4/11/2023 0 Comments Russian collection vessel“Yes,” the old man continued, “because of somebody’s sins … Of course, on this festive day, we-Orthodox Christians-are used to spending it amidst our friends and acquaintances. The passengers looked at the fussy figure of the little old man with displeasure and irritation. “Here, ladies and gentlemen,” the old man said again, taking a few steps away from the table and admiring his handiwork, “On this festive day, because of somebody’s sin, it is we who must sit here like the wretched of the earth …” “Here, dear ladies and gentlemen-behold we have a tree!”Īnd the wee old man proceeded to stick the tree in a decanter, humming softly, “Thy Birth, O Christ, Our Lord” “Here!” said the wee old man in exaltation, as we walked up to the table. He sat on a chair and, swaying in time, was singing “Thy Birth.” But suddenly he popped up off the chair and disappeared from the station … A few minutes later he returned, holding in his hands a spruce twig. Good nature and meekness were visible in each of his movements. He was a wee old man with an absolutely pious appearance. At first the old man, laughing good-heartedly, comforted the passengers, gently looking in their eyes, then he took up singing in a quiet, reedy tenor: “Thy Birth, O Christ, Our Lord.” “There’s no way of knowing … Eight in the morning … No earlier.”Īmong the passengers there was somebody else: a tidy-looking wee old man in a fur coat and a tall fur hat. He jumped up from the table, ran to the guard, and we could hear him squeal and puff himself up. There was a fish merchant with a beard, two students, and some woman in an old-fashioned cloak, with two suitcases, and the others were folks unfamiliar to me.Įverybody sat submissively at the table in the tiny waiting hall and only the merchant showed signs of anger raging inside. There were about twelve of us hapless travellers at this station. The security guard, by the way, was bragging: “In general, there’s a buffet but nowsabout,” on account of the holiday, it was closed. The train was running twelve hours behind.Īnd the station really was rinky-dink. ![]() Luck wasn’t on my side: I ended up having to spend the night at some rinky-dink station. It’s been a long time since I’ve celebrated Christmas.īefore Christmas itself I took a trip to some relatives in Petrograd. Please consider other volumes in this series: A Very French Christmas, A Very German Christmas, A Very Italian Christmas, A Very Irish Christmas, A Very Scandinavian Christmas and A Very Mexican Christmas. With its wonderful variety and remarkable human touch, this collection proves that Nobody Does Christmas Like the Russians. ![]() There is no shortage of vodka or wit in this volume packed with sentimental songs, footmen, whirling winds, solitary nights, snow drifts, and hopeful children. Dostoevsky brings stories of poverty and tragedy, Tolstoy inspires with his fable-like tales, Chekhov’s unmatchable skills are on full display in a chronicle of a female factory owner and her wretched workers, Klaudia Lukashevitch delights with a sweet and surprising tale of a childhood in White Russia, and Mikhail Zoshchenko recounts madcap anecdotes of Christmas trees and Christmas thieves. Running the gamut from sweet and reverent to twisted and uproarious, and with many of the stories appearing in English for the first time, this collection will satisfy every reader. ![]() This is Russian Christmas celebrated in supreme pleasure and pain by the greatest of writers. ![]() Crimson ribbons and troubled souls, landowners yearning for love, burning cheeks, salmon, and caviar.
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