Bertie's Christmas Eve

"Bertie's Christmas Eve" is a charming short story by Hector Hugh Munro, also known as Saki. It follows the misadventures of young Bertie, whose Christmas Eve plans are disrupted by a series of comedic misunderstandings and the antics of his rather unconventional family members. With Saki’s signature wit and satirical style, the story captures the whimsical chaos of the holiday season, highlighting the tensions and absurdities that often accompany family gatherings, all while delivering a delightful commentary on social conventions and expectations.

• Short story

								
It was Christmas Eve, and the family circle of Luke Steffink, Esq., was
aglow with the amiability and random mirth which the occasion demanded.  A
long and lavish dinner had been partaken of, waits 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 Steffink, nephew of the aforementioned Luke, had early in life
adopted the profession of ne'er-do-weel; his father had been something of
the kind before him.  At the age of eighteen Bertie had commenced that
round of visits 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 drum-head nature.  Luke Steffink,
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's 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 traveller 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 smouldered 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 Steffinks
began to throw out suggestions leading up to that process which they
called retiring for the night.

"Come, Teddie, it's time you were in your little bed, you know," said
Luke Steffink to his thirteen-year-old son.

"That's where we all ought to be," said Mrs. Steffink.

"There 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 year."

"Oh, do let's 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 troop.

Mrs. Steffink made a laughing protest, but gave a virtual consent by
saying, "We must all wrap up well, then."  The idea seemed a
scatterbrained one to her, and almost heathenish, but if afforded an
opportunity for "throwing the young people together," and as such she
welcomed it.  Mr. 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 authorised inquiry on the part
of the neighbours whether "there was anything in it."  Though Mrs.
Steffink would not have put it in so 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 neighbourhood; of what had once been
a small farm.  Luke Steffink 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 Wyandottes or Orpingtons 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 herbs, he-asses and
she-asses.  It had been an anxious and momentous occasion when he had had
to decide definitely between "the Byre" 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 chaperon 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 shawled and hooded figure of
Mrs. Steffink; "I've always laid stress on keeping this a quiet and
orderly neighbourhood."

It was a few minutes to midnight when the party reached the cow-house and
made its way in by the light of Luke's stable lantern.  For a moment
every one stood in silence, almost with a feeling of being in church.

"Daisy--the one lying down--is by a shorthorn bull out of a Guernsey
cow," announced Luke in a hushed voice, which was in keeping with the
foregoing impression.

"Is she?" said 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 Steffink strode to the window; it was a small square opening of the
old-fashioned sort, with iron bars let into the stonework.

"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 coop
at a marauding hawk.  In reply to his summons the hall-door closed with a
defiant bang.

A neighbouring 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 everything that it was permissible to
say about Bertie had been said some dozens of times, and other topics

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