Speaker 1: Bertie's Christmas Eve by Sarki. It was Christmas Eve, and
the family circle of Luke Stephink Esquire was a glow
with the amiability and random mirth which the occasion demanded.
A long and lavish dinner had been partaken of, weights
had been round and sung carols. The house party had
regaled itself with more caroling on its own account, and
there had been romping, which even in a pulpit reference
could not have been condemned as ragging. In the midst
of the general glow, however, there was one black, unkindled cinder.
Bertie Stephink, nephew of the aforementioned Luke, had early in
life adopted the profession of ne'er do well. His father
had been something of the kind before him. At the
age of eighteen, Bertie had commenced that round of visit
to our colonial possessions, so seemly and desirable in the
case of a prince of the blood, so suggestive of
insincerity in a young man of the middle class. He
had gone to grow tea in Ceylon and fruit in
British Columbia, and to help sheep to grow wool in Australia.
At the age of twenty. He had just returned from
some similar errand in Canada, from which it may be
gathered that the trial he gave to these various experiments
was of the summary drumhead nature. Luke Stepphink, who fulfilled
the troubled role of guardian and deputy parent to Bertie,
deplored the persistent manifestation of the homing instinct on his
nephew's part, and his solemn thanks earlier in the day
for the blessing of reporting a united family had no
reference to bertie return. Arrangements had been promptly made for
packing the youth off to a distant corner of Rhodesia.
Whence return would be a difficult matter. The journey to
this uninviting destination was imminent. In fact, a more careful
and willing traveler would have already begun to think about
his packing. Hence, Bertie was in no mood to share
in the festive spirit which displayed itself around him, and
resentment smoldered within him at the eager, self absorbed discussion
of social plans for the coming months, which he heard
on all sides. Beyond depressing his uncle and the family
circle generally by singing say au revoir and not good bye.
He had taken no part in the evening's conviviality. Eleven
o'clock had struck some half hour ago, and the elder
Stephink's began to throw out suggestions leading up to that process,
which they called retiring for the night. Come tell me
it's time you were in your little bed, you know,
said Luke Stephfink to his thirteen year old son. That's
where we all ought to be, said missus Stepfhink. Now
wouldn't be room, said Bertie. The remark was considered to
border on the scandalous. Everybody ate raisins and almonds with
the nervous industry of sheep feeding during threatening weather in Russia.
Said Horace Bordenby, who was staying in the house as
a Christmas guest. I've read that the peasants believe that
if you go into a cow house or stable at
midnight on Christmas Eve, you will hear the animals talk.
They're supposed to have the gift of speech at that
one moment of the Oh do let all go down
to the cow house and listen to what they've got
to say? Exclaimed Beryl to whom anything was thrilling and
amusing if you did it in a troupe. Missus Stephink
made a laughing protest, but gave a virtual consent by
saying we must all wrap up well. Then the idea
seemed a scatter brained one to her, and almost heathenish,
but it afforded an opportunity for throwing the young people together,
and as such she welcomed it. Mister Horace Bordenby was
a young man with quite substantial prospects, and he had
danced with Beryl at a local subscription ball a sufficient
number of times to warrant the authorized inquiry on the
part of the neighbors whether there was anything in it.
Though Missus Stephink would not have put it in semin
many words, she shared the idea of the Russian peasantry
that on this night the beast might speak. The cow
house stood at the junction of the garden with a
small paddock, an isolated survival in a suburban neighborhood of
what had once been a small farm. Luke Stepphink was
complacently proud of his cow house and his two cows.
He felt that they gave him a stamp of solidity
which no number of Wyandots or Orpington's could impart. They
even seemed to link him in a sort of inconsequent
way with those patriarchs who derived importance from their floating
capital of flocks and herds, heasses and chiasses. It had
been an anxious and momentous occasion when he had had
to decide definitely between the buyer and the ranch for
the naming of his villa residence. A December midnight was
hardly the moment he would have chosen for showing his
farm building to visitors. But since it was a fine
night and the young people were anxious for an excuse
for a mild frolic, Luke consented to chaperone the expedition.
The servants had long since gone to bed, so the
house was left in charge of Bertie, who scornfully declined
to stir out on the pretext of listening to bovine conversation.
We must go quietly, said Luke as he headed the
procession of giggling young folk, brought up in the rear
by the showled and hooded figure of Missus Stephink. I
have always laid stress on keeping this a quiet and
orderly neighborhood. It was a few minutes to midnight when
the party reached the car house and made its way
in by the light of liane stable lantern. For a
moment everyone stood in silence, almost with the feeling of
being in church. Er Daisy, the one lying down is
by a short horned bull out of a Guernsey cow,
announced Luke in a hushed voice, which was in keeping
with the foregoing impression. Is she asked Bordenby, rather as
if he had expected her to be by Rembrandt. Myrtle
is Myrtle's family history. Was cut short by a little
scream from the women of the party. The cow house
door had closed noiselessly behind them, and the key had
turned gratingly in the lock. Then they heard Bertie's voice
pleasantly wishing them good night, and his footsteps retreating along
the garden path. Luke Stephinks strode to the window. It
was a small square opening of the old fashioned sort,
with iron bars let into the stone work. Unlock the door.
This instant, he shouted, with as much air of menacing
authority as a hen might assume when screaming through the
bars of a coup at a marauding hawk. In reply
to his summons, the hall door closed with a defiant bang.
A neighboring clock struck the hour of midnight. If the
cows had received the gift of human speech at that moment,
they would not have been able to make themselves heard.
Seven or eight other voices were engaged in describing Bertie's
present conduct and his general character at a high pressure
of excitement and indignation. In the course of half an
hour or so, every thing that it was permissible to
say about Bertie had been said, some dozens of times,
and other topics began to come to the front, the
extreme mustiness of the cow house, the possibility of it
catching fire, and the probability of it being a routen
house for the vagrant raps of the neighborhood. And still
no sign of deliverance came to the unwilling vigil keepers.
Towards one o'clock, the sound of rather boisterous and undisciplined
carol singing approached rapidly and came to a sudden anchorage,
apparently just outside the garden gate. A motor load of
youthful bloods in a high state of conviviality had made
a temporary halt for repairs. The stoppage, however, did not
extend to the vocal efforts of the party, and the
w in the cow shed were treated to a highly
unauthorized rendering of good King Wence's Lass, in which the
adjective good appeared to be very carelessly applied. The noise
had the effect of bringing Bertie out into the garden,
but he utterly ignored the pale, angry faces peering out
at the cow house window and concentrated his attention on
the revelers outside the gate. Wassail you, chaps, he shouted,
wassail old sport. They shouted back, We jolly well drink
your health, only we've nothing to drink it. In. Come
and wassail inside, said Bertie hospitably. I'm all alone and
there's heaps of wet. They were total strangers, but his
touch of kindness made them instantly his kin. In another moment,
the unauthorized version of King wenncessless, which, like many other scandals,
grew worse on repetition. When echoing up the garden path,
two of the revelers gave an impromptu performance on the
way by executing the staircase waltz up the terraces of
what Luke Steffink hitherto with some justification, called his rock garden.
The rock part of it was still there when the
waltz had been accorded its third encore. Luke, more than ever,
like a cooped hen behind the car house bars, was
in a position to realize the feelings of concert goers
unable to countermand the call for an encore which they
neither desire nor deserve. The hall door closed with a
bang on Bertie's guests, and the sounds of merriment became
faint and muffled to the weary watchers at the other
end of the garden present, two ominous pops in quick
succession made themselves distinctly heard. They've got it the Champagne,
exclaimed Missus Stepfink. Perhaps it's the sparkling Moselle, said Luke.
Hopefully three or four more pops were heard, the Champagne,
and the sparkling Moselle, said Missus Stepphink. Luke uncorked an expletive, which,
like brandy in a temperance household, was only used on
rare emergencies. Mister Horace Bordenby had been making use of
similar expressions under his breath for a considerable time past.
The experiment of throwing the young people together had been
prolonged beyond a point when it was likely to produce
any romantic result. Some forty minutes later, the hall door
opened and disgorged a crowd that had thrown off any
restraint of shyness that might have influenced its earlier actions.
Its vocal efforts in the direction of carol singing were
now supplemented by instrumental music. A Christmas she that had
been prepared for the children of the gardener and other
household retainers had yielded a rich spoil of tin trumpets,
rattles and drums. The life story of King Wenceslas had
been dropped. Luke was thankful to notice, but it was
intensely irritating for the chilled prisoners in the cow house
to be told that it was a hot time in
the old town to night, together with some accurate but
entirely superfluous information as to the imminence of Christmas morning.
Judging by the protests which began to be shouted from
the upper windows of neighboring houses. The sentiments prevailing in
the cow house were heartily echoed in other quarters. The
revelers found their car, and, what was more remarkable, managed
to drive off in it. With a parting fanfare of
tin trumpets. The lively beat of a drum disclosed the
fact that the master of the revels remained on the scene.
Bety came in an angry, imploring chorus of shouts and
screams from the cow house window. Hello, cried the owner
of the name, turning his rather errant steps in the
direction of the summons. Are you people still there? Must
have heard everything Cow's got to say by this time.
If you haven't no use waiting, After all, it's a
Russian legend and Russian Christmas eve not do oh for
another fortnight? Better come out. After one or two ineffectual attempts,
he managed to pitch the key of the cow house
door in through the window. Then, lifting his voice in
the strains of I'm afraid to go home in the
dark with a lusty drum accompaniment, he led the way
back to the house. The hurried procession of the release
that followed in his steps came in for a good
deal of the adverse comment that his exuberant display had evoked.
It was the happiest Christmas Eve he had ever spent.
To quote his own words, he had a rotten Christmas.
End of Bertie's Christmas Eve by Saki