"Story of the Day": "Christmas" by Ivan Shmelev
“The Nativity of Christ is called the “mother of all holidays.” The significance of this holy night is so great that even the course of modern history and our reckoning is from the Nativity of Christ. And in Russia this holiday was especially loved.
On Christmas Eve, until the "evening star", that is, until the evening hymns ... they did not eat anything and did not sit down at the table. Parents told their children about how the Magi came to bow to the newborn Jesus Christ and brought him expensive gifts. From an early age, children adopted from their elders not only folk wisdom, but also traditions and customs that have developed over the centuries.
The houses were decorated with a favorite Christmas tree since childhood. By the way, the forest beauty came to Russia from Germany relatively recently - under Peter I. The eternal greenery of spruce and other plants (juniper, laurel, mistletoe) was a symbol of unfading life. Therefore, we began to decorate houses and temples with spruce branches.
And on the night of December 25, throughout the country, in small and large churches, a solemn Divine service was celebrated. From the very morning of the Great Day of Christmas, they praised Christ: they went “with a star” from house to house, sang church hymns and folk carols about the birth of the Child from the Virgin, about simple shepherds and wise wise men.
Since 1917, in the atheistic Soviet state, it was forbidden to mention Christmas, not only to celebrate it. The star of Bethlehem was replaced with a five-pointed one (and it was strictly observed that any depicted star had only five points), the green spruce was also disgraced as a Christmas symbol. People who survived those hard times tell how they secretly carried green branches into the house and hid them in distant rooms from prying eyes. In 1933, by a special decree of the government, the spruce was returned to people, but already as a New Year's tree.
During the years of repressions, Christmas services were performed secretly in homes, camps, prisons and exiles. Christmas was celebrated in the most incredible conditions, at the risk of losing jobs, freedom and even life.
The history of Russia continues, by the Decree of the President of the Russian Federation in 1991, Christmas is again an official holiday for all the peoples of the Russian Federation.
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How not to remember Christmas works on these holidays! There are many of them in world literature. See for yourself: check out these Christmas literature blog posts:"Book Friends Club" and "Planet of Childhood" .
I with daughter today I read the story of the Russian writer Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev "Christmas". How was this holiday celebrated in pre-revolutionary Russia? What did Christmas mean for an Orthodox person? Answers to all questions in the story of I.S. Shmelev. Happy reading time!
"You want me, dear boy, to tell you about our Christmas. Well, well ... If you don't understand what, your heart will tell you.
Like I'm like you. Do you know snow? Here he - rarely, falls out - and melted. And we will knock down - the world used to not be able to see for three days! Everything will fail. On the streets - snowdrifts, everything is white. On the roofs, on the fences, on the lanterns - that's how much snow! Hanging from rooftops. Hangs - and collapses softly, like flour. Well, it will fall asleep behind the gate. Janitors rake in heaps, bring. And do not rake - you will get stuck. Quiet in winter and deaf. Sledges are rushing, but you can’t hear. Only in the cold, runners screech. But in the spring, you will hear the first wheels ... - what a joy! ..
Our Christmas is approaching from afar, quietly. Deep snow, frost stronger. You will see that frozen pigs are brought up - soon it will be Christmas. We fasted for six weeks and ate fish. Who is richer - beluga, sturgeon, perch, navazhka; more victorious - herring, catfish, bream ... We, in Russia, have a lot of all kinds of fish. But for Christmas - pork, that's all. In meat shops, it used to be that they would pile up to the ceiling, like logs, - frozen pigs. The hams are chopped off, for pickling. So they lie, in rows, - you can see the pink stains, it has been powdered with snow.
And the frost is so cold that the air freezes. Frost stands, foggy, smoky. And the carts are stretching - for Christmas. convoy? Well, it’s like a train ... only not wagons, but sleighs, wide in the snow, from distant places. Goose, one after another, pull. Steppe horses for sale. And the men are healthy, Tambovites, from the Volga, from near Samara. They bring pork, piglets, turkeys - "ardent frost." Hazel grouse is coming, Siberian grouse, capercaillie ... You know - hazel grouse? Such a motley, pockmarked ... well, hazel grouse! With a dove, perhaps, will be. It is called - game, forest bird. It feeds on mountain ash, cranberries, juniper. And the taste, brother! .. You rarely see it here, but here they were pulled by convoys. They will sell everything, both sleighs and horses, they will buy red goods, chintz - and home, with a cast iron. Cast iron? And the railroad. It’s more profitable to go to Moscow with a convoy: your own oats, and horses for sale, your factories, from the shoals of the steppe.
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Three days before Christmas, in the markets, in the squares, there is a forest of Christmas trees. And what trees! This goodness in Russia as much as you want. Not like here - stamens. At our Christmas tree ... as it warms up, straightens its paws, - a thicket. There used to be a forest on Theater Square. They stand in the snow. And the snow will fall - lost the way! Guys, in sheepskin coats, as in the forest. People walk, choose. Dogs in Christmas trees are like wolves, right. Bonfires are burning, get warm. Smoke pillar. Sbitenshchiki walk around, echoing in the fir trees: "Hey, sweet sbiten! Grief rolls! .." In samovars, on long arms, - sbiten. Sbiten? And so hot, better than tea. With honey, with ginger - fragrant, sweet. A glass is a penny. A frozen kalachik, a glass of sbitnya, such a plump, faceted one - it burns fingers. On the snow, in the forest ... nice! You sip a little, and the steam - in clubs, like from a steam locomotive. Kalachik - ice. Well, if you soak, it will soften. Until the night you will walk in the trees. And the frost is getting stronger. The sky - in smoke - purple, on fire. Frost on the trees. A frozen crow gets caught, you step on it - it crunches like a piece of glass. Frosty Russia, but ... warm! ..
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On Christmas Eve, around Christmas, it used to be that they didn’t eat until the star. Kutya was boiled, from wheat, with honey; broth - from prunes, pears, whispers ... They put it under the image, for hay. Why?.. But as if - a gift to Christ. Well... it's like He's in the manger, in the manger. It used to be that you wait for a star, you wipe all the windows. There is ice on the windows, from frost. Here, brother, beauty is something! .. Christmas trees on them, stains, like lace. You rub it with a fingernail - you can't see the stars? It is seen! The first star, and then another... The glasses turned blue. The stove shoots from the frost, shadows jump. And there are more and more stars. And what stars! .. You open the window - it cuts, it burns with frost. And the stars! .. In the black sky it boils with light, trembles, flickers. And what stars!.. Mustachioed, alive, beating, pricking the eye. There is something frozen in the air, through it the stars are larger, they shine with different lights, - blue crystal, and blue, and green, - in the arrows. And you will hear the call. And if it's stars - ringing something! Frosty, booming, - straight, silver. You won't hear that, no. They will strike in the Kremlin - an ancient ringing, sedate, with a deaf person. And then - tight silver, like ringing velvet. And everything sang, a thousand churches are playing. You won't hear that, no. It’s not Easter, there’s no chime, but it spreads with a ring, covers it with silver, like singing, without end or beginning ... - rumble and rumble.
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To the all-night felt boots you put on, a sheepskin coat made of ram, a hat, a hood - the frost does not sting. You will leave - a melodious ringing. And the stars. If you touch the gate, it will crackle. Freezing! The snow is blue, strong, squeaks thinly, thinly. On the street - snowdrifts, mountains. There are pink lamp lights in the windows. And the air ... - blue, silvered with dust, smoky, starry. The gardens are smoking. Birches are white visions. Sleep in them jackdaws. Fiery smoke pillars, high, up to the stars. Star ringing, melodious, - floats, does not stop; sleepy, ringing-miracle, ringing-vision, glorifies God in the highest, - Christmas.
You walk and think: now I will hear a gentle chant-prayer, simple, special, some kind, childish, warm ... - and for some reason I see a bed, stars.
Your Christmas, Christ our God,
Ascension of the world and the Light of Reason...
And for some reason it seems that that ancient sacred chant... has always existed. And will be.
On the corner of a shop, without doors. An old man in a sheepskin coat sells, he presses. Behind the frozen glass - the familiar Angel with a golden flower, freezing. Sprinkled with glitter. I held it recently, touched it with my finger. Paper Angel. Well, the card ... showered with glitter, like a snowball. Poor, cold. Nobody buys it: expensive. Pressed against the glass and freezes.
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You are leaving the church. Everything is different. Snow is holy. And the stars are holy, new, Christmas stars. Christmas! Look into the sky. Where is she, that old star that appeared to the Magi? Here it is: above Barminikha's yard, above the garden! Every year - above this garden, low. She is blue, Holy. I used to think: “If you go to her, you will come there. Here, you should come ... and bow with the shepherds to Christmas! He is in a manger, in a small feeder, like in a stable ... But you won’t get there, frost, you will freeze! " You look, you look - and you think: "The Wolves are traveling with a star! .."
Volsvi? .. So - the wise men, the Magi. Ah, little one, I thought it was wolves. Are you funny? Yes, good such wolves, - thought. The star leads them, and they go, quieted down. Little Christ was born, and even the wolves are good now. Even the wolves are happy. Really, it's good, isn't it? Their tails are down. They go and look at the star. And she leads them. That's what she brought. Do you see Willow? And you close your eyes .. See - a feeder, with hay, a bright, bright boy, beckons with a pen? Yes, and wolves ... all beckons. How I wanted to see it!.. Sheep there, cows, doves fly up the rafters... and shepherds bowed down... and kings, wise men... And behold, the wolves come up. We have a lot of them in Russia! .. They look, but they are afraid to enter. Why are they afraid? And shame on them ... they were so evil. Are you asking if they let you in? Well, of course they will. They will say: well, you come in, it's Christmas today! And the stars ... all the stars there, at the entrance, crowd, shine ... Who, wolves? Well, of course we are.
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Sometimes, I look and think: goodbye, until next Christmas! Eyelashes are frozen, and from the star all the arrows, arrows ...
Go to Bush. It was our dog, shaggy, big, lived in a kennel. She has hay there, she is warm. I want to tell Bush that it's Christmas, that even good wolves now walk with a star ... You shout into the kennel: "Bushuika!" The chain rattles, wakes up, snorts, sticks his muzzle, kind, soft. Lick your hand as if to say yes. Christmas. And - the soul is warm, with happiness.
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You dream: Christmas time, Christmas tree, we'll go to the theater ... How many people will be tomorrow! The carpenter Semyon will bring me bricks and logs, they smell wonderfully like a Christmas tree! .. My feeder Nastya will also come, stick an orange and kiss and cry, she will say: “My upbringing ... you are growing” ... The padded Barin will come again, so funny. He will be given a glass of vodka. Will wave a piece of paper, so funny. With a long mustache, in a red cap, and "lanterns" under his eyes. And he will speak poetry. I remember:
And let nothing, sir, for this Holiday
Does not overshadow the celebration!
Raised respectfully with a prankster
On this day of Christmas!
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In the kitchen on the floor matting, the stove is blazing. The lamp is glowing. On the bench, in a ham, a pig is thawing, all wrinkled, a turkey is silvering from the frost. And I will certainly look behind the stove, where is the stove: is it worth it? .. It happens only around Christmas. Huge, in the whole plate, - a pig! Her legs are hemmed, she stands on four stumps, her snout into the kitchen. Just now they dragged it in - it glistens with frost, the ears are not sagging. I’m happy and terrified: it’s frozen in my eyes, looking through whitish eyelashes ... The coachman said: “It was ordered to eat them at Christmas, for punishment! She didn’t let the Baby sleep, she grunted all the time. , pig, pricked His hand with a bristle! I watch for a long time. In the black snout - grinning teeth, "nickle", like a bowl. What if it jumps off and gnaws? .. Somehow it rumbled at night, frightened.
And in the house - Christmas. It smells of rubbed floors, mastic, Christmas tree. The lamps do not burn, but all the lamps. The stoves crackle and burn. Quiet light, saint. In the cold hall, a Christmas tree mysteriously darkens, still empty, different from the one on the market. Behind her, the scarlet light of an icon lamp glimmers a little, - stars, as if in the forest ... And tomorrow! ..
And here it is tomorrow. It's so cold that everything smokes. There were bumps on the glass. The sun over Barminikha's yard is in smoke, hanging like a crimson ball. It's like it's smoking. From him pillars in the green sky. The water carrier drove up in a creak. The barrel is all in crystal and cod. And she smokes, and the horse, all gray-haired. Here is mo-rose! ..
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There is a clatter in the hallway. Boys, praise ... All my friends: shoemakers, furriers. Ahead is Zola, a skinny, crooked shoemaker, very angry, plucking the boys by the whirlwinds. But today is kind. He always leads to "praise". Bear Drap carries a star on a stick - a cardboard house: windows made of pieces of paper, crimson and gold, glow, - a candle is there. The boys sniff their noses, smell of snow.
- "Wolves are singing with the Star!" Zola says cheerfully.
Welcome the Volkhov
holy shoot,
Christmas has come
Let's start the celebration!
The Star is with us
Sings a prayer...
He waves his black finger, and they begin in chorus:
Your Christmas. Christ our God...
