The Name-Day Page #2

"The Name-Day" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, also known as Saki. Set in the early 20th century, the narrative revolves around a young girl named Beryl who, tired of the monotony of country life, seeks excitement and attention during her name-day celebration. The story highlights themes of social expectations, the longing for individuality, and the intricate dynamics of family relationships. With Saki’s characteristic wit and ironic humor, the tale unfolds to reveal unexpected twists, ultimately leading to a thought-provoking conclusion about the nature of happiness and self-identity.

• Short story

								

three years ago, as she was coming home from market.  The horse and a
young pig that was in the cart were eaten too.  The horse was a very old
one, but it was a beautiful young pig, oh, so fat.  I cried when I heard
that it was taken.  They spare nothing.”

“They may attack us here,” said Abbleway tremulously; “they could easily
break in, these carriages are like matchwood.  We may both be devoured.”

“You, perhaps,” said the woman calmly; “not me.”

“Why not you?” demanded Abbleway.

“It is the day of Saint Mariä Kleophä, my name-day.  She would not allow
me to be eaten by wolves on her day.  Such a thing could not be thought
of.  You, yes, but not me.”

Abbleway changed the subject.

“It is only afternoon now; if we are to be left here till morning we
shall be starving.”

“I have here some good eatables,” said the woman tranquilly; “on my
festival day it is natural that I should have provision with me.  I have
five good blood-sausages; in the town shops they cost twenty-five heller
each.  Things are dear in the town shops.”

“I will give you fifty heller apiece for a couple of them,” said Abbleway
with some enthusiasm.

“In a railway accident things become very dear,” said the woman; “these
blood-sausages are four kronen apiece.”

“Four kronen!” exclaimed Abbleway; “four kronen for a blood-sausage!”

“You cannot get them any cheaper on this train,” said the woman, with
relentless logic, “because there aren’t any others to get.  In Agram you
can buy them cheaper, and in Paradise no doubt they will be given to us
for nothing, but here they cost four kronen each.  I have a small piece
of Emmenthaler cheese and a honey-cake and a piece of bread that I can
let you have.  That will be another three kronen, eleven kronen in all.
There is a piece of ham, but that I cannot let you have on my name-day.”

Abbleway wondered to himself what price she would have put on the ham,
and hurried to pay her the eleven kronen before her emergency tariff
expanded into a famine tariff.  As he was taking possession of his modest
store of eatables he suddenly heard a noise which set his heart thumping
in a miserable fever of fear.  ‘There was a scraping and shuffling as of
some animal or animals trying to climb up to the footboard.  In another
moment, through the snow-encrusted glass of the carriage window, he saw a
gaunt prick-eared head, with gaping jaw and lolling tongue and gleaming
teeth; a second later another head shot up.

“There are hundreds of them,” whispered Abbleway; “they have scented us.
They will tear the carriage to pieces.  We shall be devoured.”

“Not me, on my name-day.  The holy Mariä Kleophä would not permit it,”
said the woman with provoking calm.

The heads dropped down from the window and an uncanny silence fell on the
beleaguered carriage.  Abbleway neither moved nor spoke.  Perhaps the
brutes had not clearly seen or winded the human occupants of the
carriage, and had prowled away on some other errand of rapine.

The long torture-laden minutes passed slowly away.

“It grows cold,” said the woman suddenly, crossing over to the far end of
the carriage, where the heads had appeared.  “The heating apparatus does
not work any longer.  See, over there beyond the trees, there is a
chimney with smoke coming from it.  It is not far, and the snow has
nearly stopped, I shall find a path through the forest to that house with
the chimney.”

“But the wolves!” exclaimed Abbleway; “they may—”

“Not on my name-day,” said the woman obstinately, and before he could
stop her she had opened the door and climbed down into the snow.  A
moment later he hid his face in his hands; two gaunt lean figures rushed
upon her from the forest.  No doubt she had courted her fate, but
Abbleway had no wish to see a human being torn to pieces and devoured
before his eyes.

When he looked at last a new sensation of scandalised astonishment took
possession of him.  He had been straitly brought up in a small English
town, and he was not prepared to be the witness of a miracle.  The wolves
were not doing anything worse to the woman than drench her with snow as
they gambolled round her.

A short, joyous bark revealed the clue to the situation.

“Are those—dogs?” he called weakly.

“My cousin Karl’s dogs, yes,” she answered; “that is his inn, over beyond
the trees.  I knew it was there, but I did not want to take you there; he
is always grasping with strangers.  However, it grows too cold to remain
in the train.  Ah, ah, see what comes!”

A whistle sounded, and a relief engine made its appearance, snorting its
way sulkily through the snow.  Abbleway did not have the opportunity for
finding out whether Karl was really avaricious.
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