Come to my Christmas tree, boy. Fyodor Dostoevsky - Boy at Christ's Christmas tree

He sat down and huddled, but he couldn’t catch his breath from fear, and suddenly, quite suddenly, he felt so good: his arms and legs suddenly stopped hurting and it became so warm, so warm, like on a stove; Now he shuddered all over: oh, but he was about to fall asleep! How nice it is to fall asleep here: “I’ll sit here and go look at the dolls again,” the boy thought and grinned, remembering them, “just like alive!” And suddenly he heard his mother singing a song above him. “Mom, I’m sleeping, oh, how good it is to sleep here!”

“Let’s go to my Christmas tree, boy,” a quiet voice suddenly whispered above him.

He thought it was all his mother, but no, not her; He doesn’t see who called him, but someone bent over him and hugged him in the darkness, and he extended his hand and... and suddenly - oh, what a light! Oh, what a tree! And it’s not a Christmas tree, he’s never seen such trees before! Where is he now: everything glitters, everything shines and there are dolls all around - but no, these are all boys and girls, only so bright, they all circle around him, fly, they all kiss him, take him, carry him with them, yes and he himself flies, and he sees: his mother is looking and laughing at him joyfully.

Mother! Mother! Oh, how nice it is here, mom! - the boy shouts to her, and again kisses the children, and he wants to tell them as soon as possible about those dolls behind the glass. - Who are you, boys? Who are you girls? - he asks, laughing and loving them.

This is “Christ’s Christmas tree,” they answer him. - Christ always has a Christmas tree on this day for little children who don’t have their own tree... - And he found out that these boys and girls were all just like him, children, but some were still frozen in their baskets, in which they were thrown onto the stairs to the doors of St. Petersburg officials, others suffocated in the chukhonkas, from the orphanage while being fed, others died at the withered breasts of their mothers during the Samara famine, others suffocated in third-class carriages from the stench, and yet they are all here now, they are all now like angels, they are all with Christ, and he himself is in the midst of them, and stretches out his hands to them, and blesses them and their sinful mothers... And the mothers of these children are all standing right there, on the sidelines, and crying; everyone recognizes their boy or girl, and they fly up to them and kiss them, wipe away their tears with their hands and beg them not to cry, because they feel so good here...

And downstairs the next morning, the janitors found the small corpse of a boy who had run and frozen to collect firewood; They also found his mother... She died before him; both met with the Lord God in heaven.

And why did I compose such a story, which does not fit into an ordinary reasonable diary, especially a writer’s? And he also promised stories mainly about actual events! But that’s the point, it seems and seems to me that all this could really happen - that is, what happened in the basement and behind the firewood, and there about the Christmas tree at Christ’s - I don’t know how to tell you , could it happen or not? That's why I'm a novelist, to invent things.

Open literature lesson 6th grade

Goals:

Educational- acquaintance with the life and work of F. M. Dostoevsky, with the genre of the Yuletide (Christmas) story;

Developmental- be able to analyze a work, compose a characterization of the hero, trace how the system of artistic means corresponds to the author’s intention;

Educational- to cultivate mercy, faith, compassion, morality, respect and love for people, to cultivate morality and aesthetics through familiarization with classical literature and classical music.

Equipment: Christmas tree, image of two angels, computer, presentation on the theme “Christmas”

During the classes:

I. Organizational moment

II. Work on the topic of the lesson

1. Teacher's word

Hello children and dear adults. Today we have gathered with you to climb the steps of the Temple of Literature together, hand in hand, and find ourselves in the magical domain of the Russian classic - F. M. Dostoevsky.

Our lesson is dedicated to the story of F. M. Dostoevsky “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree”

F. M. Dostoevsky is an adult writer. He is the author of long and difficult stories to read. But in each of his works, among the heroes we meet children.

At the funeral of F. M. Dostoevsky, among the many wreaths, there was a wreath from children. Few writers were able to come so close to a child's soul and penetrate so deeply into it, as Dostoevsky did. He wanted to awaken the conscience of every person, so that people would never forget that next to a well-fed, prosperous life there is always another life. And this other life is dominated by hunger, suffering, rudeness, dirt, humiliation and insults. To Dostoevsky, a child's soul was completely revealed because he had a gift - the gift of compassion in the name of love for people.

Today we will get acquainted with the genre of the Christmas story, we will think about what the eternal categories mean: faith, mercy, compassion. Guys, this is not how the New Year holidays ended - Christmas, Epiphany. Christmas is a day of universal love and kindness. According to Charles Dickens, this is a time of “charity, kindness and forgiveness, these are the only days in the calendar when people ... freely open their hearts to each other and see in their neighbors people like themselves.”

2. Literary montage

In the background is the music of F. Liszt “Consolation”

Student. During the Christmas holidays, people strive to be better; This is the time when Christian values ​​receive special significance, the time of doing good deeds. On Christmastide, it is customary for us to do good deeds: help the sick, give alms, send gifts to old people in almshouses, etc. In Russia, everyone followed this tradition - from the sovereign to mere mortals. Christmas is a holiday of waiting for a miracle. Just as a miracle once happened in Bethlehem, and the Savior of mankind was born.

Student. On a winter night, two thousand years before this Christmas, in the vicinity of Bethlehem, in a country conquered by the Romans, the Savior was born under the arches of a nativity scene. People have been waiting for centuries: now he will come down from heaven - in power and glory, in the form of a king, surrounded by an army of Angels...

Reader 1.

There are countries where people have never known blizzards or falling snow for centuries.
There, only the tops of granite ridges sparkle with unmelting snow...
The flowers there are more fragrant, the stars are larger,
Spring is brighter and more elegant,
And the feathers of the birds are brighter there, and warmer
The sea wave is breathing there...
In such and such a country on a balmy night,
With the whisper of laurels and roses,
The desired miracle happened firsthand:
The Child Christ was born.

Slide 2

Reader 2

Today God was born...
Blessed is that day and hour,
When He appeared on earth
To take us to heaven.

Reader 3

The world was waiting for the Savior - the King
And He was born quietly, like the dawn,
Not in a rich palace, not in the capital,
Where it would be fitting for God to be born.

Reader 4

Born in a stable at midnight,
Having set an example of humility for us,
God was born under the sky of Bethlehem.
His birth is a whole poem.

Slide 3

Reader 5

Slide 4

And there was a miracle on earth,
And there was a miracle in heaven:
As the sun burst into rays
A star in the midnight darkness.
And the wise men carried their gifts after her to Bethlehem.
And on the straw there they found the King of kings

Slide 5

Student A golden, clear, multi-winged star rose into the sky at the hour of Christmas and shone over the whole world. From the rising of the messenger star, from the Nativity of Christ, we count the centuries.

Student. Slide 6

The ruler of Judea, the cruel King Herod, learned about the arrival of the wise men, looking for the newborn king of Judea in his country. Not the ruler of the earth, but the Savior of the world was born in a cave - a den near Bethlehem. And Herod heard and understood one thing in the jubilant speech of the Magi: in Judea was born the One who would take away from him, the Ruler, power over the whole earth. Herod sent warriors to Bethlehem to exterminate all boys under two years of age. And Herod’s warriors carried out his order.

Student. That same night, through the desert, the Holy Family fled to Egypt. The quietest, brightest night of the year is Christmas. According to ancient belief, on this night the heavens open and the wishes of pure hearts come true.

Teacher: In the 19th century, a special genre of story developed in literature - the Christmas (Yuletide) story. These stories amazingly combine the everyday and the existential, the momentary and the eternal.

Slide 7

F. M. Dostoevsky's story “The Boy at Christ's Christmas Tree” belongs specifically to the genre of Christmas stories. Christmastide is a holiday in honor of the Nativity of Christ, lasting until Epiphany - January 19. In the New Year, everyone wants to believe in good miracles. So in the plot of a Christmas story there is always a miracle, some kind of good surprise. And at the end of the story, even the most hopeless situation changes for the better, but the ending is not entirely good.

3. Work on the composition of the story. Frontal conversation

Teacher

Let's try to remember and isolate the compositional elements of the story. What is composition?

Composition is the construction of a verbal work. The composition of a story consists of exposition, beginning, development of action, climax and denouement.

What is part 1 of the story about? Slide 8

The first part is called “Boy with a Pen.” The author talks about hungry, ragged, homeless, human warmth and affection children who are scattered throughout Russia.

Teacher: Slide 9

Conclusion: Dostoevsky in the first part of the story gives a generalized portrait of children, hungry, deprived of everything, forced to endure humiliation and beatings.

The second part of the story is called “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree.”

Let's determine where the action in this story begins?

The action begins with Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky introducing readers to the boy. The boy is poorly dressed, he has a naive, trusting look, he is just beginning to master the profession of “a boy with a pen”, he begs, then gives money to a drunken gang. Such children have no future. They will steal, drink, and wander.

What serves as the beginning of the action in the story?

The plot begins with a description of life in the basement where the boy lived and an introduction to the boy himself. The author describes very little of the boy's appearance, noting his small stature, age - about seven years old, and clothing - some kind of robe. And the most important thing that Dostoevsky says is that the boy wants to eat.

We always judge a person's character by appearance. What character traits can be seen in this boy?

It seems to me that this boy has quite a good character; he is calm, not quick-tempered, undemanding, emotional.

How does the action develop? Slide 10, 11, 12

The development of the action is the moment when the boy finds himself in the city and the pictures that he saw there. He saw a wide street, where there were a lot of people, everyone was fussing and running. He also saw a large glass, and behind the glass there was a Christmas tree. In the room, children are having fun, playing, laughing. Even the boy wanted to laugh, but his fingers and toes hurt. The boy cried and ran on.

Highlight the most striking episode in the story.

The most striking episode is the episode when a quiet voice invites the boy to the Christmas tree, and the hero ends up on Christ's Christmas tree. This episode is the climax of the story.

What does the boy see on Christ's Christmas tree? Slide 12, 13, 14, 15

He saw a Christmas tree that he had never seen before, everything around was shining and sparkling, and boys and girls were circling around. There he saw his mother, who was looking at him and laughing, and then he saw Jesus stretching out his hands to the children and blessing everyone.

What's the outcome?

The boy is dying. The next morning the boy's body is found by a janitor. The boy died while collecting firewood.

The composition of the story determines the mood of the story. What was your mood when you read this story?

Sad, gloomy, depressing (when Dostoevsky shows the life of a boy, his wanderings through the streets of St. Petersburg), but also bright, joyful, radiating goodness. (when the boy finds himself on Christ’s Christmas tree)

It seems to me that the boy experienced feelings of admiration and joy when he admired the “tree up to the ceiling”; he was delighted by the lights, gold pieces of paper and apples. He could even hear music through the glass. I experienced the same feelings of joy and admiration when I read this episode of the story.

Teacher

The ending of the story is sad, but you would like the story to be cheerful, because Christmastide has just recently ended, and on holidays you especially believe in goodness, happiness, and expect some kind of miracle. I invite you to complete a creative task.

4. Creative task

1 group Try to come up with a happy ending to the story “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree”

2nd group A dream on the eve of Christmas. What could you have dreamed about on the eve of such a bright and joyful holiday?

While performing this task, P. I. Tchaikovsky’s play “January. At the fireplace"

Listening to written works

5. Summing up

Teacher: What a wonderful ending the guys came up with for F. M. Dostoevsky’s story “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree.” There is so much tenderness, warmth, joy in your stories. Dostoevsky ends his work with questions to himself and the reader. Let’s read the last paragraph and try to answer this question: “Why did I write such a story?”

Children's answers

Teacher: That's right, guys! For Dostoevsky it was important: if a child suffers and cries, it means that something is wrong in this world, it means that our life is unfair, that our life is structured incorrectly. But it is so important that every person remembers his childhood with love and joy. Then he himself will be fairer, kinder, more merciful. Open your hearts to people who need your help. Be merciful, kind, compassionate.

Teacher:

Long gone out in the winter darkness
Eastern star,
But we didn’t forget on earth
Birth of Christ.
How the shepherds came to Him
Until morning time
How the sages presented
He has his gifts.
How the king killed babies
Rewarding the killer
How a sent angel saved
Sacred Child.
Like preaching love
And the truth of the Divine,
Every year he was born again
For the Christmas holiday.
Long gone out in the winter darkness
Eastern star,
But not forgotten on earth
Birth of Christ.

6. Reflection

At the end of the lesson, I suggest coloring our Christmas tree. There are toys hanging on the Christmas tree. Write words on each toy that define the character of the person going to the Christmas tree.

The guys work on an interactive whiteboard using the Activstudio Professional Edition program

On December 26, 1875, F. M. Dostoevsky, together with his daughter Lyuba, attended a children’s ball and Christmas tree organized at the St. Petersburg Artists Club. On December 27, Dostoevsky and A.F. Koni arrived at the Colony for Juvenile Delinquents on the outskirts of the city on Okhta, headed by the famous teacher and writer P.A. Rovinsky. During these same pre-New Year days, he met several times on the streets of St. Petersburg a beggar boy begging for alms (“boy with a pen”). All these pre-New Year impressions formed the basis for the Christmas (or Yuletide) story “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree.”

On the other hand, the story closely echoes the plot of the ballad “The Orphan's Tree” (“Des fremden Kindes heiliger Christ”) of 1816 by Friedrich Rückert, a German romantic poet. At the same time, Dostoevsky, observing the traditions of the classics of the Christmas story H. H. Andersen (“The Girl with Brimstone Matches”) and Charles Dickens (“Christmas Stories”), filled the short allegorical story with the realities of big city life to the maximum. In this case, we are talking about St. Petersburg, whose cold, literally and figuratively, splendor is contrasted with the provincial darkness of the boy’s unnamed homeland, where, however, he always had food and warmth. The theme of a hungry and poor child was started by the writer in the 40s with the works “Poor People”, “Christmas Tree and Wedding”, and the author did not deviate from it throughout his life until “The Brothers Karamazov”.

Dostoevsky began the story on December 30, 1875, and by the end of January, “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree” was published along with other materials about “Russian children today” in the January issue of “A Writer’s Diary.” In the first issue of his renewed edition, Dostoevsky intended to tell his readers “something about children in general, about children with fathers, about children without fathers in particular, about children on Christmas trees, without Christmas trees, about criminal children...”. The story “The Boy at Christ’s Christmas Tree” in the “Writer’s Diary” was preceded by a small chapter “A Boy with a Hand,” and all the materials taken together from the first two chapters of the “Writer’s Diary” (in the first chapter the writer placed his journalistic reflections on the same topic) were combined the theme of compassion for children.

Fyodor Dostoevsky - Boy at Christ's Christmas tree. Christmas story:

I Boy with a pen

...And I put bad vodka in my mouth
He poured in mercilessly.

When he grows up, he is quickly sold off to a factory somewhere, but everything he earns, he is again obliged to bring to the careless workers, and they again drink away. But even before the factory, these children become complete criminals. They wander around the city and know places in different basements where they can crawl into and where they can spend the night unnoticed. One of them spent several nights in a row with one janitor in some kind of basket, and he never noticed him. Of course, they become thieves. Theft turns into a passion even among eight-year-old children, sometimes even without any consciousness of the criminality of the action. In the end they endure everything - hunger, cold, beatings - for only one thing, for freedom, and run away from their negligent people to wander away from themselves. This wild creature sometimes does not understand anything, neither where he lives, nor what nation he is, whether there is a God, whether there is a sovereign; even such people convey things about them that are incredible to hear, and yet all the facts.

II Boy at Christ's Christmas tree

I imagine there was a boy in the basement, but he was still very small, about six years old or even younger. This boy woke up in the morning in a damp and cold basement. He was dressed in some kind of robe and was shaking. His breath flew out in white steam, and he, sitting in the corner on a chest, out of boredom, deliberately let this steam out of his mouth and amused himself by watching it fly out. But he really wanted to eat. Several times in the morning he approached the bunk, where his sick mother lay on a thin bedding like a pancake and on some kind of bundle under her head instead of a pillow. How did she end up here? She must have arrived with her boy from a foreign city and suddenly fell ill. The owner of the corners was captured by the police two days ago; the tenants scattered, it was a holiday, and the only one left, the robe, had been lying dead drunk for the whole day, without even waiting for the holiday. In another corner of the room, some eighty-year-old old woman, who had once lived somewhere as a nanny, but was now dying alone, was moaning from rheumatism, groaning, grumbling and grumbling at the boy, so that he was already afraid to come close to her corner. He got something to drink somewhere in the hallway, but couldn’t find a crust anywhere, and for the tenth time he already went to wake up his mother. He finally felt terrified in the darkness: evening had already begun long ago, but the fire had not been lit. Feeling his mother’s face, he was amazed that she did not move at all and became as cold as a wall. “It’s very cold here,” he thought, stood for a while, unconsciously forgetting his hand on the dead woman’s shoulder, then he breathed on his fingers to warm them, and suddenly, rummaging for his cap on the bunk, slowly, gropingly, he walked out of the basement. He would have gone even earlier, but he was still afraid of the big dog upstairs, on the stairs, which had been howling all day at the neighbors' doors. But the dog was no longer there, and he suddenly went outside.

Lord, what a city! He had never seen anything like this before. Where he came from, it was so dark at night, there was only one lantern on the entire street. Low wooden houses are closed with shutters; on the street, when it gets a little dark, there is no one, everyone shuts up in their homes, and only whole packs of dogs howl, hundreds and thousands of them, howl and bark all night. But there it was so warm and they gave him something to eat, but here - Lord, if only he could eat! And what a knock and thunder there is, what light and people, horses and carriages, and frost, frost! Frozen steam rises from the driven horses, from their hot breathing muzzles; Horseshoes ring on the stones through the loose snow, and everyone is pushing so hard, and, God, I really want to eat, even just a piece of something, and my fingers suddenly hurt so much. A peace officer walked by and turned away so as not to notice the boy.

Here is the street again - oh, how wide! Here they will probably be crushed like that: how they all scream, run and drive, and the light, the light! And what's that? Wow, what a big glass, and behind the glass there is a room, and in the room there is wood up to the ceiling; this is a Christmas tree, and on the tree there are so many lights, so many golden pieces of paper and apples, and all around there are dolls and little horses; and children are running around the room, dressed up, clean, laughing and playing, and eating, and drinking something. This girl started dancing with the boy, what a pretty girl! Here comes the music, you can hear it through the glass. The boy looks, marvels, and even laughs, but his fingers and toes are already hurting, and his hands have become completely red, they no longer bend and it hurts to move. And suddenly the boy remembered that his fingers hurt so much, he cried and ran on, and now again he sees through another glass a room, again there are trees, but on the tables there are all kinds of pies - almond, red, yellow, and four people are sitting there rich ladies, and whoever comes, they give him pies, and the door opens every minute, many gentlemen come in from the street. The boy crept up, suddenly opened the door and entered. Wow, how they shouted and waved at him! One lady quickly came up and put a penny in his hand, and she opened the door to the street for him. How scared he was! And the penny immediately rolled out and rang down the steps: he could not bend his red fingers and hold it. The boy ran out and went as quickly as possible, but he didn’t know where. He wants to cry again, but he’s too afraid, and he runs and runs and blows on his hands. And melancholy takes over him, because he suddenly felt so lonely and terrible, and suddenly, Lord! So what is this again? People are standing in a crowd and marveling: on the window behind the glass there are three dolls, small, dressed in red and green dresses and very, very lifelike! Some old man sits and seems to be playing a large violin, two others stand right there and play small violins, and shake their heads to the beat, and look at each other, and their lips move, they talk, they really talk - only now You can't hear it because of the glass. And at first the boy thought that they were alive, but when he realized that they were dolls, he suddenly laughed. He had never seen such dolls and did not know that such existed! Suddenly he felt that someone grabbed him by the robe from behind; a big angry boy stood nearby and suddenly hit him on the head, tore off his cap, and kicked him from below. The boy rolled to the ground, then they screamed, he was stunned, he jumped up and ran and ran, and suddenly he ran into he doesn’t know where, into a gateway, into someone else’s yard, and sat down behind some firewood: “They won’t find anyone here, and it’s dark.”

He sat down and huddled, but he couldn’t catch his breath from fear, and suddenly, quite suddenly, he felt so good: his arms and legs suddenly stopped hurting and it became so warm, so warm, like on a stove; Now he shuddered all over: oh, but he was about to fall asleep! How good it is to sleep here! “I’ll sit here and go look at the dolls again,” the boy thought and grinned, remembering them, “just like alive!..” And suddenly he heard his mother singing a song above him. “Mom, I’m sleeping, oh, how good it is to sleep here!”

“Let’s go to my Christmas tree, boy,” a quiet voice suddenly whispered above him.

He thought it was all his mother, but no, not her; He doesn’t see who called him, but someone bent over him and hugged him in the darkness, and he extended his hand and... and suddenly - oh, what a light! Oh, what a tree! And it’s not a Christmas tree, he’s never seen such trees before! Where is he now: everything glitters, everything shines and all the dolls are around - but no, these are all boys and girls, only so bright, they all circle around him, fly, they all kiss him, take him, carry him with them, yes and he himself flies, and he sees: his mother is looking and laughing at him joyfully.

Mother! Mother! Oh, how nice it is here, mom! - the boy shouts to her and again kisses the children, and he wants to tell them as soon as possible about those dolls behind the glass. - Who are you, boys? Who are you girls? - he asks, laughing and loving them.

This is “Christ’s Christmas tree,” they answer him. - Christ always has a Christmas tree on this day for little children who don’t have their own Christmas tree... - And he found out that these boys and girls were all just like him, children, but some were still frozen in their baskets, in which they were thrown onto the stairs to the doors of St. Petersburg officials, others suffocated in the chukhonkas, from the orphanage while being fed, others died at the withered breasts of their mothers (during the Samara famine), others suffocated in third-class carriages from the stench, and yet they are all here now , they are all now like angels, they are all with Christ, and he himself is in the midst of them, and stretches out his hands to them, and blesses them and their sinful mothers... And the mothers of these children are all standing right there, on the sidelines, crying; everyone recognizes their boy or girl, and they fly up to them and kiss them, wipe away their tears with their hands and beg them not to cry, because they feel so good here...

And downstairs, the next morning, the janitors found the small corpse of a boy who had run and froze to collect firewood; They also found his mother... She died before him; both met with the Lord God in heaven.

And why did I compose such a story, which does not fit into an ordinary reasonable diary, especially a writer’s? And he also promised stories mainly about actual events! But that’s the point, it seems and seems to me that all this could really happen - that is, what happened in the basement and behind the firewood, and there about the Christmas tree at Christ’s - I don’t know how to tell you , could it happen or not? That's why I'm a novelist, to invent things.

He sat down and huddled, but he couldn’t catch his breath from fear, and suddenly, quite suddenly, he felt so good: his arms and legs suddenly stopped hurting and it became so warm, so warm, like on a stove; Now he shuddered all over: oh, but he was about to fall asleep! How nice it is to fall asleep here: “I’ll sit here and go look at the dolls again,” the boy thought and grinned, remembering them, “just like alive!” And suddenly he heard his mother singing a song above him. “Mom, I’m sleeping, oh, how good it is to sleep here!”

“Let’s go to my Christmas tree, boy,” a quiet voice suddenly whispered above him.

He thought it was all his mother, but no, not her; He doesn’t see who called him, but someone bent over him and hugged him in the darkness, and he extended his hand and... and suddenly - oh, what a light! Oh, what a tree! And it’s not a Christmas tree, he’s never seen such trees before! Where is he now: everything glitters, everything shines and there are dolls all around - but no, these are all boys and girls, only so bright, they all circle around him, fly, they all kiss him, take him, carry him with them, yes and he himself flies, and he sees: his mother is looking and laughing at him joyfully.

Mother! Mother! Oh, how nice it is here, mom! - the boy shouts to her, and again kisses the children, and he wants to tell them as soon as possible about those dolls behind the glass. - Who are you, boys? Who are you girls? - he asks, laughing and loving them.

This is “Christ’s Christmas tree,” they answer him. - Christ always has a Christmas tree on this day for little children who don’t have their own tree... - And he found out that these boys and girls were all just like him, children, but some were still frozen in their baskets, in which they were thrown onto the stairs to the doors of St. Petersburg officials, others suffocated in the chukhonkas, from the orphanage while being fed, others died at the withered breasts of their mothers during the Samara famine, others suffocated in third-class carriages from the stench, and yet they are all here now, they are all now like angels, they are all with Christ, and he himself is in the midst of them, and stretches out his hands to them, and blesses them and their sinful mothers... And the mothers of these children are all standing right there, on the sidelines, and crying; everyone recognizes their boy or girl, and they fly up to them and kiss them, wipe away their tears with their hands and beg them not to cry, because they feel so good here...

And downstairs the next morning, the janitors found the small corpse of a boy who had run and frozen to collect firewood; They also found his mother... She died before him; both met with the Lord God in heaven.

And why did I compose such a story, which does not fit into an ordinary reasonable diary, especially a writer’s? And he also promised stories mainly about actual events! But that’s the point, it seems and seems to me that all this could really happen - that is, what happened in the basement and behind the firewood, and there about the Christmas tree at Christ’s - I don’t know how to tell you , could it happen or not? That's why I'm a novelist, to invent things.

He sat down and huddled, but he couldn’t catch his breath from fear, and suddenly, quite suddenly, he felt so good: his arms and legs suddenly stopped hurting and it became so warm, so warm, like on a stove; Now he shuddered all over: oh, but he was about to fall asleep! How nice it is to fall asleep here: “I’ll sit here and go look at the dolls again,” the boy thought and grinned, remembering them, “just like life!..” and suddenly he heard his mother singing a song above him. “Mom, I’m sleeping, oh, how good it is to sleep here!”

“Let’s go to my Christmas tree, boy,” a quiet voice suddenly whispered above him.

He thought it was all his mother, but no, not her; He doesn’t see who called him, but someone bent over him and hugged him in the darkness, and he extended his hand and... And suddenly, oh, what a light! Oh, what a tree! And it’s not a Christmas tree, he’s never seen such trees before! Where is he now: everything glitters, everything shines and there are dolls all around - but no, these are all boys and girls, only so bright, they all circle around him, fly, they all kiss him, take him, carry him with them, yes and he himself flies, and he sees: his mother is looking and laughing at him joyfully.

- Mother! Mother! Oh, how nice it is here, mom! - the boy shouts to her, and again kisses the children, and he wants to tell them as soon as possible about those dolls behind the glass. -Who are you, boys? Who are you girls? - he asks, laughing and loving them.

“This is Christ’s Christmas tree,” they answer him. “Christ always has a Christmas tree on this day for little children who don’t have their own tree there...” And he found out that these boys and girls were all just like him, children, but some were still frozen in their baskets, in which they were thrown onto the stairs to the doors of St. Petersburg officials, others suffocated in the chukhonkas, from the orphanage while being fed, others died at the withered breasts of their mothers during the Samara famine, others suffocated in third-class carriages from the stench, and yet they are all here now, they are all now like angels, they are all with Christ, and He Himself is in the midst of them, and stretches out His hands to them, and blesses them and their sinful mothers... And the mothers of these children are all standing right there, on the sidelines, and crying; everyone recognizes their boy or girl, and they fly up to them and kiss them, wipe away their tears with their hands and beg them not to cry, because they feel so good here...

And downstairs the next morning, the janitors found the small corpse of a boy who had run and frozen to collect firewood; They also found his mother... She died before him; both met with the Lord God in heaven.

And why did I compose such a story, which does not fit into an ordinary reasonable diary, especially a writer’s? and also promised stories mainly about real events! But that’s the point, it seems and seems to me that all this could really happen - that is, what happened in the basement and behind the firewood, and there about the Christmas tree at Christ’s - I don’t know how to tell you , could it happen or not? That's why I'm a novelist, to invent things.

The tall, evergreen tree of fate is hung with the blessings of life... From bottom to top hang careers, happy occasions, suitable games, winnings, buttered cookies, clicks on the nose, and so on. Adult children crowd around the Christmas tree. Fate gives them gifts...

- Children, which of you wants a rich merchant's wife? - she asks, taking a red-cheeked merchant's wife from a branch, strewn from head to toe with pearls and diamonds... - Two houses on Plyushchikha, three iron shops, one porter shop and two hundred thousand in money! Who wants?

- To me! To me! - Hundreds of hands reach out for the merchant’s wife. - I want a merchant's wife!

- Don’t crowd, children, and don’t worry... Everyone will be satisfied... Let the young doctor take the merchant’s wife. A person who devotes himself to science and enrolls himself as a benefactor of humanity cannot do without a pair of horses, good furniture, etc. Take it, dear doctor! You're welcome... Well, now the next surprise! Place on the Chukhlomo-Poshekhonskaya railway! Ten thousand salary, the same amount of bonuses, work three hours a month, an apartment of thirteen rooms and so on... Who wants it? Are you Kolya? Take it, honey! Next... Place of housekeeper for the lonely Baron Schmaus! Oh, don't tear like that, mesdames! Have patience!.. Next! A young, pretty girl, the daughter of poor but noble parents! Not a penny's dowry, but she has an honest, feeling, poetic nature! Who wants? (Pause.) No one?

- I would take it, but there’s nothing to feed me! – the poet’s voice is heard from the corner.

- So no one wants it?

“Perhaps, let me take it... So be it...,” says the small, arthritic old man serving in the spiritual consistory. - Perhaps...

– Zorina’s handkerchief! Who wants?

- Ah!.. For me! Me!.. Ah! My leg was crushed! To me!

- Next surprise! A luxurious library containing all the works of Kant, Schopenhauer, Goethe, all Russian and foreign authors, a lot of ancient volumes and so on... Who wants it?

- I'm with! - says the second-hand bookseller Svinopasov. - Please, sir!

Svinopasov takes the library, selects for himself “Oracle”, “Dream Book”, “Writer Book”, “Handbook for Bachelors”... and throws the rest on the floor...

- Next! Portrait of Okrejc!

Loud laughter is heard...

“Give me…” says the owner of the museum, Winkler. - It will come in handy...

The boots go to the artist... in the end the tree is torn down and the audience disperses... Only one employee of humor magazines remains near the tree...

- What do I need? - he asks fate. - Everyone received a gift, but at least I needed something. This is disgusting of you!

- Everything was taken apart, nothing was left... However, there was only one cookie with butter left... Do you want it?

– No need... I’m already tired of these cookies with butter... The cash registers of some Moscow editorial offices are full of this stuff. Isn't there something more significant?

- Take these frames...

- I already have them...

- Here's a bridle, reins... Here's a red cross, if you want... Toothache... Hedgehog gloves... A month in prison for defamation...

- I already have all this...

- Tin soldier, if you want... Map of the North...

The comedian waves his hand and goes home with the hope of next year’s Christmas tree...

1884

There are times when winter, as if angry at human weakness, calls upon the harsh autumn to its aid and works together with it. Snow and rain swirl in the hopeless, foggy air. The wind, damp, cold, piercing, knocks on the windows and roofs with furious anger. He howls in the pipes and cries in the ventilation. There is a melancholy hanging in the soot-dark air... Nature is troubled... Damp, cold and eerie...

This was exactly the weather on the night before Christmas in one thousand eight hundred and eighty-two, when I was not yet in the prison companies, but served as an appraiser in the loan office of retired staff captain Tupaev.

It was twelve o'clock. The storeroom, in which, by the will of the owner, I had my night residence and pretended to be a guard dog, was dimly illuminated by a blue lamp light. It was a large square room, littered with bundles, chests, whatnots... on the gray wooden walls, from the cracks of which disheveled tow peeked out, hung rabbit fur coats, undershirts, guns, paintings, sconces, a guitar... I, obliged to guard this stuff at night, lay on a large red chest behind a display case with precious things and looked thoughtfully at the lamp light...

For some reason I felt afraid. The things stored in the storerooms of the loan offices are scary... at night, in the dim light of the lamp, they seem alive... Now, when the rain was grumbling outside the window, and the wind was howling pitifully in the stove and above the ceiling, it seemed to me that they were making howling sounds. All of them, before getting here, had to pass through the hands of an appraiser, that is, through mine, and therefore I knew everything about each of them... I knew, for example, that the money received for this guitar was used to buy powders for consumptive cough... I knew that a drunkard shot himself with this revolver; my wife hid the revolver from the police, pawned it with us and bought a coffin.