The best Christmas stories. Alexander Kuprin - Christmas stories Christmas tales of Russian writers

What a Christmas night it was! Dozens more years will pass, thousands of faces, meetings and impressions will flash by, they will not leave a trace, but she will still be before me in the moonlight, in the bizarre frame of the Balkan peaks, where it seemed that we were all so close to God and His meek stars ...

As I remember now: we were lying in a layer - we were so tired that we didn’t even want to move close to the fire.

The sergeant-major lay down last. He had to indicate the places of the whole company, check the soldiers, take orders from the commander. It was already an old soldier, remaining for a second term. The war approached - it seemed to him ashamed to leave it. He belonged to those who have a warm heart beating under a cold exterior. Eyebrows hung severely. And you can’t make out the eyes, but look at them - the coldest soldier will trustfully go straight to him with his grief. Kind, kind, they both shone and caressed.

He lay down, stretched ... "Well, thank God, now for the sake of Christmas, you can rest!" He turned to the fire, took out his pipe, lit it. "Now until dawn - peace ..."

And suddenly we both shuddered. A dog barked close by. Desperately, as if calling for help. We were not up to her. We tried not to hear. But how was it to be done when the barking became closer and more deafening. The dog apparently ran along the entire line of fires, not stopping anywhere.

We were already warmed by a fire, my eyes were closed, and for no reason at all I even found myself at home at a large tea table, I must have started to fall asleep, when suddenly I heard barking just above my ears.

She ran up to me - and suddenly rushed away. And she even grumbled. I understood that I did not justify her trust ... I stuck my head in the sergeant major, to his very head; he beckoned her. She poked his callused hand with her cold nose and suddenly squealed and whimpered, as if complaining ... “It’s not without reason! the soldier burst out. “A smart dog... He has something to do with me!...” As if delighted that they understood her, the dog let go of her overcoat and barked joyfully, and there again behind the floor: let’s go, let’s go quickly!

– Are you going? I asked the sergeant major.

- So, it is necessary! The dog always knows what he needs... Hey, Barsukov, let's go just in case.

The dog was already running ahead and only occasionally looked back.

... I must have been sleeping for a long time, because in the last moments of consciousness in my memory somehow remained - the moon is above me at a height; and when I rose from the sudden noise, she was already behind, and the solemn depth of the sky was all sparkling with stars. “Put it, put it carefully! - the order of the sergeant major was heard. “Closer to the fire…”

I went. On the ground near the fire lay either a bundle, or a bundle, reminiscent of the shape of a child's body. They began to unravel it, and the sergeant-major told that the dog had led them to the covered mountainside. There lay a frozen woman.

She carefully held some kind of treasure at her very chest, with which it was most difficult for the poor "refugee", as they were then called, to part, or what she wanted at all costs, even at the cost of her own life, to preserve and take away from death ... The unfortunate woman removed everything from herself in order to save the last spark of life, the last warmth, for another being.

"Baby? soldiers crowded. “There is a baby! .. The Lord sent for Christmas ... This, brothers, is fortunate.”

I touched his cheeks - they turned out to be soft, warm ... His eyes closed blissfully from under the sheepskin in spite of all this situation - fighting fires, the frosty Balkan night, guns stacked in goats and dully shining with bayonets to the distant, dozens of gorges repeated shot. In front of us was the dead, dead face of a child, with its serenity alone making sense of this whole war, all this extermination ...

Barsukov was about to chew some biscuit with sugar, which ended up in someone's thrifty soldier's pocket, but the old sergeant-major stopped him:

- Sisters of mercy below. They have for the baby and milk there. Allow me to leave, your honor.

The captain allowed and even wrote a letter that the company takes the find into its care.

The dog really liked it by the fire, she even stretched out her paws and turned her belly to the sky. But as soon as the sergeant-major started off, she threw the fire without regret and, poking her muzzle into Barsukov's hand, rushed after him with all her might. The old soldier carried the child carefully under his greatcoat. I knew what a terrible path we had traveled, and with involuntary horror I thought about what awaited him: almost sheer slopes, slippery, icy slopes, paths barely holding on to the edges of the cliff ... By morning he would be downstairs, and there - he handed over the child and up again, where the company will already form up and begin its tedious movement into the valley. I hinted at this to Barsukov, but he replied: “And God?” - "What?" I didn't understand right away.

- And God, I say? .. He will allow something? ..

And God really helped the old man ... The next day he said: “It was as if wings carried me. Where one was terrified during the day, and then descended into the fog, I don’t see anything, but my legs go by themselves, and the child never screamed! »

But the dog did not do at all what the sisters expected. She stayed and in the first days watched closely, keeping her eyes on the child and on them, as if she wanted to make sure whether he would be well and whether they deserved her canine trust. And after making sure that the child would be fine even without it, the dog left the hospital and appeared in front of us on one of the passes. Having greeted first the captain, then the sergeant major and Barsukov, she placed herself on the right flank near the sergeant major, and since then this has been her constant place.

The soldiers fell in love with her and nicknamed her "company Arapka", although she had no resemblance to the Arapka. She was covered with light red hair, and her head seemed completely white. Nevertheless, having decided that it was not worth paying attention to the little things, she began to respond very willingly to the name "Arapki". Arapka so Arapka. Doesn't matter, as long as you have good people to deal with.

Thanks to this wonderful dog, many lives have been saved. She scoured the whole field after the fights and with a loud staccato bark denoted those who could still benefit from our help. She did not stop over the dead. True canine instinct told her that here, under the swollen clods of dirt, her heart was still beating. She eagerly reached out to the wounded with her crooked paws and, raising her voice, ran to the others.

“You really should have been given a medal,” the soldiers caressed her.

But animals, even the most noble ones, are, unfortunately, given medals for the breed, and not for feats of mercy. We limited ourselves to ordering her a collar with the inscription: “For Shipka and Huskia - to a faithful comrade” ...

Many years have passed since then. I rode somehow along the Zadonsk freedom. The Russian expanse enveloped me from everywhere with its gentle greenery, the mighty breath of boundless distances, the elusive tenderness that breaks through its visible despondency like a picturesque source. Manage to eavesdrop on it, find it, drink its resurrection water, and the soul will be alive, and the darkness will dissipate, and there will be no room for doubt, and the heart, like a flower, will open to warmth and light ... And evil will pass away, and good will remain forever and ever.

It was getting dark... My coachman finally reached the village and stopped at the inn. I could not sit in a stuffy room full of annoying flies, and I went out into the street. Far away is the porch. On it the dog stretched out - decrepit, decrepit ... stubby. Approached. God! An old comrade read on the collar: “For Shipka and Huskia ...” Arapka, dear! But she didn't recognize me. I'm in a hut: my grandfather is sitting on a bench, the small fry are moving around. "Father, Sergei Efimovich, is that you?" I shouted. The old sergeant jumped up - he recognized at once. What did we talk about, who cares? Ours is dear to us, and it’s even a shame to shout about it to the whole world, go ... We called the Arapka - she barely crawled and lay down at the feet of the owner. “It’s time for you and me to die, company comrade,” the old man stroked her, “we’ve lived quite enough at rest.” The dog looked up at him with fading eyes and squealed: "It's time, oh, it's high time."

- Well, what happened to the child, you know?

- She came! And grandfather smiled happily. - Found me, old man ...

- Yes! The lady at all. And she's all good. She caressed me - brought gifts. She kissed the arapka on the very face. She asked me for it. “With us,” he says, “they will groom her ...” Well, yes, we can’t part with her. And she will die of longing.

“Did Arapka recognize her?”

- Well, where ... She was a lump then ... a girl ... Eh, brother Arapka, it's time for you and me to eternal peace. We lived, it will be ... Huh?

The arab sighed.

Alexander Kruglov
(1853–1915 )
Naive people
From memories

Noisy, painfully groaning blizzard; with wet snow it closes up the narrow window of my small, gloomy room.

I am alone. It's quiet in my room. Only the clock, with its measured, monotonous thud, breaks that deathly silence, from which one often feels terribly in the heart of a lonely person.

My God, how tired you get during the day from this unceasing rumble, the hustle and bustle of metropolitan life, from brilliant pompous phrases, insincere condolences, senseless questions and, most of all, from these vulgar, ambiguous smiles! The nerves are tormented to the point that all these kind, smiling physiognomies, these naive, carefree happy people, who, due to “lightness of heart”, are not aware that they torment their friends with excessive participation worse than any enemy even become disgusting and hateful!

Thank God, I am alone again, in my gloomy kennel, among portraits dear to me, among true friends - books over which I once wept a lot, which made my heart beat as it is tired and has forgotten how to beat now.

How many precious notes are sacredly kept by these unchanging friends of mine, who have never sworn to anything, but on the other hand have not shamefully violated their vows. And how many oaths and assurances are thrown into the air, worse - onto the pavement, under the feet of the scurrying crowd! How many hands that once held out their hugs to you now respond only with a cold shake, maybe even with a mockery point at you to their new friends, who have always been and will always be your sworn enemies. And how many loved ones had to be lost, one way or another ... doesn't it matter to the heart? Here it is, this broken portrait. Once upon a time... those memories again! But why, the past, do you rise again in my imagination now, on this rainy December night? Why are you embarrassing me, disturbing my peace with the ghosts of what has passed and is irretrievable? .. Irrevocable! This consciousness hurts to tears, scary to the point of despair!

But the smiling ghost does not disappear, does not go away. It is as if he is enjoying the torment, he wants the tears coming to his throat to pour onto the pages of an old notebook, so that blood will gush from the etched wound and the muffled sorrow, silently lurking in his heart, would burst out with convulsive sobs.

What's left of the past? Terrible to answer! Both scary and painful. Once believed, hoped - but what to believe now? What to hope for? What to be proud of? Whether to be proud that you have hands to work for yourself; head to think about yourself; heart to suffer, longing for the past?

Going forward aimlessly, thoughtlessly; you walk, and when, tired, you stop for a moment's rest, an obsessive thought stirs in your head, and your heart aches from a painful desire: “Ah, if only you could fall in love! If only there was someone to love!” But no! no one can! What has been shattered can no longer be restored.

And the blizzard makes noise and with a painful groan whips wet snow through the window.

Oh, it is not for nothing that the smiling ghost of the past stands before me so persistently! No wonder a bright and cute image emerges again! December night! Just as blizzard, just as stormy was that December night on which this portrait crashed, glued together afterwards and now standing again on my desk. But not only one portrait was shattered on this rainy December night, those dreams, those hopes that arose in the heart on one clear April morning were shattered along with it.

At the beginning of November I received a telegram from Ensk about my mother's illness. Throwing all the cases, I flew with the first train to my homeland. I found my mother already dead. The minute I walked through the door, they put it on the table.

Both my sisters were heartbroken, which quite unexpectedly befell us. And at the request of the sisters, and at the request of the affairs left unfinished after my mother, I decided to live in Ensk until mid-December. If not for Zhenya, I might have stayed for Christmas; but I was attracted to her, and on December 15 or 16 I left for Petersburg.

Right from the station I drove to the Likhachevs.

Nobody was home.

– Where are they? I asked.

- Yes, they left for Livadia. Whole company!

- And Evgenia Alexandrovna?

- And one-sir.

- What is she? Healthy?

- Nothing, sir, such funny ones; everyone just remembers you.

I ordered to bow and left. The next day, early in the morning, a messenger came to me with a letter. It was from Zhenya. She convincingly asked to come to the Likhachevs for dinner. “Definitely,” she emphasized.

I came.

She happily greeted me.

- Finally! Finally! Was it possible to stay that long? We all here, especially me, miss you,” she said.

"I don't think so," I said, smiling slightly. - In "Livadia" ...

- Oh, how fun it was there, dear Sergei Ivanovich! So funny! Don't you get angry? No? Say no, - she suddenly said, somehow timidly, quietly.

- What's happened?

I'm going to the masquerade tomorrow. What a suit! I... no, I won't tell you now. Will you be with us tomorrow?

- No, I will not. I'll be busy all evening tomorrow.

- Well, I'll drop by before the masquerade. Can? Excuse me?

- Fine. But who are you traveling with? With Metelev?

- No no! We are alone, with Pavel Ivanovich. But Sergei Vasilyevich will. And you know what else?

- No, I won't. So tomorrow! Yes? Can?

- Cute! Good!..

A girl came in and called us to dinner.

I was sitting in my little room, in the same one where I sit now, small and gloomy, and hastily writing a newspaper feuilleton, when suddenly there was a strong bell in the hallway and Zhenya's silvery voice was heard: “At home? one?"

- At home, please! the servant answered.

The door opened with a bang, and Gretchen flew into the room! Yes, Gretchen, the real Goethe Gretchen!

I stood up to meet her, took her by the hand and for a long time could not take my eyes off this sweet graceful figure, from this child dear to me!

Oh, how beautiful she was that evening! She was amazingly good! I have never seen her like this. Her face was all beaming, some kind of special play was visible in every feature, in every fiber of her face. And the eyes, those blue, lovely eyes shone, shone...

- Isn't it true that I'm good? Zhenya suddenly said, coming up to me and hugging me.

My vision blurred as she wrapped her arms tightly around me and brought her face close, close to me. It's either now or never, flashed through my mind.

“Would you like to be found like this?” To please you? I said semiconsciously.

“Yes,” she murmured. - However, no! she suddenly realized. - For what? You love me...and more...

She suddenly almost completely clung to me and hung on my neck.

- My good Sergei Ivanovich, do you know what I want to tell you? .. Say?

- What's happened? - I could hardly utter from the excitement that seized me. - Tell!

- You're my friend, right? You will rejoice for me, for your Zhenya, won't you?

My heart contracted with pain, as if from a premonition of something unkind.

- What's happened? – was all I could say.

– I love him, my dear!.. I love him… I have long wanted to tell you… yes… I couldn’t!.. And now… we explained yesterday… he loves him too! Are you happy?

She raised her head, threw it back a little, and fixed her eyes on me, shining with tears of happiness and bliss.

I couldn't speak right away. Tears, too, but completely different ones came up to the throat. I myself do not know where my tears came from; but I mastered myself and did not betray that torment, from which my heart almost broke.

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to get the phrase right. - Of course, I'm very glad ... your happiness is my happiness.

“There can be no selfishness in love,” I remembered.

- When is the wedding? Or still unknown?

- As soon as possible. He wanted me to tell you first, and if you don't want...

“Why am I here, Zhenya? You love, you are loved, you are both happy ... What am I? I can only rejoice for you, and I rejoice; and arrange a wedding for a short time. Now after Christmas! I have, Zhenya, your capital of twenty thousand, but I will give you a full report.

- Oh, what are you! Why is this! Don't we... don't I believe you? Don't, don't! Complete, my good!

And she suddenly hugged me again and kissed me. The clock struck ten.

“Ah,” Zhenya realized, “it’s already ten; I have to leave at eleven. Farewell, goodbye! So you're happy for me, right?

- Glad, glad!

- Good!

She shook my hand warmly and turned to leave, but her sleeve brushed against her little portrait, which was on my desk, and dropped it. The frame shattered and the glass shattered.

- Oh, what have I done! - she exclaimed. - And how bad it is! she added suddenly.

On the contrary, this is a wonderful sign! I remarked, raising the portrait. - When they beat something on holidays, it's very good; But you have a holiday!

She smiled warmly and stormed out of the room.

And I was left alone. Now I could no longer cry, no, I sank into the chair in which I had sat earlier at work, and so I sat in it until dawn.

When I went out the next day, I was hardly recognizable.

- Yes, what about you? You are right now from the cemetery, where you left the closest person, - someone asked me.

“But isn’t that really the case? I thought. Didn't I bury her? Haven't I buried my heart...and my first love? All this is dead. And although she is still alive, happy, she has already died for me ... "

* * *

And now seven years have passed since that December night. I don’t know where she, my Gretchen, is now, happy or not?.. But I… I fulfilled my vow!.. If you love, you will help her happiness and for her sake give up yours!

I refused. I am alone now in this gloomy room. And she will never enter it again, her voice will not be heard ... What a dark room! But she wouldn't be like that if... if Gretchen were here with me. My life would not have been so hopeless, boring and languishing if her wonderful blue eyes had shone for me and her sweet, clear smile would have encouraged me ... But anyway ...

Nikolai Leskov
(1831–1895 )
Deception

The fig tree brushes aside its navels from the wind is great.

Ankh. VI, 13

Chapter first

Just before Christmas, we were driving south and, sitting in the carriage, we discussed those modern questions that provide a lot of material for conversation and at the same time require a speedy solution. They talked about the weakness of Russian characters, about the lack of firmness in some government bodies, about classicism and about the Jews. Most of all, care was taken to strengthen the power and expend the Jews, if it was impossible to correct them and bring them, at least, at least to a certain height of our own moral level. The matter, however, did not turn out happily: none of us saw any means to dispose of power or to achieve that all those born in the Jews would again enter the wombs and be born again with completely different natures.

- And in the thing itself - how to do it?

- You won't do it.

And we sadly bowed our heads.

We had a good company - people are modest and, no doubt, solid.

The most remarkable person among the passengers, in all fairness, had to be considered one retired military man. It was an old man of athletic build. His rank was unknown, because of all the military ammunition he had survived one cap, and everything else was replaced by things of a civilian publication. The old man was white-haired, like Nestor, and strong-muscled, like Sampson, whom Delilah had not yet cut. The large features of his swarthy face were dominated by a firm and decisive expression and determination. Without any doubt, it was a positive character and, moreover, a convinced practitioner. Such people are not nonsense in our time, and in no other time are they nonsense.

The elder did everything intelligently, distinctly, and with consideration; he entered the car before everyone else and therefore chose the best place for himself, to which he skillfully added two more neighboring places and firmly held them behind him by means of a workshop, obviously premeditated, laying out his travel items. He had three very large pillows with him. These pillows in themselves already constituted good baggage for one person, but they were so well garnished as if each of them belonged to a separate passenger: one of the pillows was in a blue calico with yellow forget-me-nots, such travelers from the rural clergy are most often found ; the other is in red calico, which is in great use among the merchants, and the third is in thick striped teak, this is a real staff captain's. The passenger, obviously, was not looking for an ensemble, but was looking for something more essential - namely, adaptability to other much more serious and essential goals.

Three mismatched pillows could deceive anyone that the places they occupied belonged to three different persons, and this was all that the prudent traveler needed.

Besides, the cushions, expertly fixed, had more than one simple name, which one could give them at first glance. The striped pillow was actually a suitcase and a cellar, and for this reason it enjoyed the attention of its owner that took precedence over others. He placed her vis-à-vis in front of him, and as soon as the train pulled away from the barn, he immediately lightened and loosened her, unbuttoning the white bone buttons at her pillowcase. From the spacious hole that had now formed, he began to take out bundles of various sizes, neatly and deftly wrapped, in which there were cheese, caviar, sausage, saiki, Antonov apples and Rzhev marshmallow. Most cheerfully, a crystal flask looked out into the light, in which there was a surprisingly pleasant purple liquid with the famous old inscription: "The monks accept it." The thick amethyst color of the liquid was excellent, and the taste probably matched the purity and pleasantness of the color. Connoisseurs of the matter assure that this never diverges from one another.

Sometimes I feel like I'm an overly picky reader. Then I remember that there are people who buy books and throw them around the house just to create the necessary atmosphere. And then I calm down.
In this case, I was not lucky with the book. Since I did not find any reviews about it, and the title beckoned me to create a festive mood on the eve of the holidays, I had to buy myself several books from the series blindly.
The problem is that what I found inside the book can hardly be called a "Christmas present" at all. But, as they say, fly in the ointment should be everywhere, so why not eat it now?
Frankly, one of the factors that made me pay close attention to this series was that the content was approved by the ROC publishing house. The point here is not religiosity, but the fact that this fact warmed up my imagination, drawing a whole bunch of good-natured (!) And instructive (!) Tales from all the beloved writers - compatriots, after reading which even the most skeptical readers will be able to believe in a miracle. But no, the miracle did not happen, because the content surprised me a lot in the first place by the fact that it does not promote Christian values ​​at all. For which, to be honest, I am somewhat offended, since I was set up for the exact opposite result. In order not to be unfounded, I will give specific examples.
The first (and probably the most inappropriate story in terms of content) is Leskov's Deception. He talks about how useless and inapplicable to real life the institution of marriage is in the opinion of military people. Say, earlier women were better and gave their love for collecting cornflowers in the field (I repeat, this should be taken literally!). It promotes ardent anti-Semitism and national intolerance (which is generally stupid, based on the concept of these books, as for me). And if the abundance of all kinds of devilry can still be explained by the fact that no one canceled the righteous instructions, and no one promised us content suitable for reading to children, then some moral aspects in Budischev’s “Blessed Sky” made me doubt that the editors approached the selection works for this edition deliberately.
The verdict is ambiguous: on the one hand, some of the stories are good, although they do not create a feeling of comfort and holiday. But on the other hand, this reading is purely adult, forcing literally on every page to think about the imperfection of the world and about stupid and cruel people. So this is my dilemma: should I continue to read books from this series (which have been languishing on the shelf, by the way, for a month) or is it better to give preference to something really magical and good that can restore the shaky balance between good and evil?)

Yuletide and Christmas stories in Russian literature of the 18th-21st centuries.

miraculous winter holidays have long included and, probably, still include, and old folk festivals(pagan in origin), and ecclesiastical feast of the Nativity, and mundane New Year's holiday. Literature has always been a reflection of the life of the people and society, and even the mysterious Christmas theme- just a storehouse of fantastic stories that convey the world of the wonderful and the other world, always bewitching and attracting the average reader.

Christmas time, according to the capacious expression of A. Shakhovsky, - "evenings of folk fun": fun, laughter, mischief are explained by a person’s desire to influence the future (in accordance with the proverb “as you started, so you finished” or with the modern one - “as you celebrate the New Year, so you will spend it”). It was believed that the more fun a person spends the beginning of the year, the more prosperous the year will be ...

However, where there is excessive laughter, fun, provocativeness, there is always restless and even somehow disturbing ... This is where an intriguing plot begins to develop: detective, fantastic or simply romantic ... The plot is always timed to holy days – time from Christmas to Epiphany.

In Russian literature, the Christmas theme begins to develop from the middle 18th century: at first it was anonymous comedies about merrymaking, Christmas tales and stories. Their characteristic feature was the old idea that it is during the Christmas season that “evil spirits” acquire the greatest activity - devils, goblin, kikimors, banniks, etc. This emphasizes the hostility and danger of the Christmas time ...

Divination, and caroling of mummers, and subservient songs were widely spread among the people. Meanwhile, Orthodox Church long time ago condemned such behavior is sinful. In the decree of Patriarch Joachim of 1684, which forbids Christmas "monsters", it is said that they lead a person into "soul-destructive sin." Christmas games, fortune-telling and masquerading (“Mask-people”, putting on “beast-like mugs”) have always been condemned by the Church.

Subsequently, there was a need for folk Christmas bylichki and stories to be literary processed. These began to be dealt with by writers, poets, ethnographers and folklorists, in particular M.D. Chulkov, which published during 1769 the humorous magazine "Both That and Sio", and F.D. Nefedov, since the end of the XIX century. publishing Christmas-themed magazines, and, of course, V.A. Zhukovsky who created the most popular Russian ballad "Svetlana", which is based on a folk story about a heroine fortune-telling at Christmas time ... Many poets also turned to the Christmas theme 19th century: A. Pushkin("Fortune-telling and Tatyana's dream"(excerpt from the novel "Eugene Onegin") A. Pleshcheev("The Legend of the Christ Child"), Ya. Polonsky ("Christmas tree"),A. Fet ("Divination") and etc.

Gradually, during the development of romanticism, the Christmas story attracts the whole world of the miraculous. Many of the stories are based on miracle of bethlehem, and this is the transformation of just a Christmas story into a Christmas story ... Christmas Story in Russian literature, in contrast to Western literature, only by the 40s. 19th century this is explained by the different from Europe, the special role of the holiday. Christmas day- a great Christian holiday, the second most important after Easter. For a long time in Russia Christmas time was celebrated all over the world, and only the Church celebrated the Nativity of Christ.

In the West, the Christian tradition was much earlier and more closely intertwined with the pagan one, in particular, this happened with the custom of decorating and lighting a Christmas tree for Christmas. The ancient pagan rite of honoring the tree has become a Christian custom. Christmas tree became a symbol of the Divine Child. The Christmas tree entered Russia late and took root slowly, like any Western innovation.

From the middle of the XIX century. the appearance of the first stories with a Christmas theme is also associated. Earlier texts such as "Christmas Eve"N.V. Gogol, are not indicative, firstly, Gogol's story depicts Christmas time in Ukraine, where the celebration and experience of Christmas was closer to the western one, and secondly, Gogol's pagan element ("devilry") prevails over the Christian one.

Another thing "Christmas Night" Moscow writer and actor K. Baranova, published in 1834. This is really a Christmas story: the motive of mercy and sympathy for the child, a typical motive of the Christmas story, turns out to be the leading one in it. The mass appearance of such texts is observed after they were translated into Russian. christmas stories Ch. Dickens early 1840s - " A Christmas Carol in Prose", "Bells", "Cricket on the Stove", and later others. These stories were a huge success with the Russian reader 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 in 1853 the story "Winter evening".

An important role in the emergence of Russian Christmas prose was played by "Lord of the Fleas" And "Nutcracker"Hoffmann and some fairy tales Andersen, especially "Christmas tree" And "Girl with matches". The plot of the last tale used F.M.Dostoevsky in the story "Christ's boy on the Christmas tree", and later 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 mankind in relation to children ... But from a Christian point of view, little heroes acquire true happiness not on earth, but in Heaven: they become angels and fall on the Christmas tree of Christ Himself. In fact, a miracle is happening: the miracle of Bethlehem repeatedly affects the fate of people ...

Later Christmas and Christmas stories almost all major prose writers have written To.XIX - n. XX centuries Christmas and Christmas stories could be funny and sad, funny and scary, they could end in a wedding or death of heroes, reconciliation or 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 unrestrainedly cheerful, invariably evoking a response in the hearts.

Each story was based on “a small event that has a completely Christmas character”(N.S. Leskov), which made it possible to give them a common subtitle. The terms "Christmas story" and "Christmas story", for the most part, were used as synonyms: in the texts under the heading "Christmas story" motifs related to the Christmas holiday could prevail, and the subtitle "Christmas story" did not imply the absence of folk motifs in the text. Christmas time…

The best examples of the genre created N.S. Leskov. In 1886, the writer writes a whole cycle "Christmas stories".

in the story "Pearl necklace" he reflects on the genre: “It is absolutely required from the Christmas story that it be timed to coincide with the events of the Christmas evening - from Christmas to Epiphany, so that it is somehow fantastic, had some morality... and finally - so that it ends without fail funny. In life, there are few such events, and therefore the author is not free to invent himself and compose a plot suitable for the program. Peculiar Christmas stories are and "Roly", And "At the holidays" A.P. Chekhov.

In n. 20th century., with the development of modernism in literature, parodies of the Christmas tree genre and playful recommendations began to appear on how Christmas stories should be composed. So, for example, in the newspaper "Rech" in 1909. O.L.D”or(Orsher I.) puts the following guide for young writers:

“Any man who has hands, two kopecks for paper, pen and ink, and has 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 a pig, a goose, a Christmas tree and a good man, the Christmas story is not valid.

2) The words "nursery", "star" and "love" must be repeated at least ten, but not more than two or three thousand times.

3) Bell ringing, tenderness and repentance should be at the end of the story, and not at the beginning of it.

All the rest does not matter".

Parodies testified that the Yuletide genre had exhausted its possibilities. Of course, one cannot fail to note the interest in the sphere of the spiritual among the intelligentsia of that time.

But the Christmas story is moving away from its traditional norms. Sometimes, as, for example, in the story V. Bryusova "The Child and the Madman", it makes it possible to depict mentally extreme situations: the Bethlehem miracle as an absolute 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. Remizova).

Sometimes, due to the reproduction of the historical situation, the Christmas story is given a special flavor (as, for example, in the story S. Auslander Christmas time in old Petersburg), sometimes the story gravitates towards an action-packed psychological novel.

He especially honored the traditions of the Christmas story A. Kuprin, creating wonderful examples of the genre - stories about faith, kindness and mercy "Poor Prince" And "Wonderful doctor", as well as writers of the Russian diaspora I.A. Bunin ("Epiphany Night" and etc.), I.S. Shmelev ("Christmas" etc.) and V.Nikiforov-Volgin ("Silver Blizzard" and etc.).

In many holiday stories childhood theme- main. This theme is developed by the statesman and Christian thinker K. Pobedonostsev in your essay "Christmas": “The Nativity of Christ and Holy Pascha are primarily children's holidays, and in them the power of Christ's words seems to be fulfilled: Unless you are like children, do not 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 nativity scene, a manger. Surrounded by those domestic animals that are familiar to the child from the first impressions of memory - in a manger a twisted Baby and above Him a meek, loving Mother with a thoughtful look and a clear smile of maternal happiness - three magnificent kings, following a star to a wretched den with gifts - and away in the field, shepherds in the midst of their flock, listening to the joyful news of the Angel and the mysterious choir of the Powers of Heaven. Then the villain Herod, pursuing the innocent Child; the massacre of babies in Bethlehem, then the journey of the holy family to Egypt - how much life and action in all this, how much interest for the child!

And not only for a child... Holy days are such an amazing time when everyone becomes a child: simple, sincere, open, kind and loving to everyone.

Later, and not surprisingly, the Christmas story "revolutionarily" reincarnated as New Year. The New Year as a holiday supplants Christmas, the good Father Frost comes to replace the Christ Child ... But the state of trembling and the expectation of a miracle is also present in the "new" stories. "Yolka in Sokolniki", "Three assassination attempts on V.I. Lenin" V.D. Bonch-Bruevich,"Chuk and Gek" A. Gaidar- one of the best Soviet idylls. Undoubtedly, the orientation to this tradition of films is also undeniable. E. Ryazanova "Carnival Night" And "Irony of Fate or Enjoy Your Bath"…

Christmas and Christmas stories are returning to the pages of modern newspapers and magazines. Several factors play a special role here. Firstly, the desire to restore the broken connection of times, and in particular, the Orthodox worldview. Secondly, to return to many customs and forms of cultural life that were so forcibly interrupted. The traditions of the Christmas story are continued by modern children's writers. S. Serova, E. Chudinova, Yu. Voznesenskaya, E. Sanin (Mont. Varnava) and etc.

Christmas reading has always been a special reading, because it is about the sublime and non-futile. Holy days are a time of silence and a time for such pleasant reading. Indeed, after such a great holiday - the Nativity of Christ - the reader simply cannot afford anything that would distract him from lofty thoughts about God, about kindness, mercy, compassion and love ... Let's use this precious time!

Prepared by L.V. Shishlova

Used Books:

1. The Miracle of Christmas Night: Yuletide Stories / Comp., Intro. st., note. E. Dushechkina, H. Barana. - St. Petersburg: Artist. Lit., 1993.
2. Star of Bethlehem. Christmas and Easter in verse and prose: Collection / Comp. and entered. M. Written, - M .: Det. lit., - 1993.
3. Christmas Star: Yuletide Stories and Poems / Comp. E. Trostnikova. - M .: Bustard, 2003
4. Leskov N.S. Sobr. Op. in 11 vols. M., 1958. v.7.

On Christmas days, the whole world, childishly froze in anticipation of a miracle, looks into the winter sky with hope and awe: when will that same Star appear? We are preparing Christmas gifts for our nearest and dearest, friends and acquaintances. Nikea also prepared a wonderful gift for their friends - a series of Christmas books.

Several years have passed since the release of the first book in the series, but every year its popularity is only growing. Who doesn't know these cute Christmas pattern books that have become an attribute of every Christmas? It's always a timeless classic.

Topelius, Kuprin, Andersen

Nicaea: a Christmas gift

Odoevsky, Zagoskin, Shakhovskoy

Nicaea: a Christmas gift

Leskov, Kuprin, Chekhov

Nicaea: a Christmas gift

It would seem, what could be interesting? All works are united by one theme, but as soon as you start reading, you immediately understand that each new story is a new story that is not like all the others. The exciting celebration of the holiday, many destinies and experiences, sometimes difficult life trials and unchanging faith in goodness and justice - this is the basis of the works of Christmas collections.

We can safely say that this series set a new direction in book publishing, rediscovering an almost forgotten literary genre.

Tatyana Strygina, compiler of Christmas collections The idea belongs to Nikolai Breev, the general director of the Nikea publishing house — He is the inspirer of the wonderful Easter News campaign: on the eve of Easter, books are distributed ... And in 2013, I wanted to make a special gift for readers — collections of classics for spiritual reading , for the soul. And then the "Easter stories of Russian writers" and "Easter poems of Russian poets" were published. Readers immediately liked them so much that it was decided to release Christmas collections as well.”

Then the first Christmas collections were born - Christmas stories by Russian and foreign writers and Christmas poems. This is how the Christmas present series turned out, so familiar and beloved. From year to year, books were reprinted, delighting those who did not have time to read everything last Christmas or wanted to buy it as a gift. And then Nikaya prepared another surprise for readers - Christmas collections for children.

We began to receive letters from readers asking us to publish more books on this topic, shops and temples were waiting for new products from us, people wanted something new. We simply could not disappoint our reader, especially since there were still many unpublished stories. Thus, first a children's series was born, and then Christmas stories, ”recalls Tatyana Strygina.

Old magazines, libraries, collections, file cabinets - the editors of Nikea work all year round to present their readers with a gift for Christmas - a new collection of the Christmas series. All the authors are classics, their names are well known, but there are also not so famous authors who lived in the era of recognized geniuses and published with them in the same magazines. This is something that has been tested by time and has its own “quality guarantee”.

Reading, searching, reading and reading again, - Tatyana laughs. — When in a novel you read a story about how New Year and Christmas are celebrated, it often doesn’t seem like the main point in the plot, so you don’t focus on it, and when you immerse yourself in the topic and start purposefully searching, these descriptions, one might say, go by themselves into hands. Well, in our Orthodox heart, the story of Christmas immediately responds, immediately imprinted in memory.

Another special, almost forgotten genre in Russian literature is Christmas stories. They were printed in magazines, publishers specially ordered stories from famous authors. Christmas time is the period between Christmas and Epiphany. In Christmas stories, there is traditionally a miracle, and the heroes happily do the difficult and wonderful work of love, overcoming obstacles, and often the machinations of "evil spirits."

According to Tatyana Strygina, in the Christmas literature there are stories about fortune-telling, ghosts, and incredible afterlife stories...

These stories are very interesting, but it seemed that they did not fit the festive, spiritual theme of Christmas, they did not fit with other stories, so they just had to be put aside. And then we nevertheless decided to publish such an unusual collection - "Terrible Christmas stories."

This collection includes Christmas "horror stories" by Russian writers, including little-known ones. The stories are united by the theme of Christmas time - mysterious winter days, when miracles seem possible, and the heroes, having endured fear and invoking all that is holy, dispel the delusion and become a little better, kinder and bolder.

The theme of the scary story is very important from a psychological point of view. Children tell horror stories to each other, sometimes adults like to watch a horror movie. Everyone experiences fear, and it is better to experience it with a literary hero than to get into a similar situation yourself. It is believed that scary stories compensate for the natural feeling of fear, help overcome anxiety and feel more confident and calm, ”Tatiana emphasizes.

I would like to note that an exclusively Russian theme is a harsh winter, a long sleigh ride, which often becomes deadly, swept roads, snowstorms, snowstorms, Epiphany frosts. The trials of the harsh northern winter gave bright stories to Russian literature.

The idea for the collection New Year's and Other Winter Stories was born from Pushkin's Snowstorm, notes Tatyana. - This is such a poignant story that only a Russian person can feel. In general, Pushkin's "Snowstorm" left a huge mark on our literature. Sollogub wrote his Snowstorm precisely with an allusion to Pushkin's; Leo Tolstoy was haunted by this story, and he also wrote his "Snowstorm". The collection began with these three Snowstorms, because this is an interesting topic in the history of literature ... But only the story of Vladimir Sollogub remained in the final composition. The long Russian winter with Epiphany frosts, snowstorms and snowstorms, and the holidays - New Year, Christmas, Christmas time, which fall at this time, inspired writers. And we really wanted to show this feature of Russian literature.”

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)

The boy at Christ on the Christmas tree

Boy with a pen

Children are a strange people, they dream and imagine. In front of the Christmas tree and right before Christmas, I kept meeting on the street, on a certain corner, a boy, no more than seven years old. In the terrible frost, he was dressed almost like a summer dress, but his neck was tied with some kind of junk, which means that someone still equipped him, sending him. He walked "with a pen"; it is a technical term, it means to beg. The term was invented by these boys themselves. There are many like him, they spin on your road and howl something learned by heart; but this one did not howl, and spoke somehow innocently and unaccustomedly, and looked trustingly into my eyes—so, he was just beginning his profession. In response to my questions, he said that he had a sister, she was unemployed, sick; maybe it’s true, but only later I found out that these boys are in darkness and darkness: 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, stiff hands to some basement, where some gang of negligent people is drinking, one of those who, “having gone on strike at the factory on Sunday on Saturday, return to work again no earlier than on Wednesday evening” . There, in the cellars, their hungry and beaten wives drink with them, their hungry babies squeak right there. Vodka, and dirt, and debauchery, and most importantly, vodka. With the collected kopecks, the boy is immediately sent to the tavern, and he brings more wine. For fun, they sometimes pour a pigtail into his mouth and laugh when he, with a short breath, falls almost unconscious on the floor,

... and bad vodka in my mouth
Ruthlessly poured...

When he grows up, they quickly sell him somewhere to the factory, but everything that he earns, he is again obliged to bring to the caretakers, and they again drink it away. But even before the factory, these children become perfect criminals. They wander around the city and know such places in different basements that you can crawl into and where you can spend the night unnoticed. One of them spent several nights in a row with a janitor in a basket, and he never noticed him. Of course, they become thieves. Theft turns into a passion even in 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 they run away from their negligent wanderers already 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 convey things about them that are unbelievable to hear, and yet they are all facts.

The boy at Christ on the Christmas tree

But I am a novelist, and it seems that I composed one "story" myself. Why do I write: “it seems”, because I myself know for sure what I composed, but I keep imagining that it happened somewhere and sometime, it happened just on the eve of Christmas, in some huge city and in a terrible freezing.

It seems to me that there was a boy in the basement, but still very small, about six years old or even less. This boy woke up in the morning in a damp and cold basement. He was dressed in some kind of robe and was trembling. His breath came out in white steam, and he, sitting in the corner on the chest, out of boredom, purposely let this steam out of his mouth and amused himself, watching how it flies out. But he really wanted to eat. Several times in the morning he approached the bunks, where on a bedding as thin as a pancake and on some bundle under his head, instead of a pillow, lay his sick mother. How did she get here? She must have come with her boy from a foreign city and suddenly fell ill. The mistress of the corners was captured by the police two days ago; the tenants dispersed, it was a festive matter, and the remaining one dressing gown had been lying dead drunk for a whole day, not even waiting for the holiday. In another corner of the room, some eighty-year-old old woman was moaning from rheumatism, who had once lived somewhere in nannies, and now she was dying alone, groaning, grumbling and grumbling at the boy, so that he already began to be afraid to come close to her corner. He got a drink somewhere in the entryway, but he didn’t find a crust anywhere, and once in the tenth he already came up to wake his mother. He felt terrible, at last, in the darkness: evening had already begun long ago, but no fire was lit. Feeling his mother's face, he was surprised that she did not move at all and became as cold as a wall. “It’s very cold here,” he thought, stood a little, unconsciously forgetting his hand on the dead woman’s shoulder, then breathed on his fingers to warm them, and suddenly, groping for his cap on the bunk, slowly, gropingly, went out of the cellar. He would have gone earlier, but he was always afraid upstairs, on the stairs, of a big dog that had been howling all day at the neighbor's door. But the dog was gone, and he suddenly went out into the street.

God, what a city! Never before had he seen anything like it. There, from where he came, at night such black darkness, one lamp on the whole street. Wooden low houses are locked with shutters; on the street, it gets a little dark - nobody, everyone shuts up at home, and only whole packs of dogs howl, hundreds and thousands of them, howl and bark all night. But it was so warm there and they gave him food, but here - Lord, if only he could eat! and what a knock and thunder here, what light and people, horses and carriages, and frost, frost! Frozen steam pours from driven horses, from their hotly breathing snouts; horseshoes clinking against the stones through the loose snow, and everyone is pushing like that, and, Lord, I so want to eat, at least a piece of some kind, and my fingers suddenly hurt so much. A law enforcement officer passed by and turned away so as not to notice the boy.

Here again the street - oh, what a wide! Here they will probably crush them like that; how they all shout, run and ride, but the light, the light! and what's that? Wow, what a big glass, and behind the glass is a room, and in the room there is a tree up to the ceiling; this is a Christmas tree, and there are so many lights on the Christmas tree, how many golden bills and apples, and all around are dolls, little horses; and children running around the room, smart, clean, laughing and playing, and eating, and drinking something. This girl started dancing with the boy, what a pretty girl! Here is the music, you can hear it through the glass. The boy looks, marvels, and already laughs, and his fingers and legs already hurt, and on his hands they have become completely red, they can no longer bend and move painfully. And suddenly the boy remembered that his fingers hurt so much, 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 pies, all sorts - 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 enter them from the street. A boy crept up, suddenly opened the door and went in. Wow, how they shouted and waved at him! One lady came up quickly and thrust a kopeck into his hand, and she herself opened the door to the street for him. How scared he was! and the kopeck immediately rolled out and clinked up the steps: he could not bend his red fingers and hold it. The boy ran out and went quickly, quickly, but where he did not know. He wants to cry again, but he's afraid, and he runs, runs and blows on his hands. And longing takes him, because he suddenly felt so lonely and terrifying, and suddenly, Lord! So what is it again? People are standing in a crowd and marveling: on the window behind the glass are three dolls, small, dressed in red and green dresses and very, very much like they are alive! Some old man sits and seems to be playing a big violin, two others stand right there and play small violins, and shake their heads in time, and look at each other, and their lips move, they talk, they really talk, - only because of the glass is not audible. And at first the boy thought that they were alive, but when he completely guessed that they were pupae, he suddenly laughed. He had never seen such dolls and did not know that there were such! and he wants to cry, but it's so funny, funny on pupae. Suddenly it seemed to him that someone grabbed him by the dressing gown from behind: a big angry boy stood nearby and suddenly cracked him on the head, tore off his cap, and gave him a leg from below. The boy rolled to the ground, then they screamed, he was stupefied, he jumped up and ran and ran, and suddenly ran he didn’t know where, into the doorway, into someone else’s yard, and sat down for firewood: “They won’t find it here, and it’s dark.”