Speaker 1: The Holy Night by Selma Lagerloff. When I was five
years old, I had such a great sorrow. I hardly
know if I've had a greater sense. It was then
that my grandmother died. Up to that time, she used
to sit every day on the corner sofa in her
room and tell stories. I remember that grandmother told story
after story from morning till night, and that we children
sat beside her quite still and listened. It was a
glorious life. No other children had such happy times as
we did. It isn't much that I recollect about my grandmother.
I remember that she had very beautiful snow white hair
and stooped when she walked, and that she always sat
and knitted a stocking. And I even remember that when
she had finished a story, she used to lay her
hand on my head and say, all this is as true,
as true as that I see you and you see me.
I also remember that she could sing songs, but this
she did not do every day. One of the songs
was about a night and a sea troll, and had
this refrain it blows cold, cold weather at sea. And
I remember a little prayer she taught me, and a
verse of a hymn. Of all the stories she told me,
I have but a dim and imperfect recollection. Only one
of them do I remember so well that I should
be able to repeat it. It is a little story
about Jesus' birth. Well, this is nearly all that I
can recall about my grandmother, except the thing which I
remember best, and that is the great loneliness when she
was gone. I remember the morning when the corner sofa
stood empty, and when it was impossible to understand how
the days would ever come to an end. That I
remember that I shall never forget. And I recollect that
we children were brought forward to kiss the hand of
the dead, and that we were afraid to do it,
But then someone said to us that it would be
the last time we could thank grandmother for all the
pleasure she had given us. And I remember how the
stories and songs were driven from the homestead, shut up
in a long black casket, and how they never came
back again. I remember that something was gone from our lives.
It seemed as if the door to a whole, beautiful,
enchanted world, where before we had been free to go
in and out, had been closed, And now there was
no one who knew how to open that door. And
I remember that little by little, weech children learned to
play with dolls and toys, and to live like other children.
And then it seemed as though we no longer missed
our grandmother or remembered her. But even to day, after
forty years, as I sit here and gather together these
legends about Christ which I heard out there in the Orient,
there awakes within me the little legend of Jesus's birth
that my grandmother used to tell. And I feel impelled
to tell it once again, and to let it also
be included in my collection. It was Christmas Day and
all the folks had driven to church except grandmother and I.
I believe we were all alone in the house. We
had not been permitted to go along because one of
us was too old, in the other too young. And
we were sad, both of us, because we had not
been taken to early Mass to hear the singing and
to see the Christmas candles. But as we sat there
in our loneliness, grandmother began to tell a story. There
was a man, said she, who went out in the
dark night to borrow live coals to kindle a fire.
He went from hut to hut and knocked. Dear friends,
help me, said he. My wife has just given birth
to a child, and I must make a fire to
warm her and the little one. But it was way
in the night and all the people were asleep. No
one replied. The man walked and walked. At last he
saw the gleam of a fire a long way off.
Then he went in that direction and saw that the
fire was burning in the open. A lot of sheep
were sleeping around the fire, and an old shepherd sat
and watched over the flock. When the man, who wanted
to borrow fire, came up to the sheep, he saw
that three big dogs lay asleep at the shepherd's feet.
All three awoke when the man approached, and opened their
great jaws as though they wanted to bark, but not
a sound was heard. The man noticed that the hair
on their backs stood up, and that their sharp white
teeth glistened in the firelight. They dashed toward him. He
felt that one of them bit at his leg and
one at his hand, and that one clung to his throat.
But their jaws and teeth wouldn't obey them, and the
man didn't suffer the least harm. Now, the man wished
to go farther to get what he needed, but the
sheep lay back to back, so close to one another
that he couldn't pass them. Then the man stepped upon
their backs and walked over them and up to the fire,
and not one of the animals awoke or moved. Thus far,
Grandmother had been allowed to narrate without interruption, but at
this point I couldn't help breaking in. Why didn't they
do it? Grandma? I asked that you shall hear in
a moment, said grandmother, and went on with her story.
When the man had almost reached the fire, the shepherd
looked up. He was a surly old man who was
unfriendly and harsh toward human beings, and when he saw
the strange man coming, he seized his long spiked staff,
which he always held in his hand when he tended
his flock, and threw it at him. The staff came
right toward the man, but before it reached him, it
turned off to one side and whizzed past him, far
out into the meadow. When Grandmother had got this far,
I interrupted her again, Grandma, why wouldn't the stick hurt
the man? Grandmother did not bother about answering me, but
continued her story. Now the man came up to the
shepherd and said to him, good man, help me and
lend me a little fire. My wife has just given
birth to wi child, and I must make a fire
to warm her and the little one. The shepherd would
rather have said no, but when he pondered that the
dogs couldn't hurt the man, and the sheep had not
run from him, and that the staff had not wished
to strike him, he was a little afraid and dared
not deny the man that which he asked. Take as
much as you need, he said to the man. But
by then the fire was nearly burnt out. There were
no logs or branches left, only a big heap of
live coals, and the stranger had neither a spade nor
shovel wherein he could carry the red hot coals. When
the shepherd saw this, he said again, take as much
as you need, and he was glad that the man
wouldn't be able to take away any coals. But the
man stooped and picked coals from the ashes with his
bare hands and laid them in his mantle, and he
didn't burn his hand when he touched them, nor did
the coals scorch his mantle, but he carried them away
as if they had been nuts or apples. But here
the story teller was interrupted for the third time. Grandma,
why wouldn't the coals burn the man? That you shall hear?
Said grandmother, and went on. And when the shepherd, who
was such a cruel and hard hearted man, saw all this,
he began to wonder to himself, what kind of a
knight is this? When the dogs do not bite, the
sheep are not scared, the staff does not kill, or
the fire scorch. He called the stranger back and said
to him, what kind of a knight is this? And
how does it happen that all things show you compassion?
Then said the man, I cannot tell you if you
yourself do not see it. And he wished to go
his way, that he might soon make a fire to
warm his wife and show. But the shepherd did not
wish to lose sight of the man before he had
found out what all this might portend. He got up
and followed the man till they came to the place
where he lived. Then the shepherd saw that the man
didn't have so much as a hut to dwell in,
but that his wife and babe were lying in a
mountain grotto where there was nothing except the cold and
naked stone walls. The shepherd thought that perhaps the poor
innocent child might freeze to death there in the grotto.
And although he was a hard man, he was touched
and thought he would like to help it. And he
loosened his knapsack from his shoulder, took from it a
soft white sheepskin, gave it to the strange man, and
said that he should let the child sleep on it.
Just as soon as he showed that he too could
be merciful, his eyes were opened, and he saw what
he had not been able to see before, and heard
what he could not have heard before. He saw that
all around him stood a ring of little silver winged angels,
and each held a stringed instrument, and all sang in
loud tones that to night the Savior was born, who
should redeem the world from its sins. Then he understood
how all things were so happy this night, that they
didn't want to do anything wrong. And it was not
only around the shepherd that there were angels, but he
saw them everywhere they sat inside the grotto, they sat
outside on the mountain, and they flew under the heavens.
They came marching in great companies, and as they passed,
they paused and cast a glance at the child. There
was such jubilation and such gladness, and songs and play,
and all this he saw in the dark night wheras
before he could not have made out anything. He was
so happy because his eyes had been opened, that he
fell upon his knees and thanked God. Here Grandmother sighed
and said, what that shepherd saw we might also see,
for the angels fly down from heaven every Christmas Eve,
if we could only see them. Then Grandmother laid her
hand on my head and said, you must remember this,
for it is as true as true as that I
see you and you see me. It is not revealed
by the light of lamps or candles, and it does
not depend upon sun and moon. But that which is
needful is that we have such eyes as can see
God's glory. End of the Holy Night by Selma Lagerloff