Once upon a time, long ago, in a far-off Russian village, there lived an old master shoemaker. His name was Panov, but nobody called him Panov, or Mr. Panov, or even Panov the shoemaker. Everyone he met simply called him Uncle Panov.
Uncle Panov was not very rich. He had one tiny little room with a window looking out onto the street. He lived in this little room, where he diligently made, mended and repaired shoes. Nor, however, could he be said to have lived in poverty, for he had tools, a battered stove on which he could cook his lunch and warm his chilled limbs, a large wicker chair in which he occasionally rested and even dozed, a sturdy bed with a worm blanket, and a small oil lamp which he lit when night fell.
And people kept coming to him. Sometimes they ordered new shoes, sometimes they brought their old shoes in to be mended, or to have a new heel put on. And so Uncle Panov always had enough money to buy bread from the baker, coffee from the soda shop or cabbage for his favourite soup. The old master shoemaker was happy. His eyes, hidden behind his small, round glasses, always shone with a cheerful light. He loved to sing, whistle and greet his friends in the street.
But on this day, things were different. Uncle Panov stood sadly at the window of his little room. He thought of his deceased wife and his sons and daughters, who had long since left the family nest. It was Christmas Eve, a family holiday, when the family is together, only he has to spend the evening alone.
He looked at the neighbouring windows, bright with candles and lanterns, behind which he could see some decorated Christmas trees. The clatter of children playing in the street, their exuberant laughter echoed into her room, and through the cracks in her door the tantalising smell of Christmas roast meat crept into the tiny shoemaker's workshop.
"My God, my God," said Uncle Panov sadly, shaking his head. "My God, my God," he repeated, as the cheerful light in his eyes faded.
Then he sighed, lit the oil lamp, walked over to the high shelf and lifted an old, yellowed book off it. He swept the small pieces of leather from his desk, put coffee on the stove, and then, sitting comfortably in his big wicker chair, began to read. Having never been to school, he could only read very, very slowly. He carefully traced the lines with his finger, saying each syllable aloud.
The story was about Christmas. It was about a little boy called Jesus who was born in a stable instead of a warm room because his parents were not allowed to stay at the inn.
"Yes, indeed", Uncle Panov muttered, twirling his moustache. "If they had come here, they could have slept at my place. I'd have covered the little child with my worm blanket and played with him."
Uncle Panov got up from his chair and poked at the fire. The fog was thickening outside, and the room was getting darker, so he turned up the light a little. He poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to his book. Now he was reading about the three rich men who had travelled across the desert bringing their gifts of gold and perfumed spices to the baby Jesus.
"My dear God..." she burst out, "but if Jesus came to me, I would have nothing to give him!"
Then he smiled suddenly, his eyes once more bright with mirth, and rose from the table, stepped to the high shelf, and lifted from it a dusty box tied with a spar. He opened it and took out a pair of small shoes. These two little shoes were the best work of his life.
"I'd give him these if he came to visit me," she said firmly, and then she put them back on the shelf, and she herself sat back in her wicker chair and leaned over her book with a sigh.
Perhaps because he was lulled by the warmth of the room, or perhaps because it was late, Uncle Panov's bony finger slipped off the page of the book, and his small round glasses fell on his nose: he fell quietly asleep.
Outside, a thickening mist filled the landscape. Dim shadows passed outside the window. But the old shoemaker could not see them. He slept in his chair, snoring softly.
Suddenly, there was only one voice in the room: "Uncle Panov!"
The old man jumped up from his chair. His grey moustache trembled as he asked, "Who is it? Who's there?"
He saw no one, yet he felt there was someone else in the room.
"Uncle Panov", the voice said again. "You want me to visit you. You want to give me a present. Tomorrow I'll be passing by. So watch the street from dawn till dusk, and you will see me! But be careful. I won't tell you who I am! You must recognize me!"
The room was silent again. Uncle Panov rubbed his eyes, but saw no one. The charcoal burned slowly on the stove, the oil lamp was barely flickering. Outside, the bells were ringing: Christmas had come.
"That could only be Him," the old master shoemaker muttered under his moustache. What if it was all a dream? Even so... I will wait all day and hope that he will come to see me. But how will I recognize him? He's not a baby forever. He grew up and became a king, and said that he was the Son of God."
The old man bowed his head and thought, "I must watch the street very carefully, lest he should pass me by unnoticed.
Uncle Panov did not go to bed that night. He sat in his wicker chair, facing the window. He watched vigilantly as dawn broke. The first rays of sunlight slowly appeared over the hill, illuminating the long, winding, cobbled street. But no passers-by had yet appeared among the houses.
"I'm going to make myself a nice cup of coffee for my Christmas breakfast," thought Uncle Panov cheerfully.
He warmed the stove, put on a good pot of coffee, but kept one eye on the window, lest his expected visitor should pass unnoticed.
Finally, someone appeared. An approaching human figure was visible at the end of the street. Uncle Panov pressed his nose against the ice-flowered window pane with a beating heart. Maybe Jesus is coming, he thought to himself excitedly. Then, disappointed, he stepped back from the window. It wasn't Jesus, just the old street sweeper who passed by every week, going from house to house with his wheelbarrow and broom.
Uncle Panov was staring moodily out into the street. Then he turned away from the window. I've got more important things to do, he thought to himself, than watch an old street sweeper. I am waiting for an important guest: God, the King of kings, Jesus. He turned back only when he thought the sweeper had passed the house. But the old man was still on the opposite side of the street. Rubbing his frozen hands over his wheelbarrow, he staggered in the cold.
Uncle Panov suddenly felt sorry for him: the poor man was obviously very cold, and he had to work on Christmas Day. He knocked on the window, but the street sweeper didn't respond, so he opened the door and called out, "Hey, my friend!"
The street sweeper looked up in fear - people often treated him roughly because of his work - but relaxed when he saw the broad smile on Uncle Panov's face.
"Come and join me for a cup of coffee!" - "I see you're cold to the bone." The street sweeper left his wheelbarrow and entered the old man's workshop.
"Thank you," he said. "That's very kind of you. Really very kind."
Uncle Panov stirred the coffee in the pot on the stove.
"It's the least I can do," he said without turning around. "After all, it is Christmas."
The street sweeper replied, sniffling, "That's all I got for Christmas."
She took the cup of coffee from Uncle Panov and shuffled over to the stove to warm it up a little. The damp cloth of her damp dress gave off a sour smell. Uncle Panov walked back to the window and stared at the street.
"Are you expecting a guest?" - asked the street sweeper gloomily. "I mean, a normal one, not someone like me."
Uncle Panov bowed his head, "Well... How shall I put it? Have you heard about Jesus?" - "The Son of God?" "Well, I'm waiting for him today," said Uncle Panov.
The street sweeper looked up in surprise, then slowly wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. Uncle Panov then told him the whole story.
"That's why I'm always watching the street," he finished. "I'm waiting for him to arrive."
The street sweeper put his coffee cup on the edge of the stove.
"Well, good luck," he said, and started for the door. "By the way... thanks for the coffee," she turned back, a smile appearing on her face for the first time.
Outside, he took his wheelbarrow and continued his work. Uncle Panov looked after him from the door of his workshop until his figure was swallowed up in the distance.
The winter sunshine was unusually strong, making the street bright and even providing a little warmth that melted the ice on the windows and the paving stones. The first passers-by appeared. A few drunks staggered their way home after a night of revelry, families dressed in festive costumes set off to visit relatives. Many greeted Uncle Panov, who stood in the doorway of his shoemaker's shop, with a polite bow.
"Merry Christmas, Uncle Panov!" - they told him.
The old man returned the greeting graciously, but stopped no one. He knew them all. The one he was waiting for was not a villager.
She was about to return to her room when someone woke her up. A young woman was stumbling at the foot of the houses. She was thin, her face tired, her clothes shabby. She held a small child in her arms.
She was about to pass the shoemaker's shop when Uncle Panov said, "Good afternoon, young lady! Come in and warm up a bit at my place."
She shrank at the sound, and would have gone on, but the kindly light in Uncle Panov's eyes made her trust the old man.
"Thank you, that's very kind of you," said the young woman as she entered the shoemaker's workshop. But Uncle Panov shrugged.
"It's nothing," he said. "I see you're all wet through. Have you gone far?"
"To the village next door," the young woman replied frankly. "We have four miles to walk. My cousin lives there and I would like to ask him to take us in. I can't stay where I've been living because I can't pay the rent. My husband has left me."
Uncle Panov approached him.
"I've got bread, I'll make some soup and we'll have lunch, OK?"
But the young woman shook her head proudly.
"All right, but we'll give this little one some warm milk," said the old man, and with that he took the baby from his mother's hand. "Don't worry, I've had children too!" - he added with a glowing look.
He heated a pot of milk and fed the baby, who was giggling and kicking happily in the old man's lap the whole time.
"Well, well!" - cried Uncle Panov. "He has no shoes!"
"There was nothing to buy for her," the young woman's bitterness burst out.
And a thought began to assault Uncle Panov's mind. He tried to ignore it, but the thought would not leave him alone. Finally he stood up and took down from the shelf again the box in which he had kept the most beautiful work of his life - the two little children's shoes. He tried them on her little feet, and strangely enough, they fit her perfectly.
"Well then, use them with health!" - he said gently.
The young woman could not hide her joy.
"How can I repay your kindness?" - she asked, her voice trembling with joy. But Uncle Panov paid no attention.
He stood at the window again, looking out at the street. I hope, he thought, that Jesus did not pass by while I was feeding the child.
"Did something happen?" - asked the young woman.
"Have you heard about Jesus, who was born on Christmas?" - the old master shoemaker turned back to him.
The young woman nodded.
"I am waiting for him," said Uncle Panov. "He promised to visit me today."
And she told him about her dream, if it was a dream at all, about what had happened to her that night. The young woman listened carefully. Then, though she looked as if she did not take it seriously, she touched the old man's hand and said to him:
"I hope the dream will come true! It deserves to come true, if only for being so good to me and my child."
And with that he continued on his way. Uncle Panov closed the door after them, cooked himself a big bowl of cabbage soup for lunch, and returned to the window.
Hours passed, people came and went on the streets. Uncle Panov searched the faces carefully, but Jesus was not among them. An anxiety slowly took hold of him. Maybe Jesus had already passed by, but he didn't recognize him! Perhaps he had just passed the window when he had looked away for a moment, or had got up to poke at the fire!
He had no patience to sit in his wicker chair, got up, stood in front of the door again. There were different kinds of people on the street: children and old people, beggars and grandmothers, people with cheerful faces and people with gloomy faces. Uncle Panov smiled at some, nodded to others, gave beggars money or a slice of bread. But Jesus just didn't come.
When it was dark, Uncle Panov lost all hope. A thick December fog descended, and the passers-by began to thin out, becoming unrecognisable, blurred shadows.
The old master shoemaker sadly lit his lamp, put it on the fire, and prepared himself a meal. Then he took out his book and settled down in his great wicker chair, but his heart was too sad, his eyes too tired to read.
"It was all a dream," he muttered sadly. "And I wanted so much to believe in it. I really wanted him to visit me!"
Behind his glasses, two large tears blurred his vision. Suddenly, the room seemed to change. Through his tears, Uncle Panov thought he saw a marching crowd of people in his small workshop. There they were: the street-sweeper, the young woman with her child, and all the others he had seen that day, everyone he had greeted that day.
And as they passed by, they whispered to him, "Didn't you see me? Did you really not see me, Uncle Panov?"
"Who are you?" - cried the old master shoemaker. "Tell me who you are!"
Suddenly the same sound filled the room that he had heard the night before, but where it came from Uncle Panov could not decipher.
"I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I had no clothes, and you clothed me. When you helped people today, you not only helped them, you did me good."
And again silence fell over Uncle Panov's little room. The tears in his eyes dried up. He looked around with clear eyes, but saw no one.
"Well, well," he said quietly, fluffing his long, grey moustache. "So he was here after all."
He shook his head thoughtfully, then smiled, and the familiar, cheerful light flashed again in his eyes behind his small, round glasses.
(Adaptation of a folk tale by Lev Tolstoy)
