in the storm. Give her to me."
Pierre held his coat the closer. "She was cold," he answered. "She was
dying in the snow. I am trying to keep her warm."
"But she is warm when she is with me, though I have no coat to wrap her
in," said the Child. And, indeed, he was clad only in a little shirt, with
his rosy legs quite bare. Yet he looked not cold. A brightness glowed
about him, and his breath seemed to warm the air. Pierre saw that, though
it was still snowing beyond them, there were no whirling flakes between
him and the Child.
The little Stranger held out his hand once more. "Please give me the
dove," he begged. "I must hasten on my way to the village yonder. The dove
strayed from my bosom and was lost. You found her here, far from the road.
Thank you, little boy. Are you often so kind to poor lost birds!"
"Why, they are the Lord's own birds!" cried little Pierre. "How should one
not be kind and love them dearly? On the Lord's birthday eve, too! It is
little that I could do for this one,--I who have saved and fed so many on
other Christmas Eves. Alas, I wish I was back in those good old days of
the wheat-sheaf and the full pan of milk and the bright warm fire!"
Pierre's eyes filled with tears.
"What! Did you set a sheaf of wheat for the birds on Christmas Eve?" asked
the Child, drawing closer and bending kindly eyes upon Pierre.
Now the boy saw that where the Stranger stood the snow had melted all
away, so that they were inclosed in a little space like a downy nest,
which seemed almost warm to his limbs.
"Yes, I set out a wheat-sheaf," said Pierre simply. "Why not? I love all
the little creatures whom our Lord Himself so dearly loved, and to whom He
bade us be kind. On Christmas Eve especially I always tried to make happy
those which He sent in my way,--poor little wanderers as well as our own
friends at home."
The Child drew yet closer and sat down in the snow beside Pierre. His
beautiful eyes shone like stars, and his voice was like sweet music.
"What," he said, "you are the boy who stood in the doorway with a pan of
bread and milk,--part of your own supper,--and called the hungry kitten to
feast? You are the same who tossed a bone to the limping dog and made him
a bed in the stable? You stroked the noses of the ox and the ass and said
gentle things to them, because they were the first friends of the little
Jesus? You set the sheaf of wheat for the snow-birds, and they lighted upon
your hands and shoulders and kissed your lips in gratitude? You are that
boy, friend of God's friends. No wonder that my white dove flew to you out
of the storm. She knew, she knew!"
The Child bent near and kissed Pierre on the cheeks, so that they grew
rosy, and the warm blood went tingling through his little cold limbs.
Sitting up, he said: "Yes, I am that boy who last year was so happy
because he could do these pleasant things. But how do you know, little
Stranger? How did you see?"
"Oh, I know, I saw!" cried the Child, gleefully clapping his hands as a
child will. "I was there. I passed through the village last Christmas Eve,
and I saw it all. But tell me now, how do you come here, dear boy? Why are
you not in that happy home this stormy night, once more making the Lord's
creatures happy?"
Pierre told all to the Child: how his dear father and mother had died and
left him alone in the world; how the home had been sold, and now he lived
in the charity school kept by the good Abbé; how he had learned of the
chance to earn a few pennies by singing on Christmas Day in the
neighboring village church, which lacked a voice among the choir-boys; how
he was on his way thither when the storm had hidden the road, and he had
grown so cold, so cold!
"Then your dove came to me, little Stranger," Pierre concluded. "She came,
and I folded her in my jacket to keep her warm. But, do you know, it must
be that she has kept _me_ warm. Although I could walk no further, I am not
cold at all, nor frightened, and no longer hungry. Sit close to me, little
Stranger. You shall share my jacket, too, and we will all three warm one
another."
The Child laughed again, a low, soft, silvery laugh, like a happy brook
slipping over the pebbles. "I am not cold," he said. "I cannot stay with
you. I must go yonder." And he pointed through the snow.
"Whither, oh, whither?" cried Pierre eagerly. "Let me go with you. I am
lost; but if you know the way we can go together, hand in hand."
The Child shook his head. "Not so," he said. "I do not follow the path,
and your feet would stumble. I shall find a way without sinking in the
snow. I must go alone. But there is a better way for you. I leave my dove
with you: she will keep you warm until help comes. Farewell, friend of the
Lord's friends." Stooping the Child kissed Pierre once more, upon the
forehead. Then, before the boy saw how he went, he had vanished from the
little nest of snow, without leaving a footprint behind.
Now the dove, clasped close to Pierre's heart, seemed to warm him like a
little fire within; and the Child's kiss on his forehead made him so
happy, but withal so drowsy, that he smiled as he closed his eyes once
more repeating, "'Until help comes.' 'There is a better way' for me."
II
On the side of the mountain, away from the village street, perched the
little hut of Grandfather Viaud. And here, on Christmas Eve, sat the old
man and his wife, looking very sad and lonely. For there was no sound of
childish laughter in the little hut, no patter of small feet, no
whispering of Christmas secrets. The little Viauds had long since grown up
and flown away to build nests of their own in far-off countries. Poor
Josef Viaud and old Bettine were quite alone this Christmas Eve, save for
the Saint Bernard who was stretched out before the fire, covering half the
floor with his huge bulk, like a furry rug. He was the very Prince of
dogs, as his name betokened, and he was very good to Grandfather and
Grandmother, who loved him dearly. But on Christmas Eve even the littlest
cottage, crowded with the biggest tenants, seems lonely unless there are
children in the corners.
The Viauds sat silently gazing into the fire, with scarcely a word for
each other, scarcely a caress for faithful Prince. Indeed, the great dog
himself seemed to know that something was lacking, and every once in a
while would lift his head and whine wistfully.
In each of the two small windows burned a row of candles, flickering in
the draught that blew down the great chimney and swept through the little
chamber. And these, with the crackling blaze upon the hearth, sent queer
shadows quivering up the smoky walls.
Grandfather Viaud looked over his shoulder as a great gust blew the ashes
into the room. "Hey!" he cried. "I almost fancied the shadow of one
looking in at the window. Ha, ha! What foolishness! Eh! but it is a
fearsome storm. Pray the good Lord that there may be no poor creatures
wandering on the mountain this night."
"The Lord's birthday, too!" said Grandmother Bettine. "The dear little
Child has a cold way to come. Even He might become confused and be driven
to wander by such a whirl of snow. I am glad that we set the tapers there,
Josef, even though we be so far from the village street down which they
say He passes. How pleasant to think that one might give light to His
blessed feet if they were wandering from the way,--the dear little Child's
feet, so rosy and soft and tender!" And good Grandmother Viaud dropped a
tear upon her knitting; for she remembered many such little feet that had
once pattered about the cottage floor. Prince lifted his head and seemed
to listen, then whined as he had done before.
"You are lonely, old fellow, are you not?" quavered old Josef. "You are
waiting for the children to come back and make it merry, as it used to be
in the old days when you were a pup. Heigho! Those were pleasant days, but
they will never come again, Prince. We are all growing old, we three
together."
"Ah, peace, Josef, peace!" cried old Bettine, wiping her eyes again. "It
is lonely enough and sad enough, God knows, without speaking of it. What
use to sigh for that which cannot be? If the good Lord wished us to have a
comforter in our old age, doubtless He would send us one. He knows how we
have longed and prayed that a child's feet might echo through our house
once more: how we have hoped from year to year that one of the
grandchildren might return to bless us with his little presence." At this
moment Prince jumped to his feet with a low bark, and stood trembling,
with pointed ears.
"What dost thou hear, old dog?" asked the Grandfather carelessly. "There
is naught human abroad this night, I warrant you. All wise folk are
hugging the fire like us. Only those bad spirits of Christmas Eve are
howling about for mischief, they say. Best keep away from the door, old
Prince, lest they nip your toes or bite your nose for spite."
"Hush!" cried the Grandmother, laying her hand upon his arm. "You forget:
there is the Other One abroad. It may be that He--"
She was interrupted by Prince, who ran eagerly to the door and began
sniffing at the latch in great excitement. Then he gave a long, low howl.
At the same moment the latch rattled, and the Viauds distinctly heard a
little voice cry, "Open, open, good people!"
The old couple looked at each other; the cheeks of one flushed, and the
other's paled. At the same moment they rose stiffly from their chairs by
the fire. But Grandmother Bettine was first at the door. She lifted the
latch, the door blew open violently, and with a loud bark Prince dashed
out into the storm.
"What is it? Who is there?" cried Josef Viaud, peering over his wife's
shoulder. But no one answered save the rough storm, which fiercely blew
into the faces of the old couple, whirling and screaming about their
heads. "H'm! It was only a fancy," muttered the old man. "Come in, Mother.
Come, Prince!" and he whistled out into the storm. But the wind whistled
too, drowning his voice, and Prince did not return. "He is gone!" cried
Josef impatiently. "It is some evil spirit's work."
"Nay, Father!" and, as she spoke, the door banged violently in Josef's
face, as if to emphasize the good wife's rebuke. "It was a little child; I
heard it," insisted Bettine, as they staggered back to the fire and sank
weakly into their chairs. "Perhaps it was the Holy Child Himself, who
knows? But why would He not enter? Why, Josef! Oh, I fear we were not good
enough!"
"I only know that we have perhaps lost our good dog. Why did you open the
door, Bettine?" grumbled Josef sleepily.
"Prince is not lost. For what was he bred a snow-dog upon the mountains if
a storm like this be danger to him? He is of the race that rescues, that
finds and is never lost. Mayhap the Holy Child had work for him this
night. Ah, the Little One! If I could but have seen Him for one moment!"
And good Bettine's head nodded drowsily on her chair-back. Presently the
old couple were fast asleep.
Now when they had been dreaming strange things for some time, there came a
scratching at the door, and a loud bark which woke them suddenly.
"What was that?" exclaimed Grandfather, starting nervously. "Ho, Prince!
Are you without there?" and he ran to the door, while Grandmother was
still rubbing from her eyes the happy dream which had made them
moist,--the dream of a rosy, radiant Child who was to be the care and
comfort of a lonely cottage. And then, before she had fairly wakened
from the dream, Prince bounded into the room and laid before the fire at
her feet a soft, snow-wrapped bundle, from which hung a pale little face
with golden hair.
"It is the Child of my dream!" cried Bettine. "The Holy One has come back
to us."
"Nay, this is no dream-child, mother. This is a little human fellow,
nearly frozen to death," exclaimed Josef Viaud, pulling the bundle toward
the fire. "Come, Bettine, let us take off his snow-stiff clothes and get
some little garments from the chests yonder. I will give him a draught of
something warm, and rub the life into his poor little hands and feet. We
have both been dreaming, it seems. But certainly this is no dream!"
"Look! The dove!" cried Grandmother, taking the bird from the child's
bosom, where it still nestled, warm and warming. "Josef! I believe it is
indeed the Holy Child Himself," she whispered. "He bears a dove in his
bosom, like the image in the Church." But even as she spoke the dove
fluttered in her fingers, then, with a gentle "Coo-roo!" whirled once
about the little chamber and darted out at the door, which they had
forgotten quite to close. With that the child opened his eyes.
"The dove is gone!" he cried. "Yet I am warm. Why--has the little Stranger
come once more?" Then he saw the kind old faces bent over him, and felt
Prince's warm kisses on his hands and cheeks, with the fire flickering
pleasantly beyond.
"It is like coming home again!" he murmured, and with his head on
Bettine's shoulder dropped comfortably to sleep.
On the morrow all the village went to see the image of the Christ Child
lying in a manger near the high altar of the church. It was a sweet little
Child in a white shirt, clasping in his hands a dove. They believed him to
have come in the stormy night down the village street. And they were glad
that their pious candles in the windows had guided Him safely on the road.
But little Pierre, while he sang in the choir, and his adopted parents,
the Viauds, kneeling happily below, had sweet thoughts of a dream which
had brought them all together.
Who knows but that Prince at home happily guarding Pierre's snow-wet old
shoes--who knows but that Prince was dreaming the happiest dream of all?
For only Prince knew how and where and under what guidance he had found
the little friend of the Lord's friends sleeping in the snow, with but a
white dove in his bosom to keep him from becoming a boy of ice.
WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO
COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOÏ
In a certain city dwelt Martin Avdyeeich, the cobbler. He lived in a
cellar, a wretched little hole with a single window. The window looked up
towards the street, and through it Martin could just see the passers-by.
It is true that he could see little more than their boots, but Martin
Avdyeeich could read a man's character by his boots, so he needed no more.
Martin Avdyeeich had lived long in that one place, and had many
acquaintances. Few indeed were the boots in that neighborhood which had
not passed through his hands at some time or other. On some he would
fasten new soles, to others he would give side-pieces, others again he
would stitch all round, and even give them new uppers if need be. And
often he saw his own handiwork through the window. There was always lots
of work for him, for Avdyeeich's hand was cunning and his leather good;
nor did he overcharge, and he always kept his word. He always engaged to
do a job by a fixed time if he could; but if he could not, he said so at
once, and deceived no man. So every one knew Avdyeeich, and he had no lack
of work. Avdyeeich had always been a pretty good man, but as he grew old
he began to think more about his soul, and draw nearer to his God. While
Martin was still a journeyman his wife had died; but his wife had left him
a little boy--three years old. Their other children had not lived. All the
eldest had died early. Martin wished at first to send his little child
into the country to his sister, but afterwards he thought better of it.
"My Kapitoshka," thought he, "will feel miserable in a strange household.
He shall stay here with me." And so Avdyeeich left his master, and took to
living in lodgings alone with his little son. But God did not give
Avdyeeich happiness in his children. No sooner had the little one begun to
grow up and be a help and a joy to his father's heart, than a sickness
fell upon Kapitoshka, the little one took to his bed, lay there in a
raging fever for a week, and then died. Martin buried his son in
despair--so desperate was he that he began to murmur against God. Such
disgust of life overcame him that he more than once begged God that he
might die; and he reproached God for taking not him, an old man, but his
darling, his only son, instead. And after that Avdyeeich left off going
to church.
And lo! one day, there came to Avdyeeich from the Troitsa Monastery, an
aged peasant-pilgrim--it was already the eighth year of his pilgrimage.
Avdyeeich fell a-talking with him and began to complain of his great
sorrow. "As for living any longer, thou man of God," said he, "I desire it
not. Would only that I might die! That is my sole prayer to God. I am now
a man who has no hope."
And the old man said to him: "Thy speech, Martin, is not good. How shall
we judge the doings of God? God's judgments are not our thoughts. God
willed that thy son shouldst die, but that thou shouldst live. Therefore
'twas the best thing both for him and for thee. It is because thou wouldst
fain have lived for thy own delight that thou dost now despair."
"But what then _is_ a man to live for?" asked Avdyeeich.
And the old man answered: "For God, Martin! He gave thee life, and for Him
therefore must thou live. When thou dost begin to live for Him, thou wilt
grieve about nothing more, and all things will come easy to thee."
Martin was silent for a moment, and then he said: "And how must one live
for God?"
"Christ hath shown us the way. Thou knowest thy letters. Buy the Gospels
and read; there thou wilt find out how to live for God. There everything
is explained."
These words made the heart of Avdyeeich burn within him, and he went the
same day and bought for himself a New Testament printed in very large
type, and began to read.
Avdyeeich set out with the determination to read it only on holidays; but
as he read, it did his heart so much good that he took to reading it every
day. And the second time he read until all the kerosene in the lamp had
burnt itself out, and for all that he could not tear himself away from the
book. And so it was every evening. And the more he read, the more clearly
he understood what God wanted of him, and how it behooved him to live for
God; and his heart grew lighter and lighter continually. Formerly,
whenever he lay down to sleep he would only sigh and groan, and think of
nothing but Kapitoshka, but now he would only say to himself: "Glory to
Thee! Glory to Thee, O Lord! Thy will be done!"
Henceforth the whole life of Avdyeeich was changed. Formerly, whenever he
had a holiday, he would go to the tavern to drink tea, nor would he say no
to a drop of brandy now and again. He would tipple with his comrades, and
though not actually drunk, would, for all that, leave the inn a bit merry,
babbling nonsense and talking loudly and censoriously. He had done with
all that now. His life became quiet and joyful. With the morning light he
sat down to his work, worked out his time, then took down his lamp from
the hook, placed it on the table, took down his book from the shelf, bent
over it, and sat him down to read. And the more he read the more he
understood, and his heart grew brighter and happier.
It happened once that Martin was up reading till very late. He was reading
St. Luke's Gospel. He was reading the sixth chapter, and as he read he
came to the words: "And to him that smiteth thee on the one cheek, offer
also the other." This passage he read several times, and presently he came
to that place where the Lord says: "And why call ye me Lord, Lord, and do
not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to Me, and heareth My
sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like. He is like a
man which built an house, and dug deep, and laid the foundations on a
rock. And when the flood arose, the storm beat vehemently upon that house,
and could not shake it, for it was founded upon a rock. But he that
heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an
house upon the earth, against which the stream did beat vehemently, and
immediately it fell, and the ruin of that house was great."
Avdyeeich read these words through and through, and his heart was glad. He
took off his glasses, laid them on the book, rested his elbow on the
table, and fell a-thinking. And he began to measure his own life by these
words. And he thought to himself, "Is my house built on the rock or on the
sand? How good to be as on a rock! How easy it all seems to thee sitting
alone here. It seems as if thou wert doing God's will to the full, and so
thou takest no heed and fallest away again. And yet thou wouldst go on
striving, for so it is good for thee. O Lord, help me!" Thus thought he,
and would have laid him down, but it was a grief to tear himself away from
the book. And so he began reading the seventh chapter. He read all about
the Centurion, he read all about the Widow's Son, he read all about the
answer to the disciples of St. John; and so he came to that place where
the rich Pharisee invites our Lord to be his guest. And he read all about
how the woman who was a sinner anointed His feet and washed them with her
tears, and how He justified her. And so he came at last to the forty-fourth
verse, and there he read these words, "And He turned to the woman and
said to Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou
gavest Me no water for My feet; but she has washed My feet with tears and
wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest Me no kiss, but this
woman, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss My feet. Mine
head with oil thou didst not anoint."
And again Avdyeeich took off his glasses, and laid them on the book, and
fell a-thinking.
"So it is quite plain that I too have something of the Pharisee about me.
Am I not always thinking of myself? Am I not always thinking of drinking
tea, and keeping myself as warm and cozy as possible, without thinking at
all about the guest? Simon thought about himself, but did not give the
slightest thought to his guest. But who was the guest? The Lord Himself.
And suppose He were to come to me, should I treat Him as the Pharisee
did?"
And Avdyeeich leaned both his elbows on the table and, without perceiving
it, fell a-dozing.
"Martin!"--it was as though the voice of some one close to his ear.
Martin started up from his nap. "Who's there?"
He turned round, he gazed at the door, but there was no one. Again he
dozed off. Suddenly he heard quite plainly, "Martin, Martin, I say! Look
to-morrow into the street. I am coming."
Martin awoke, rose from his chair, and began to rub his eyes. And he did
not know himself whether he had heard these words asleep or awake. He
turned down the lamp and laid him down to rest.
At dawn next day, Avdyeeich arose, prayed to God, lit his stove, got ready
his gruel and cabbage soup, filled his samovar, put on his apron, and sat
him down by his window to work. There Avdyeeich sits and works, and thinks
of nothing but the things of yesternight. His thoughts were divided. He
thought at one time that he must have gone off dozing, and then again he
thought he really must have heard that voice. It might have been so,
thought he.
Martin sits at the window and looks as much at his window as at his work,
and whenever a strange pair of boots passes by he bends forward and looks
out of the window, so as to see the face as well as the feet of the
passers-by. The house porter passed by in new felt boots, the
water-carrier passed by, and after that there passed close to the window
an old soldier, one of Nicholas's veterans, in tattered old boots, with a
shovel in his hands. Avdyeeich knew him by his boots. The old fellow was
called Stepanuich, and lived with the neighboring shopkeeper, who
harbored him of his charity. His duty was to help the porter. Stepanuich
stopped before Avdyeeich's window to sweep away the snow. Avdyeeich cast a
glance at him, and then went on working as before.
"I'm not growing sager as I grow older," thought Avdyeeich, with some
self-contempt. "I make up my mind that Christ is coming to me, and lo!
'tis only Stepanuich clearing away the snow. Thou simpleton, thou! thou
art wool-gathering!" Then Avdyeeich made ten more stitches, and then he
stretched his head once more towards the window. He looked through the
window again, and there he saw that Stepanuich had placed the shovel
against the wall, and was warming himself and taking breath a bit.