nikiforov-Volgin’s story has an unusually keen sense of the holiday atmosphere. He lives in a simple but very religious family, he has wise, thoughtful parents, and he perceives Christmas not as a long-past event, but as something that is happening here, right now:
“I stood for a long time under the snowstorm and listened as the most beautiful and fragrant word in the world, “Christmas,” moved through my soul with a cheerful wind.” It smelled of blizzards and prickly pine paws.”
“The father, having finished his work, began to read the Gospel aloud. I listened to his drawn-out reading and thought about Christ lying in the manger: “It was probably snowing then, and little Jesus was very cold!” And I felt so sorry for Him that I cried.”
This is another child’s view of Christmas - unlike Shmelev’s Vanechka from a rich Moscow house, the hero of the book is the son of a shoemaker. But the feeling of the holiday is the same - a fragile, eternal Miracle that has been happening for centuries.
Charles Dickens. "A Christmas Carol"
What good have we done? Who was pleased, who was reassured, who was repulsed?
The story of the transformation of the soul of the old miser Skruzhd from English classic known to many. However, rereading it, we reflect again and again on the fruits of life - and not only the hero of the book: on the fruits of our own life. What good have we done? Who was pleased, who was reassured, who was repulsed? And is there anything that can’t be fixed?
However, Dickens argues that many things can be corrected, even those that seem predetermined. Merry bells are ringing about this, and the laughter in the living room, where Mr. Scrooge came with congratulations after his night vision, is also about this.
You can re-read A Christmas Carol every year without getting tired of it. Or you can do this with your children, revealing treasures to them English literature, and the possibility of changing the human soul.
Nadezhda Teffi. "Neighbour"
Christmas stories are different. It is not always possible to find in them a description of the festive service, Christmas tree, gifts and carols. They do not always talk about helping the poor and disadvantaged. The main thing in works about the Nativity of Christ is the spirit of the holiday: the spirit of love that unites people, even from different countries.
The neighbor is a four-year-old French boy who goes to his neighbors - the “Larusses”. They love guests, always treat them, sing amazing songs and cook an equally amazing soup - borscht. Russian Pere Noel, although he lives far in the North, brings gifts to all children, even those who have not polished their shoes well.
A surprisingly bright, albeit sad, story about the friendship of a Russian emigrant and a little Frenchman Paul, in which everyone who reads it carefully - both a child and an adult - will find something of their own.
Sergei Durylin. "The Fourth Magus"
Remember the hero of “War and Peace” Platon Korotaev, who broadcast that same people’s truth? Perhaps from the point of view of science it has no basis, but it contains an important deep meaning. In Durylin’s story, the old nanny claims that four wise men came to worship Christ. The last was a “Russian man, a peasant,” who got lost in the forest, “and the gift that he brought to God was taken away from him evil people».
“‒ Nanny, what will he bring, the fourth one, to the Christ Child if he comes from the forest?
“And some bread, dear,” answered the old woman. “What does a Russian peasant have besides bread?”
A story that is amazing in its depth and poetry, telling with great respect and love about the piety of the old nanny, about love for the born Infant of God.
James Herriot. "Christmas Kitten"
A short story by a famous veterinarian writer about an incident that happened on Christmas Day. Harriot was not only a great specialist in his field, but also a believer. He, like no one else, felt God’s love not only for people, but also for “lesser brothers.”
This is a sad and bright story about love - real, active, which animals can show. About an amazingly smart and selfless cat who managed to save and bring her baby to a person before she passed away.
Harriot masterfully combines in his story the atmosphere of a holiday, subtle and ironic observations of animals and their owners, and deep reflections on life, on the connection between everyday and spiritual events.
Yuletide and Christmas stories in Russian literature of the 18th-21st centuries.
Wonderful winter holidays have long included, and probably still include, ancient folk Christmastide (pagan in origin), the church holiday of the Nativity of Christ, and the secular holiday of the New Year.
Literature has always been a reflection of the life of the people and society, and the mysterious Christmas theme is simply a treasure trove of fantastic stories that convey the world of the wonderful and otherworldly, always bewitching and attracting the average reader.
Christmastide, in the succinct expression of A. Shakhovsky, is “evenings of national fun”: fun, laughter, mischief are explained by a person’s desire to influence the future (in accordance with the proverb “as you begin, so you end” or with the modern one - “how you celebrate the New Year, That’s how you’ll get through it”).
It was believed that the more fun a person spends the beginning of the year, the more prosperous the year will be...
Artist A. Emelyanov "Christmastide"
However, where there is excessive laughter, fun, fervor, it is always restless and even somehow alarming... This is where an intriguing plot begins to develop: detective, fantastic or simply romantic... The plot is always dedicated to Holy Days - the time from Christmas to Epiphany .
In Russian literature, the Yuletide theme began to develop from the middle of the 18th century: at first there were anonymous comedies about games, Yuletide tales and stories. Their characteristic feature was the long-standing idea that it is during the Christmastide period that “ evil spirits"- devils, goblins, kikimoras, banniks, etc. This emphasizes the hostility and danger of Christmas time...
Fortune-telling, caroling by mummers, and dish songs became widespread among the people. Meanwhile, Orthodox Church has long condemned such behavior as sinful. The decree of Patriarch Joachim of 1684, prohibiting Yuletide “possessions,” says that they lead a person into “soul-destructive sin.” Yuletide games, fortune-telling and mummery (“mask-playing”, putting on “animal-like mugs”) have always been condemned by the Church.
Subsequently, a need arose for folk Christmas tales and stories to be processed literary. Writers, poets, ethnographers and folklorists began to study these, in particular M.D. Chulkov, who published throughout 1769. humor magazine“Both this and that,” and F.D. Nefedov, from the end of the 19th century. who published magazines with Christmas themes, and, of course, V.A. Zhukovsky, who created the most popular Russian ballad “Svetlana”, which is based on folk story about the heroine who tells fortunes at Christmas time...
Many poets of the 19th century also turned to the theme of Christmas: A. Pushkin (“Fortune telling and Tatyana’s Dream” (excerpt from the novel “Eugene Onegin”), A. Pleshcheev (“The Legend of the Child Christ”), Y. Polonsky (“Yolka” ), A. Fet (“Fortune telling”), etc.
Gradually, during the development of romanticism, the Christmas story attracts the whole world of the miraculous. Many stories are based on the miracle of Bethlehem, and this is the transformation of just a Christmas story into a Christmas story...
The Christmas story in Russian literature, unlike Western literature, appeared only in the 40s. XIX century This is explained by the special role of the holiday, which is different from Europe.
Christmas Day is a great Christian holiday, second in importance after Easter.
For a long time in Russia, the world celebrated Christmastide, and only the Church celebrated the Nativity of Christ.
In the West Christian tradition much earlier and more closely intertwined with paganism, in particular this happened with the custom of decorating and lighting a Christmas tree for Christmas. The ancient pagan rite of veneration of the tree turned into a Christian custom. The Christmas tree has become a symbol Divine Child. The Christmas tree entered Russia late and took root slowly, like any Western innovation.
WITH mid-19th V. The appearance of the first stories is also associated with Christmas themes. Earlier texts, such as “The Night Before Christmas” by N.V. Gogol, are not indicative; firstly, Gogol’s story depicts Christmastide in Ukraine, where the celebration and experience of Christmas was closer to the Western one, and secondly, Gogol, the pagan element (“devilishness”) prevails over the Christian.
Another thing is “Night at Christmas” by the Moscow writer and actor K. Baranov, published in 1834. This is really a Christmas story: the leading motive in it is mercy and sympathy for the child - a typical motive of the Christmas story.
The massive appearance of such texts was observed after the Christmas stories of Charles Dickens from the early 1840s were translated into Russian. - “A Christmas Carol”, “Bells”, “Cricket on the Stove”, and later others.
These stories were a huge success among Russian readers and gave rise to many imitations and variations. One of the first writers to turn to the Dickenian tradition was D.V. Grigorovich, who published the story “Winter Evening” in 1853.
“The Lord of the Fleas” and “The Nutcracker” by Hoffmann and some of Andersen’s fairy tales, especially “The Christmas Tree” and “The Little Match Girl,” played an important role in the emergence of Russian Christmas prose.
Plot the last fairy tale used by F.M. Dostoevsky in the story “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree”, and later by V. Nemirovich-Danchenko in the story “Stupid Fedka”.
The death of a child on Christmas night is an element of phantasmagoria and a too terrible event, emphasizing the crime of all humanity against children...
But from a Christian point of view, little heroes acquire true happiness not on earth, but in Heaven: they become angels and end up on the Christmas tree of Christ Himself. Actually, a miracle occurs: the miracle of Bethlehem repeatedly affects the destinies of people...
Later, Christmas and Yuletide stories were written by almost all major prose writers from the 19th century. XX centuries Yuletide and Christmas stories could be funny and sad, funny and scary, they could end with a wedding or the death of heroes, reconciliation or a quarrel.
But with all the diversity of their plots, they all had something in common - something that was in harmony with the festive mood of the reader, sometimes sentimental, sometimes uncontrollably cheerful, invariably causing a response in the hearts.
Each such story was based on “a small event that had a very festive character” (N.S. Leskov), which made it possible to give them a general subtitle. The terms “Christmas story” and “Yuletide story” were, for the most part, used as synonyms: in texts under the heading “Yuletide story” motifs associated with the holiday of Christmas could predominate, and the subtitle “Christmas story” did not at all imply the absence of folk motifs in the text Christmas time...
The best examples of the genre were created by N.S. Leskov. In 1886, the writer wrote a whole cycle of “Yuletide Stories.”
In the story “The Pearl Necklace” he reflects on the genre: “A Christmas story is absolutely required to be timed to coincide with the events of the Christmas Eve - from Christmas to Epiphany, to be somewhat fantastic, to have some kind of moral... and, finally - so that it certainly ends cheerfully.
There are few such events in life, and therefore the author is forced to invent himself and compose a plot suitable for the program.”
Both “Vanka” and “On Christmastide” by A.P. Chekhov are unique Yuletide stories.
In n. XX century, with the development of modernism in literature, parodies of the Yuletide genre and humorous recommendations on how to write Yuletide stories began to appear.
So, for example, in the newspaper “Rech” in 1909, O.L.D”or (Orsher I.) published the following guide for young writers:
“Any person with hands, two kopecks for paper, pen and ink and no talent can write a Christmas story.
You just need to adhere to the well-known system and firmly remember the following rules:
1) Without pig, goose, Christmas tree and good man The Christmas story is not valid.
2) The words “manger”, “star” and “love” should be repeated at least ten, but not more than two to three thousand times.
3) The ringing of bells, tenderness and repentance should be at the end of the story, and not at the beginning of it.
Everything else doesn’t matter.”
The parodies indicated that the Yuletide genre had exhausted its possibilities. Of course, one cannot help but note the interest in the spiritual sphere among the intelligentsia of that time.
But the Yuletide story moves away from its traditional norms. Sometimes, as, for example, in V. Bryusov’s story “The Child and the Madman,” it provides an opportunity to depict mentally extreme situations: the miracle of Bethlehem as an unconditional reality in the story is perceived only by the child and the mentally ill Semyon.
In other cases, Christmas works are based on medieval and apocryphal texts, in which religious moods and feelings are especially intensively reproduced (the contribution of A.M. Remizov is important here).
Sometimes, by reproducing the historical setting, the Yuletide plot is given a special flavor (as, for example, in the story by S. Auslander “Christmastide in Old Petersburg”), sometimes the story gravitates towards an action-packed psychological novel.
The traditions of the Christmas story were especially honored by A. Kuprin, creating excellent examples of the genre - stories about faith, goodness and mercy “The Poor Prince” and “The Wonderful Doctor”, as well as writers from Russia abroad I. A. Bunin (“Epiphany Night”, etc.) , I.S. Shmelev (“Christmas”, etc.) and V. Nikiforov-Volgin (“Silver Blizzard”, etc.).
In many Christmas stories, the theme of childhood is the main one. This theme is developed by the statesman and Christian thinker K. Pobedonostsev in his essay “Christmas”: “The Nativity of Christ and Holy Easter are holidays primarily for children, and in them the power of Christ’s words seems to be fulfilled:
Unless you are like children, you cannot enter into the kingdom of God. Other holidays are not so accessible to children’s understanding...”
“A quiet night over the Palestinian fields, a secluded den, a manger. Surrounded by those domestic animals that are familiar to the child from the first impressions of memory - in the manger the entwined Baby and above Him the meek, loving Mother with a thoughtful gaze and a clear smile of maternal happiness - three magnificent kings following a star to a wretched den with gifts - and in the distance on the field there are shepherds in the middle of their flock, listening to the joyful news of the Angel and the mysterious choir of the Heavenly Forces.
Then the villain Herod, pursuing the innocent Child; the massacre of the infants in Bethlehem, then the journey of the holy family to Egypt - how much life and action there is in all this, how much interest for a child!”
And not only for a child... Holy days are such an amazing time when everyone becomes children: simple, sincere, open, kind and loving to everyone.
Later, and not surprisingly, the Christmas story was “revolutionarily” transformed into a New Year’s story. New Year as a holiday replaces Christmas, and the kind Father Frost comes to replace Christ the Child...
But the state of awe and expectation of a miracle is also present in the “new” stories. “Christmas tree in Sokolniki”, “Three assassination attempts on V.I. Lenin” by V.D. Bonch-Bruevich, “Chuk and Gek” by A. Gaidar are some of the best Soviet idylls. There is also no doubt that E. Ryazanov’s films “Carnival Night” and “The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath” are oriented towards this tradition...