The Big Book of Christmas

by Anton Chekhov

  And Richard smothered her with kisses.

  You never in all your life saw anything like Trotty after this. I don’t care where you have lived or what you have seen; you never in all your life saw anything at all approaching him! He sat down in his chair and beat his knees and cried; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and laughed; he sat down in his chair and beat his knees and laughed and cried together; he got out of his chair and hugged Meg; he got out of his chair and hugged Richard; he got out of his chair and hugged them both at once; he kept running up to Meg, and squeezing her fresh face between his hands and kissing it, going from her backwards not to lose sight of it, and running up again like a figure in a magic lantern; and whatever he did, he was constantly sitting himself down in his chair, and never stopping in it for one single moment; being—that’s the truth—beside himself with joy.

  ‘And to–morrow’s your wedding–day, my pet!’ cried Trotty. ‘Your real, happy wedding–day!’

  ‘To–day!’ cried Richard, shaking hands with him. ‘To–day. The Chimes are ringing in the New Year. Hear them!’

  They were ringing! Bless their sturdy hearts, they were ringing! Great Bells as they were; melodious, deep–mouthed, noble Bells; cast in no common metal; made by no common founder; when had they ever chimed like that, before!

  ‘But, to–day, my pet,’ said Trotty. ‘You and Richard had some words to–day.’

  ‘Because he’s such a bad fellow, father,’ said Meg. ‘An’t you, Richard? Such a headstrong, violent man! He’d have made no more of speaking his mind to that great Alderman, and putting him down I don’t know where, than he would of—’

  ‘—Kissing Meg,’ suggested Richard. Doing it too!

  ‘No. Not a bit more,’ said Meg. ‘But I wouldn’t let him, father. Where would have been the use!’

  ‘Richard my boy!’ cried Trotty. ‘You was turned up Trumps originally; and Trumps you must be, till you die! But, you were crying by the fire to–night, my pet, when I came home! Why did you cry by the fire?’

  ‘I was thinking of the years we’ve passed together, father. Only that. And thinking that you might miss me, and be lonely.’

  Trotty was backing off to that extraordinary chair again, when the child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in half–dressed.

  ‘Why, here she is!’ cried Trotty, catching her up. ‘Here’s little Lilian! Ha ha ha! Here we are and here we go! O here we are and here we go again! And here we are and here we go! and Uncle Will too!’ Stopping in his trot to greet him heartily. ‘O, Uncle Will, the vision that I’ve had to–night, through lodging you! O, Uncle Will, the obligations that you’ve laid me under, by your coming, my good friend!’

  Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst into the room, attended by a lot of neighbours, screaming ‘A Happy New Year, Meg!’ ‘A Happy Wedding!’ ‘Many of ’em!’ and other fragmentary good wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty’s) then stepped forward, and said:

  ‘Trotty Veck, my boy! It’s got about, that your daughter is going to be married to–morrow. There an’t a soul that knows you that don’t wish you well, or that knows her and don’t wish her well. Or that knows you both, and don’t wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are, to play it in and dance it in, accordingly.’

  Which was received with a general shout. The Drum was rather drunk, by–the–bye; but, never mind.

  ‘What a happiness it is, I’m sure,’ said Trotty, ‘to be so esteemed! How kind and neighbourly you are! It’s all along of my dear daughter. She deserves it!’

  They were ready for a dance in half a second (Meg and Richard at the top); and the Drum was on the very brink of feathering away with all his power; when a combination of prodigious sounds was heard outside, and a good–humoured comely woman of some fifty years of age, or thereabouts, came running in, attended by a man bearing a stone pitcher of terrific size, and closely followed by the marrow–bones and cleavers, and the bells; not the Bells, but a portable collection on a frame.

  Trotty said, ‘It’s Mrs. Chickenstalker!’ And sat down and beat his knees again.

  ‘Married, and not tell me, Meg!’ cried the good woman. ‘Never! I couldn’t rest on the last night of the Old Year without coming to wish you joy. I couldn’t have done it, Meg. Not if I had been bed–ridden. So here I am; and as it’s New Year’s Eve, and the Eve of your wedding too, my dear, I had a little flip made, and brought it with me.’

  Mrs. Chickenstalker’s notion of a little flip did honour to her character. The pitcher steamed and smoked and reeked like a volcano; and the man who had carried it, was faint.

  ‘Mrs. Tugby!’ said Trotty, who had been going round and round her, in an ecstasy.—‘I should say, Chickenstalker—Bless your heart and soul! A Happy New Year, and many of ’em! Mrs. Tugby,’ said Trotty when he had saluted her;—‘I should say, Chickenstalker—This is William Fern and Lilian.’

  The worthy dame, to his surprise, turned very pale and very red.

  ‘Not Lilian Fern whose mother died in Dorsetshire!’ said she.

  Her uncle answered ‘Yes,’ and meeting hastily, they exchanged some hurried words together; of which the upshot was, that Mrs. Chickenstalker shook him by both hands; saluted Trotty on his cheek again of her own free will; and took the child to her capacious breast.

  ‘Will Fern!’ said Trotty, pulling on his right–hand muffler. ‘Not the friend you was hoping to find?’

  ‘Ay!’ returned Will, putting a hand on each of Trotty’s shoulders. ‘And like to prove a’most as good a friend, if that can be, as one I found.’

  ‘O!’ said Trotty. ‘Please to play up there. Will you have the goodness!’

  To the music of the band, and, the bells, the marrow–bones and cleavers, all at once; and while the Chimes were yet in lusty operation out of doors; Trotty, making Meg and Richard, second couple, led off Mrs. Chickenstalker down the dance, and danced it in a step unknown before or since; founded on his own peculiar trot.

  Had Trotty dreamed? Or, are his joys and sorrows, and the actors in them, but a dream; himself a dream; the teller of this tale a dreamer, waking but now? If it be so, O listener, dear to him in all his visions, try to bear in mind the stern realities from which these shadows come; and in your sphere—none is too wide, and none too limited for such an end—endeavour to correct, improve, and soften them. So may the New Year be a happy one to you, happy to many more whose happiness depends on you! So may each year be happier than the last, and not the meanest of our brethren or sisterhood debarred their rightful share, in what our Great Creator formed them to enjoy.

  The Christmas Golbin

  Charles Dickens

  The Christmas Golbin

  In an old abbey town, a long, long while ago there officiated as sexton and gravedigger in the churchyard one Gabriel Grubb. He was an ill conditioned cross-grained, surly fellow, who consorted with nobody but himself and an old wicker-bottle which fitted into his large, deep waistcoat pocket.

  * * *

  A little before twilight one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself toward the old churchyard, for he had a grave to finish by next morning, and feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once.

  * * *

  He strode along until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard—a nice, gloomy, mournful place into which the towns-people did not care to go except in broad daylight, consequently he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a Merry Christmas. Gabriel waited until the boy came up, then rapped him over the head with his lantern five or six times to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away, with his hand to his head, Gabriel Grubb chuckled to himself and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind him.

  * * *

  He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getting i
nto an unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no easy matter to break it up and shovel it out. At any other time this would have made Gabriel very miserable, but he was so pleased at having stopped the small boy's singing that he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made when he had finished work for the night, and looked down into the grave with grim satisfaction, murmuring as he gathered up his things:

  * * *

  "Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,

  A few feet of cold earth when life is done."

  "Ho! ho!" he laughed, as he set himself down on a flat tombstone, which was a favorite resting-place of his, and drew forth his wicker-bottle. "A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box. Ho! ho! ho!"

  * * *

  "Ho! ho! ho!" repeated a voice close beside him.

  * * *

  "It was the echoes," said he, raising the bottle to his lips again.

  * * *

  "It was not," said a deep voice.

  * * *

  Gabriel started up and stood rooted to the spot with terror, for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.

  * * *

  Seated on an upright tombstone close to him was a strange, unearthly figure. He was sitting perfectly still, grinning at Gabriel Grubb with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.

  * * *

  "What do you here on Christmas Eve?" said the goblin, sternly.

  * * *

  "I came to dig a grave, sir," stammered Gabriel.

  * * *

  "What man wanders among graves on such a night as this?" cried the goblin.

  * * *

  "Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb!" screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the churchyard.

  * * *

  "What have you got in that bottle?" said the goblin.

  * * *

  "Hollands, sir," replied the sexton, trembling more than ever, for he had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought his questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins.

  * * *

  "Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard on such a night as this?"

  * * *

  "Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb!" exclaimed the wild voices again.

  * * *

  "And who, then, is our lawful prize?" exclaimed the goblin, raising his voice.

  * * *

  The invisible chorus replied, "Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb!"

  * * *

  "Well, Gabriel, what do you say to this?" said the goblin, as he grinned a broader grin than before.

  * * *

  The sexton gasped for breath.

  * * *

  "What do you think of this, Gabriel?"

  * * *

  "It's—it's very curious, sir, very curious, sir, and very pretty," replied the sexton, half-dead with fright. "But I think I'll go back and finish my work, sir, if you please."

  * * *

  "Work!" said the goblin, "what work?"

  * * *

  "The grave, sir."

  * * *

  "Oh! the grave, eh? Who makes graves at a time when other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?"

  * * *

  Again the voices replied, "Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb!"

  * * *

  "I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel," said the goblin.

  * * *

  "Under favor, sir," replied the horror-stricken sexton, "I don't think they can; they don't know me, sir; I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen me."

  * * *

  "Oh! yes, they have. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart because the boy could be merry and he could not."

  * * *

  Here the goblin gave a loud, shrill laugh which the echoes returned twenty-fold.

  * * *

  "I—I am afraid I must leave you, sir," said the sexton, making an effort to move.

  * * *

  "Leave us!" said the goblin; "ho! ho! ho!"

  * * *

  As the goblin laughed he suddenly darted toward Gabriel, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him through the earth. And when he had had time to fetch his breath he found himself in what appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by goblins ugly and grim.

  * * *

  "And now," said the king of the goblins, seated in the centre of the room on an elevated seat—his friend of the churchyard—"show the man of misery and gloom a few of the pictures from our great storehouses."

  * * *

  As the goblin said this a cloud rolled gradually away and disclosed a small and scantily furnished but neat apartment. Little children were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother's gown, or gamboling round her chair. A frugal meal was spread upon the table and an elbow-chair was placed near the fire. Soon the father entered and the children ran to meet him. As he sat down to his meal the mother sat by his side and all seemed happiness and comfort.

  * * *

  "What do you think of that?" said the goblin.

  * * *

  Gabriel murmured something about its being very pretty.

  * * *

  "Show him some more," said the goblin.

  * * *

  Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel Grubb. He saw that men who worked hard and earned their scanty bread were cheerful and happy. And he came to the conclusion it was a very respectable sort of a world after all. No sooner had he formed it than the cloud closed over the last picture seemed to settle on his senses and lull him to repose. One by one the goblins faded from his sight, and as the last one disappeared he sank to sleep.

  * * *

  The day had broken when he awoke, and found himself lying on the flat gravestone, with the wicker-bottle empty by his side. He got on his feet as well as he could, and brushing the frost off his coat, turned his face toward the town.

  * * *

  But he was an altered man, he had learned lessons of gentleness and good-nature by his strange adventures in the goblin's cavern.

  The Cricket on the Hearth

  Charles Dickens

  Chirp the First

  THE kettle began it! Don’t tell me what Mrs. Peerybingle said. I know better. Mrs. Peerybingle may leave it on record to the end of time that she couldn’t say which of them began it; but, I say the kettle did. I ought to know, I hope! The kettle began it, full five minutes by the little waxy–faced Dutch clock in the corner, before the Cricket uttered a chirp.

  As if the clock hadn’t finished striking, and the convulsive little Haymaker at the top of it, jerking away right and left with a scythe in front of a Moorish Palace, hadn’t mowed down half an acre of imaginary grass before the Cricket joined in at all!

  Why, I am not naturally positive. Every one knows that. I wouldn’t set my own opinion against the opinion of Mrs. Peerybingle, unless I were quite sure, on any account whatever. Nothing should induce me. But, this is a question of fact. And the fact is, that the kettle began it, at least five minutes before the Cricket gave any sign of being in existence. Contradict me, and I’ll say ten.

  Let me narrate exactly how it happened. I should have proceeded to do so in my very first word, but for this plain consideration—if I am to tell a story I must begin at the beginning; and how is it possible to begin at the beginning, without beginning at the kettle?

  It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill, you must understand, between the kettle and the Cricket. And this is what led to it, and how it came about.

  Mrs. Peerybingle, going out into the raw twilight, and clicking over the wet stones in a pair of pattens that worked innumerable rough impressions of the first proposition in Euclid all about the yard—Mrs. Peerybingle filled the kettle at the water–butt. Presently returning, less the pattens (and a good deal less, for they were tall and Mrs. Peerybingle was but short), she set the kettle on the fire. In doing which she lost her tem
per, or mislaid it for an instant; for, the water being uncomfortably cold, and in that slippy, slushy, sleety sort of state wherein it seems to penetrate through every kind of substance, patten rings included—had laid hold of Mrs. Peerybingle’s toes, and even splashed her legs. And when we rather plume ourselves (with reason too) upon our legs, and keep ourselves particularly neat in point of stockings, we find this, for the moment, hard to bear.

  Besides, the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn’t allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn’t hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal; it would lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble, a very idiot of a kettle, on the hearth. It was quarrelsome, and hissed and spluttered morosely at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peerybingle’s fingers, first of all turned topsy–turvy, and then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, dived sideways in—down to the very bottom of the kettle. And the hull of the Royal George has never made half the monstrous resistance to coming out of the water, which the lid of that kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle, before she got it up again.