A Christmas Tree and a Wedding Page #2

"A Christmas Tree and a Wedding" is a short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky that explores themes of social class, human relationships, and moral complexities. The narrative unfolds during a Christmas gathering, where the narrator reflects on a wealthy man's lavish lifestyle and his interactions with a group of guests, particularly a beautiful but naive young girl. The story contrasts the superficiality of societal celebrations with deeper emotional truths, ultimately highlighting the tension between love, greed, and the impact of societal expectations on personal relationships. Through its poignant observations, Dostoevsky invites readers to consider the meaning of genuine connection in a materialistic world.

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fingers.

"Three hundred ... three hundred," he was whispering. "Eleven ... twelve
... thirteen," and so on. "Sixteen--five years! Supposing it is at four
per cent.--five times twelve is sixty; yes, to that sixty ... well, in
five years we may assume it will be four hundred. Yes!... But he won't
stick to four per cent., the rascal. He can get eight or ten. Well, five
hundred, let us say, five hundred at least ... that's certain; well, say
a little more for frills. H'm!..."

His hesitation was at an end, he blew his nose and was on the point of
going out of the room when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and
stopped short. He did not see me behind the pots of greenery. It seemed
to me that he was greatly excited. Either his calculations had affected
his imagination or something else, for he rubbed his hands and could
hardly stand still. This excitement reached its utmost limit when he
stopped and bent another resolute glance at the future heiress. He was
about to move forward, but first looked round, then moving on tiptoe, as
though he felt guilty, he advanced towards the children. He approached
with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. The child,
not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm.

"What are you doing here, sweet child?" he asked in a whisper, looking
round and patting the girl's cheek.

"We are playing."

"Ah! With him?" Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. "You had
better go into the drawing-room, my dear," he said to him.

The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian
Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little
girl.

"And what is this you've got--a dolly, dear child?" he asked.

"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning, and a little shy.

"A dolly ... and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?"

"I don't know ..." the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.

"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to
your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the
boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not
want to be separated.

"And do you know why they gave you that doll?" asked Yulian
Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.

"I don't know."

"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week."

At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in
most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with
emotion and impatience--

"And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa
and mamma?"

Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss "the dear
little girl," but the red-haired boy, seeing that the little girl was on
the point of tears, clutched her hand and began whimpering from sympathy
for her. Yulian Mastakovitch was angry in earnest.

"Go away, go away from here, go away!" he said to the boy. "Go into the
drawing-room! Go in there to your playmates!"

"No, he needn't, he needn't! You go away," said the little girl. "Leave
him alone, leave him alone," she said, almost crying.

Some one made a sound at the door. Yulian Mastakovitch instantly raised
his majestic person and took alarm. But the red-haired boy was even more
alarmed than Yulian Mastakovitch; he abandoned the little girl and,
slinking along by the wall, stole out of the parlour into the
dining-room. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yulian Mastakovitch, too, went
into the dining-room. He was as red as a lobster, and, glancing into the
looking-glass, seemed to be ashamed at himself. He was perhaps vexed
with himself for his impetuosity and hastiness. Possibly, he was at
first so much impressed by his calculations, so inspired and fascinated
by them, that in spite of his seriousness and dignity he made up his
mind to behave like a boy, and directly approach the object of his
attentions, even though she could not be really the object of his
attentions for another five years at least. I followed the estimable
gentleman into the dining-room and there beheld a strange spectacle.
Yulian Mastakovitch, flushed with vexation and anger, was frightening
the red-haired boy, who, retreating from him, did not know where to run
in his terror.

"Go away; what are you doing here? Go away, you scamp; are you after the
fruit here, eh? Get along, you naughty boy! Get along, you sniveller, to
your playmates!"

The panic-stricken boy in his desperation tried creeping under the
table. Then his persecutor, in a fury, took out his large batiste
handkerchief and began flicking it under the table at the child, who
kept perfectly quiet. It must be observed that Yulian Mastakovitch was a
little inclined to be fat. He was a sleek, red-faced, solidly built man,
paunchy, with thick legs; what is called a fine figure of a man, round
as a nut. He was perspiring, breathless, and fearfully flushed. At last
he was almost rigid, so great was his indignation and perhaps--who
knows?--his jealousy. I burst into loud laughter. Yulian Mastakovitch
turned round and, in spite of all his consequence, was overcome with
confusion. At that moment from the opposite door our host came in. The
boy crept out from under the table and wiped his elbows and his knees.
Yulian Mastakovitch hastened to put to his nose the handkerchief which
he was holding in his hand by one end.

Our host looked at the three of us in some perplexity; but as a man who
knew something of life, and looked at it from a serious point of view,
he at once availed himself of the chance of catching his visitor by
himself.

"Here, this is the boy," he said, pointing to the red-haired boy, "for
whom I had the honour to solicit your influence."

"Ah!" said Yulian Mastakovitch, who had hardly quite recovered himself.

"The son of my children's governess," said our host, in a tone of a
petitioner, "a poor woman, the widow of an honest civil servant; and
therefore ... and therefore, Yulian Mastakovitch, if it were possible
..."

"Oh, no, no!" Yulian Mastakovitch made haste to answer; "no, excuse me,
Filip Alexyevitch, it's quite impossible. I've made inquiries; there's
no vacancy, and if there were, there are twenty applicants who have far
more claim than he.... I am very sorry, very sorry...."

"What a pity," said our host. "He is a quiet, well-behaved boy."

"A great rascal, as I notice," answered Yulian Mastakovitch, with a
nervous twist of his lip. "Get along, boy; why are you standing there?
Go to your playmates," he said, addressing the child.

At that point he could not contain himself, and glanced at me out of one
eye. I, too, could not contain myself, and laughed straight in his face.
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