The Toys of Peace and Other Stories

by Saki (H. H. Munro)

  "I don't usually take much interest in turf matters," said Sir Lulworth, who had just made his appearance, "but I always like to have a bet on the Guineas and the Derby. This year, I confess, it's rather difficult to pick out anything that seems markedly better than anything else. What do you think of Snow Bunting?"

  "Snow Bunting?" said Odo, with a groan, "there's another of them. Surely, Snow Bunting has no earthly chance?"

  "My housekeeper's nephew, who is a shoeing-smith in the mounted section of the Church Lads' Brigade, and an authority on horseflesh, expects him to be among the first three."

  "The nephews of housekeepers are invariably optimists," said Bertie; "it's a kind of natural reaction against the professional pessimism of their aunts."

  "We don't seem to get much further in our search for the probable winner," said Mrs. de Claux; "the more I listen to you experts the more hopelessly befogged I get."

  "It's all very well to blame us," said Bertie to his hostess; "you haven't produced anything in the way of an inspiration."

  "My inspiration consisted in asking you down for Derby week," retorted Mrs. de Claux;

  "I thought you and Odo between you might throw some light on the question of the moment."

  Further recriminations were cut short by the arrival of Lola Pevensey, who floated into the room with an air of gracious apology.

  "So sorry to be so late," she observed, making a rapid tour of inspection of the breakfast dishes.

  "Did you have a good night?" asked her hostess with perfunctory solicitude.

  "Quite, thank you," said Lola; "I dreamt a most remarkable dream."

  A flutter, indicative of general boredom; went round the table. Other people's dreams are about as universally interesting as accounts of other people's gardens, or chickens, or children.

  "I dreamt about the winner of the Derby," said Lola.

  A swift reaction of attentive interest set in.

  "Do tell us what you dreamt," came in a chorus.

  "The really remarkable thing about it is that I've dreamt it two nights running," said Lola, finally deciding between the allurements of sausages and kedgeree; "that is why I thought it worth mentioning. You know, when I dream things two or three nights in succession, it always means something; I have special powers in that way. For instance, I once dreamed three times that a winged lion was flying through the sky and one of his wings dropped off, and he came to the ground with a crash; just afterwards the Campanile at Venice fell down. The winged lion is the symbol of Venice, you know," she added for the enlightenment of those who might not be versed in Italian heraldry. "Then," she continued, "just before the murder of the King and Queen of Servia I had a vivid dream of two crowned figures walking into a slaughter-house by the banks of a big river, which I took to be the Danube; and only the other day--"

  "Do tell us what you've dreamt about the Derby," interrupted Odo impatiently.

  "Well, I saw the finish of the race as clearly as anything; and one horse won easily, almost in a canter, and everybody cried out 'Bread and Butter wins! Good old Bread and Butter.' I heard the name distinctly, and I've had the same dream two nights running."

  "Bread and Butter," said Mrs. de Claux, "now, whatever horse can that point to? Why--of course; Nursery Tea!"

  She looked round with the triumphant smile of a successful unraveller of mystery.

  "How about Le Five O'Clock?" interposed Sir Lulworth.

  "It would fit either of them equally well," said Odo; "can you remember any details about the jockey's colours? That might help us."

  "I seem to remember a glimpse of lemon sleeves or cap, but I can't be sure," said Lola, after due reflection.

  "There isn't a lemon jacket or cap in the race," said Bertie, referring to a list of starters and jockeys; "can't you remember anything about the appearance of the horse? If it were a thick-set animal, this bread and butter would typify Nursery Tea; and if it were thin, of course, it would mean Le Five O'Clock."

  "That seems sound enough," said Mrs. de Claux; "do think, Lola dear, whether the horse in your dream was thin or stoutly built."

  "I can't remember that it was one or the other," said Lola; "one wouldn't notice such a detail in the excitement of a finish."

  "But this was a symbolic animal," said Sir Lulworth; "if it were to typify thick or thin bread and butter surely it ought to have been either as bulky and tubby as a shire cart-horse; or as thin as a heraldic leopard."

  "I'm afraid you are rather a careless dreamer," said Bertie resentfully.

  "Of course, at the moment of dreaming I thought I was witnessing a real race, not the portent of one," said Lola; "otherwise I should have particularly noticed all helpful details."

  "The Derby isn't run till to-morrow," said Mrs. de Claux; "do you think you are likely to have the same dream again to-night? If so; you can fix your attention on the important detail of the animal's appearance."

  "I'm afraid I shan't sleep at all to-night," said Lola pathetically; "every fifth night I suffer from insomnia, and it's due to-night."

  "It's most provoking," said Bertie; "of course, we can back both horses, but it would be much more satisfactory to have all our money on the winner. Can't you take a sleeping-draught, or something?"

  "Oakleaves, soaked in warm water and put under the bed, are recommended by some,"

  said Mrs. de Claux.

  "A glass of Benedictine, with a drop of eau-de-Cologne--" said Sir Lulworth.

  "I have tried every known remedy," said Lola, with dignity; "I've been a martyr to insomnia for years."

  "But now we are being martyrs to it," said Odo sulkily; "I particularly want to land a big coup over this race."

  "I don't have insomnia for my own amusement," snapped Lola.

  "Let us hope for the best," said Mrs. de Claux soothingly; "to-night may prove an exception to the fifth-night rule."

  But when breakfast time came round again Lola reported a blank night as far as visions were concerned.

  "I don't suppose I had as much as ten minutes' sleep, and, certainly, no dreams."

  "I'm so sorry, for your sake in the first place, and ours as well," said her hostess; "do you think you could induce a short nap after breakfast? It would be so good for you--and you MIGHT dream something. There would still be time for us to get our bets on."

  "I'll try if you like," said Lola; "it sounds rather like a small child being sent to bed in disgrace."

  "I'll come and read the Encyclopaedia Britannica to you if you think it will make you sleep any sooner," said Bertie obligingly.

  Rain was falling too steadily to permit of outdoor amusement, and the party suffered considerably during the next two hours from the absolute quiet that was enforced all over the house in order to give Lola every chance of achieving slumber. Even the click of billiard balls was considered a possible factor of disturbance, and the canaries were carried down to the gardener's lodge, while the cuckoo clock in the hall was muffled under several layers of rugs. A notice, "Please do not Knock or Ring," was posted on the front door at Bertie's suggestion, and guests and servants spoke in tragic whispers as though the dread presence of death or sickness had invaded the house. The precautions proved of no avail: Lola added a sleepless morning to a wakeful night, and the bets of the party had to be impartially divided between Nursery Tea and the French Colt.

  "So provoking to have to split out bets," said Mrs. de Claux, as her guests gathered in the hall later in the day, waiting for the result of the race.

  "I did my best for you," said Lola, feeling that she was not getting her due share of gratitude; "I told you what I had seen in my dreams, a brown horse, called Bread and Butter, winning easily from all the rest."

  "What?" screamed Bertie, jumping up from his sea, "a brown horse! Miserable woman, you never said a word about it's being a brown horse."

  "Didn't I?" faltered Lola; "I thought I told you it was a brown horse. It was certainly brown in both dreams. But I don't see what the colour has got to do with i
t. Nursery Tea and Le Five O'Clock are both chestnuts."

  "Merciful Heaven! Doesn't brown bread and butter with a sprinkling of lemon in the colours suggest anything to you?" raged Bertie.

  A slow, cumulative groan broke from the assembly as the meaning of his words gradually dawned on his hearers.

  For the second time that day Lola retired to the seclusion of her room; she could not face the universal looks of reproach directed at her when Whitebait was announced winner at the comfortable price of fourteen to one.

  Bertie's Christmas Eve

  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 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 Rowton House for the vagrant rats of the neighbourhood. 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 watchers in the cow-shed were treated to a highly unauthorised rendering of "Good King Wenceslas," 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 revellers outside the gate.

  "Wassail, you chaps!" he shou
ted.

  "Wassail, old sport!" they shouted back; "we'd jolly well drink y'r health, only we've nothing to drink it in."

  "Come and wassail inside," said Bertie hospitably; "I'm all alone, and there's heap's of

  'wet'."

  They were total strangers, but his touch of kindness made them instantly his kin. In another moment the unauthorised version of King Wenceslas, which, like many other scandals, grew worse on repetition, went echoing up the garden path; two of the revellers 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 cow-house bars, was in a position to realise the feelings of concert-goers unable to countermand the call for an encore which they neither desire or 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. Presently two ominous pops, in quick succession, made themselves distinctly heard.

  "They've got at the champagne!" exclaimed Mrs. Steffink.

  "Perhaps it's the sparkling Moselle," said Luke hopefully.

  Three or four more pops were heard.

  "The champagne and the sparkling Moselle," said Mrs. Steffink.

  Luke uncorked an expletive which, like brandy in a temperance household, was only used on rare emergencies. Mr. 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-tree 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 lifestory 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 neighbouring houses the sentiments prevailing in the cow-house were heartily echoed in other quarters.