Franz Kafka

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Wednesday, December 7, 2016

A short story by Fyodor Dostoyevsky: "The Heavenly Christmas Tree," 1876. Full Text in English

 
Picture of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, in 1876
 
 

The Heavenly Christmas Tree

I am a novelist, and I suppose I have made up this story. I write "I
suppose," though I know for a fact that I have made it up, but yet I keep
fancying that it must have happened somewhere at some time, that it must
have happened on Christmas Eve in some great town in a time of terrible
frost.

I have a vision of a boy, a little boy, six years old or even younger. This
boy woke up that morning in a cold damp cellar. He was dressed in a sort of
little dressing-gown and was shivering with cold. There was a cloud of
white steam from his breath, and sitting on a box in the corner, he blew
the steam out of his mouth and amused himself in his dullness watching it
float away. But he was terribly hungry. Several times that morning he went
up to the plank bed where his sick mother was lying on a mattress as thin
as a pancake, with some sort of bundle under her head for a pillow. How had
she come here? She must have come with her boy from some other town and
suddenly fallen ill. The landlady who let the "corners" had been taken two
days before to the police station, the lodgers were out and about as the
holiday was so near, and the only one left had been lying for the last
twenty-four hours dead drunk, not having waited for Christmas. In another
corner of the room a wretched old woman of eighty, who had once been a
children's nurse but was now left to die friendless, was moaning and
groaning with rheumatism, scolding and grumbling at the boy so that he was
afraid to go near her corner. He had got a drink of water in the outer
room, but could not find a crust anywhere, and had been on the point of
waking his mother a dozen times. He felt frightened at last in the
darkness: it had long been dusk, but no light was kindled. Touching his
mother's face, he was surprised that she did not move at all, and that she
was as cold as the wall. "It is very cold here," he thought. He stood a
little, unconsciously letting his hands rest on the dead woman's shoulders,
then he breathed on his fingers to warm them, and then quietly fumbling for
his cap on the bed, he went out of the cellar. He would have gone earlier,
but was afraid of the big dog which had been howling all day at the
neighbour's door at the top of the stairs. But the dog was not there now,
and he went out into the street.

Mercy on us, what a town! He had never seen anything like it before. In the
town from which he had come, it was always such black darkness at night.
There was one lamp for the whole street, the little, low-pitched, wooden
houses were closed up with shutters, there was no one to be seen in the
street after dusk, all the people shut themselves up in their houses, and
there was nothing but the howling of packs of dogs, hundreds and thousands
of them barking and howling all night. But there it was so warm and he was
given food, while here--oh, dear, if he only had something to eat! And what
a noise and rattle here, what light and what people, horses and carriages,
and what a frost! The frozen steam hung in clouds over the horses, over
their warmly breathing mouths; their hoofs clanged against the stones
through the powdery snow, and every one pushed so, and--oh, dear, how he
longed for some morsel to eat, and how wretched he suddenly felt. A
policeman walked by and turned away to avoid seeing the boy.

Here was another street--oh, what a wide one, here he would be run over for
certain; how everyone was shouting, racing and driving along, and the
light, the light! And what was this? A huge glass window, and through the
window a tree reaching up to the ceiling; it was a fir tree, and on it were
ever so many lights, gold papers and apples and little dolls and horses;
and there were children clean and dressed in their best running about the
room, laughing and playing and eating and drinking something. And then a
little girl began dancing with one of the boys, what a pretty little girl!
And he could hear the music through the window. The boy looked and wondered
and laughed, though his toes were aching with the cold and his fingers were
red and stiff so that it hurt him to move them. And all at once the boy
remembered how his toes and fingers hurt him, and began crying, and ran on;
and again through another window-pane he saw another Christmas tree, and on
a table cakes of all sorts--almond cakes, red cakes and yellow cakes, and
three grand young ladies were sitting there, and they gave the cakes to any
one who went up to them, and the door kept opening, lots of gentlemen and
ladies went in from the street. The boy crept up, suddenly opened the door
and went in. Oh, how they shouted at him and waved him back! One lady went
up to him hurriedly and slipped a kopeck into his hand, and with her own
hands opened the door into the street for him! How frightened he was. And
the kopeck rolled away and clinked upon the steps; he could not bend his
red fingers to hold it tight. The boy ran away and went on, where he did
not know. He was ready to cry again but he was afraid, and ran on and on
and blew his fingers. And he was miserable because he felt suddenly so
lonely and terrified, and all at once, mercy on us! What was this again?
People were standing in a crowd admiring. Behind a glass window there were
three little dolls, dressed in red and green dresses, and exactly, exactly
as though they were alive. One was a little old man sitting and playing a
big violin, the two others were standing close by and playing little
violins and nodding in time, and looking at one another, and their lips
moved, they were speaking, actually speaking, only one couldn't hear
through the glass. And at first the boy thought they were alive, and when
he grasped that they were dolls he laughed. He had never seen such dolls
before, and had no idea there were such dolls! And he wanted to cry, but
he felt amused, amused by the dolls. All at once he fancied that some one
caught at his smock behind: a wicked big boy was standing beside him and
suddenly hit him on the head, snatched off his cap and tripped him up. The
boy fell down on the ground, at once there was a shout, he was numb with
fright, he jumped up and ran away. He ran, and not knowing where he was
going, ran in at the gate of some one's courtyard, and sat down behind a
stack of wood: "They won't find me here, besides it's dark!"

He sat huddled up and was breathless from fright, and all at once, quite
suddenly, he felt so happy: his hands and feet suddenly left off aching and
grew so warm, as warm as though he were on a stove; then he shivered all
over, then he gave a start, why, he must have been asleep. How nice to have
a sleep here! "I'll sit here a little and go and look at the dolls again,"
said the boy, and smiled thinking of them. "Just as though they were
alive!..." And suddenly he heard his mother singing over him. "Mammy, I am
asleep; how nice it is to sleep here!"

"Come to my Christmas tree, little one," a soft voice suddenly whispered
over his head.

He thought that this was still his mother, but no, it was not she. Who it
was calling him, he could not see, but some one bent over and embraced him
in the darkness; and he stretched out his hands to him, and ... and all at
once--oh, what a bright light! Oh, what a Christmas tree! And yet it was
not a fir tree, he had never seen a tree like that! Where was he now?
Everything was bright and shining, and all round him were dolls; but no,
they were not dolls, they were little boys and girls, only so bright and
shining. They all came flying round him, they all kissed him, took him and
carried him along with them, and he was flying himself, and he saw that his
mother was looking at him and laughing joyfully. "Mammy, Mammy; oh, how
nice it is here, Mammy!" And again he kissed the children and wanted to
tell them at once of those dolls in the shop window. "Who are you, boys?
Who are you, girls?" he asked, laughing and admiring them.

"This is Christ's Christmas tree," they answered. "Christ always has a
Christmas tree on this day, for the little children who have no tree of
their own...." And he found out that all these little boys and girls were
children just like himself; that some had been frozen in the baskets in
which they had as babies been laid on the doorsteps of well-to-do
Petersburg people, others had been boarded out with Finnish women by the
Foundling and had been suffocated, others had died at their starved
mother's breasts (in the Samara famine), others had died in the third-class
railway carriages from the foul air; and yet they were all here, they were
all like angels about Christ, and He was in the midst of them and held out
His hands to them and blessed them and their sinful mothers.... And the
mothers of these children stood on one side weeping; each one knew her boy
or girl, and the children flew up to them and kissed them and wiped away
their tears with their little hands, and begged them not to weep because
they were so happy.

And down below in the morning the porter found the little dead body of the
frozen child on the woodstack; they sought out his mother too.... She had
died before him. They met before the Lord God in heaven.

Why have I made up such a story, so out of keeping with an ordinary diary,
and a writer's above all? And I promised two stories dealing with real
events! But that is just it, I keep fancying that all this may have
happened really--that is, what took place in the cellar and on the
woodstack; but as for Christ's Christmas tree, I cannot tell you whether
that could have happened or not.

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