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Speaker 1: The Heavenly Christmas Tree by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I am a novelist,

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and I suppose I have made up this story I write.

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I suppose, though I know for a fact that I

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have made it up. But yet I keep fancying that

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it must have happened somewhere at some time, that it

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must have happened on Christmas Eve, in some great town

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and a time of terrible frost. I have a vision

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of a boy, a little boy six years old or

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even younger. This boy woke up that morning in a cold,

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damp cellar. He was dressed in a sort of little

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dressing gown, and was shivering with cold. There was a

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cloud of white steam from his breath, and sitting on

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a box in the corner, he blew the steam out

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of his mouth and amused himself in his dullness, watching

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it float away. But he was terribly hungry. Several times

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that morning he went up to the plank bed where

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his sick mother was lying on a mattress's thin as

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a pancake, with some sort of bundle under her head

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for a pillow. How had she come here? She must

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have come with her boy from some other town, and

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suddenly fallen ill. The landlady who let the corners had

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been taken two days before to the police station. The

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lodgers were out and about as the holiday was so near,

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and the only one left had been lying for the

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last twenty four hours, dead drunk, not having waited for Christmas.

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In another corner of the room, a wretched old woman

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of eighty, who had once been a children's nurse but

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was now left to die friendless, was moaning and groaning

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with rheumatism, scolding and grumbling at the boy, so that

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he was afraid to go near her corner. He had

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got a drink of water in the outer room, but

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could not find a crust anywhere, and had been on

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the point of waking his mother a dozen times. He

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felt frightened at last in the darkness. It had long

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been dusk, but no light was kindled. Touching his mother's face,

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he was surprised that she did not move at all,

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and that she was as cold as the wall. It

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is very cold here, he thought. He stood a little, unconsciously,

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letting his hands rest on the dead woman's should. Then

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he breathed on his fingers to warm them, and then

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quietly fumbling for his cap on the bed, he went

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out of the cellar. He would have gone earlier, but

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was afraid of the big dog which had been howling

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all day at the neighbor's door at the top of

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the stairs. But the dog was not there now, and

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he went out into the street. Mercy on us. What

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a town. He had never seen anything like it before

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in the town from which he had come. It was

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always such black darkness at night. There was one lamp

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for the whole street. The little, low pitched wooden houses

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were closed up with shutters. There was no one to

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be seen in the street. After dusk. All the people

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shut themselves up in their houses, and there was nothing

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but the howling of a pack of dogs, hundreds and

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thousands of them, barking and howling all night. But there

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it was so warm, and he was given food. While here,

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oh dear, if he only had something to eat, And

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what a noise and rattle here? What light, and what people,

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horses and carriages, And what a frost. The frozen steam

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hung in clouds over the horses, over their warmly breathing mouths.

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Their hoofs clanged against the stones through the powdery snow,

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and everyone pushed so and oh dear, how he longed

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for some morsel to eat, and how wretched he suddenly felt.

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A policeman walked by and turned away to avoid seeing

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the boy. Here was another street, Oh, what a wide one.

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Here he would be run over for certain. How everyone

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was shouting, racing, driving along, and the light, the light,

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And what was this? A huge glass window and through

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the window a tree reaching up to the ceiling. It

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was a fir tree. And on it were ever so

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many lights, gold papers, and apples, and little dolls and horses.

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And there were children, clean and dressed in their best,

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running about the room, laughing and playing and eating and

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drinking and something. And then a little girl began dancing

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with one of the boys. What a pretty little girl.

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And he could hear the music through the window. The

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boy looked and wondered and laughed through His toes were

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aching with the cold, and his fingers were red and stiff,

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so that it hurt him to move them. And all

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at once the boy remembered how his toes and fingers

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hurt him, and began crying, and ran on and again.

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Through another window pane, he saw another Christmas tree, and

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on a table cakes of all sorts, almond cakes, red cakes,

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and yellow cakes. And three grand young ladies were sitting there,

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and they gave the cakes to anyone who went up

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to them, and the door kept opening. Lots of gentlemen

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and ladies went in from the street. The boy crept

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up suddenly opened the door and went in. Oh, how

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they shouted at him and waved him back. One lady

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went up to him hurriedly and slipped a kopeck in

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his hand, and with her own hands opened the door

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into the street for him. How frightened he was, And

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the kopeck rolled away and clinked upon the steps. He

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could not bend his red fingers to hold it tight.

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The boy ran away and went on where he did

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not know. He was ready to cry again, but he

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was afraid, and ran on and on and blew his fingers,

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and he was miserable because he felt suddenly so lonely

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and terrified, and all at once mercy on us? What

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was this again? People were standing in a crowd admiring

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behind a glass window. There were three little dolls dressed

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in red and green dresses, and exactly exactly as though

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they were alive. One was a little old man sitting

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and playing a big violin. The two others were standing

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close by and playing little violins, and nodding in time

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and looking at one another, and their lips moved. They

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were speaking, actually speaking, only one couldn't hear through the glass,

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And at first the boy thought they were alive, And

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when he grasped that they were dolls, he laughed. He

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had never seen such dolls before, and had no idea

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there were such dolls, and he wanted to cry, but

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he felt amused, amused by the dolls. All at once

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he fancied that some one caught at his smock behind

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A wicked big boy was standing beside him, and suddenly

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hit him on the head, snatched off his cap, and

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tripped him up. The boy fell down on the ground,

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and at once there was a shout. He was numb

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with fright. He jumped up and ran away. He ran, and,

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not knowing where he was going, ran in at the

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gate of some one's court yard, and sat down behind

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a stack of wood. They won't find me here, besides

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it's dark. He sat hurriedly up and was breathless from fright,

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And all at once, quite suddenly he felt so happy

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his hands and feet suddenly left off aching and grew

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so warm, as warm as though he were on a stove.

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Then he shivered all over. Then he gave a start.

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Why he must have been asleep. How nice to have

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a sleep here. I'll sit here a little and go

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and look at the dolls again, said the boy, and smiled,

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thinking of them just as though they were alive. And

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suddenly he heard his mother singing over him. Mammy, I'm asleep.

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How nice it is to sleep here. Come to my

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Christmas tree, little one. A soft voice suddenly whispered over

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his head. He thought that this was still his mother,

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But no, it was not she. Who it was called

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him He could not see. But some one bent over

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and embraced him in the darkness, and he stretched out

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his hands to him, and all at once, oh what

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a bright light, Oh what a Christmas tree. And yet

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it was not a fir tree. He had never seen

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a tree like that. Where was he now? Everything was

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bright and shining, and all round him were dolls. But no,

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they were not dolls. They were little boys and girls,

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only so bright and shining. They all came flying around him,

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They all kissed him, took him and carried him along

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with them, and he was flying himself, and he saw

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that his mother was looking at him and laughing joyfully, Mammy, Mammy, Oh,

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how nice it is here, Mammy. And again he kissed

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the children and wanted to tell them at once of

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those dolls in the shop window, who are you boys?

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Who are you girls? He asked, laughing and admiring them.

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This is Christ's Christmas tree, they answered. Christ always has

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a Christmas tree on this day for the little children

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who have no tree of their own. And he found

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out that all these little boys and girls were children

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just like himself. That some had been frozen in the

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baskets in which they had as babies, been laid on

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the doorsteps of well to do Petersburg people. Others had

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been boarded out with Finnish women by the foundling and

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had been suffocated. Others had died at their starved mother's

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breasts in the Samara famine. Others had died in the

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third class railway carriages from the foul air. And yet

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they were all here. They were all like angels about Christ.

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And he was in the middle of them and held

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out his hands to them and blessed them and their

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sinful mothers, and the mothers of these children stood on

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one side weeping. Each one knew her boy or girl,

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and the children flew up to them and kissed them,

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and wiped away the tears with their little hands, and

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begged them not to weep, because they were so happy.

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And down below in the morning, the porter found the

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little dead body of the frozen child on the woodstack.

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They sought out his mother too, She had died before him,

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They before the Lord God in heaven. Why have I

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made up such a story so out of keeping with

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an ordinary diary and a writer's above all, And I

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promise two stories dealing with real events, But that is

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just it. I keep fancying that all this may have happened. Really,

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that is what took place in the cellar and on

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the woodstack. But as for Christ's Christmas Tree, I cannot

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tell you whether that could have happened or not. End

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of the Heavenly Christmas Tree by Fyodor Dostoevsky