Christmas greetings from 1931! Below is Ashley Sterne’s revisionist history of Good King Wenceslas, as published in The Radio Times on December 21, 1931.
First of all, let's revisit the song:
Good King Wenceslas looked out
on the feast of Stephen,
when the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shown the moon that night,
though the frost was cruel,
when a poor man came in sight,
gathering winter fuel.
Hither, page, and stand by me.
If thou know it telling:
yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
underneath the mountain,
right against the forest fence
by Saint Agnes fountain.
Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I will see him dine
when we bear the thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went,
forth they went together
through the rude wind's wild lament
and the bitter weather.
Sire, the night is darker now,
and the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how.
I can go no longer.
Ark my footsteps my good page,
tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
freeze thy blood less coldly.
In his master's step he trod,
where the snow lay dented.
Heat was in the very sod
which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
wealth or rank possessing,
ye who now will bless the poor
shall yourselves find blessing
NOT-SO-GOOD KING WENCESLAS
The truth about an Old Bohemian, translated from and Early Fifteenth-Century MS. recently discovered in an Old Bohemian Monastery (The Spotted Dachshund) by Ashley Sterne.
Good King Wenceslas was in his counting-house checking up the house-keeping accounts.
“Ninepence-ha’p’ny seems a lot to spend on suet,” he muttered into his beard. “but I suppose that what with the mince-meat and the stuffing and all that…” Lost-Chord-like, he trembled away into silence.
His consort, Queen Iggultruda (“Cowface” to her loyal subjects), was in the parlour eating an enormous slice of bread and goose-dripping and simultaneously perusing a book on Christmas Puddings entitled What to Do Till the Coroner Comes by Frau Lisa Kraeg.
The maid was in the garden hanging up a kingly pair of fur-lined pyjamas on the Royal clothes-line, while a late blackbird, perched on the roof of the Royal bicycle-shed hard by, rendered selections from Cyril Scott.
All of a sudden the Queen looked up from her book, and glanced at the Munchausen Calendar — a gift from the Royal coal-merchant — hanging over the mantel shelf.
“December 26!” she mused. “The Feast of Stephen! I wonder if Wence has forgotten.”
She rose from her seat and sought the counting-house.
“Eleven-and-five’s nineteen, and seven’s thirty-one, and eight’s forty-three,” mumbled the Royal auditor as the Queen entered… “What is it, Igg?”
“Do you know what today is?” asked the Queen.
“Either it’s Boxing Day or I’m a liar. Why?”
“Well, what about your annual Good Deed by virtue of which you have earned your sobriquet? Have you thought it out yet?”
“Er — not exactly. The fact is, good deeds are not so jolly easy to think of as all that. Lemme see — what did I do last year?”
“You sent a crooner to the scaffold.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure! And a very popular move it was, too. I think I’ll despatch another one this year.”
“My dear, you simply can’t repeat yourself.”
“Well, what did I do the year before?
“You distributed free crumpets to the Infant’s Welfare.”
“So I did. That was also popular. The papers all commended me for placing dyspepsia within the reach of the poorer classes.”
At that moment there came a knock on the door, and the maid who had been airing the Royal wash came in.
“Well, Parker, what is it?” the Queen inquired.
“If you please, ma’am, I thought I oughter tell you there’s a bloke in the paddock at the bottom of the garden, actin’ in a ‘ighly suspicious manner, and ‘aving no visible means o’ support.”
“What’s he a-doing of?” asked the King, at once placing the girl at her ease by his method of speech.
“Picking up sticks, sire. Gatherin’ winter fu-oo-el, as you might say.”
“Well, he’s welcome to the sticks so long as he doesn’t start gathering our Derby Brights [high-quality coal nuggets]. Who is he, and where does he hang out?”
“He’s an old rustic, so I’ve heard tell, who goes by the name of Yonder Peasant, sire. He lives a dev—a long way away, sire a good league hence, underneath the mountain.”
“Which mountain is he a-living under of?” asked the King.
“The big ‘un, with knobs, sire, the one by St. Agnesseses fou-oun-tain.”
The king got up from his roll-top desk and walked to the window.
“Let’s have a dekko of him,” he said… “Jehosophat! but it ain’t half snowing. And the wind! Gee, what a blizzard!! There, I can spot the guy. Poor blighter! I’m glad I’m not him-he-him. He’s blue with cold, and looks as emaciated as a mannequin. What a life!”
“You needn’t look any further for you Good Deed, Wence,” the Queen pronounced significantly. “Go and fetch the poor bli-wight in, and let’s give him a good time.”
“That’s a good idea, Igg!” exclaimed the King. “‘He who now will bless the poor shall himself find blessing.”—Schopenhauer. I’ll send the bell-boy to pull him in.”
“Tut-tut! “ said the Queen. “Do it yourself, otherwise all the really good part of you Good Deed — ploughing through the snow and buffeting against the wind and getting your socks wet — would be the page’s Good Deed, not yours.”
“You put rather too fine a point on it for my liking, Igg, but perhaps you’re right. However, Hopkinstein had better come too. I may need help with Yonder Peasant. Parker, tell Hopkinstein to bring me my waterproof crown, the State umbrella, and my gum-boots.”
* * * *
“You go first, Hopkinstein. Then I can put my feet in your footprints. The snow’s that deep it will go well over my boot-tops else.”
And closing the scullery-door behind them, page and monarch went forth, in the order named, slap through the rude wind’s wild lament and the bitter wea-ea-ther.
It was one of those long, very thin gardens that they had to traverse and the going was by no means good. Twice Wenceslas tripped up, once over the sagging laundry-line, one over a hibernating garden-tortoise. As they slowly proceeded, the atmosphere grew darker and the wind stronger, the winter’s rage more blood-freezing. The King, who was a soft as putty from lack of exercise, began to develop engine-trouble in the cardic valves. One more he tripped, over a concealed flower-pot, and went down for the third time.
“Kiss me, Hopkinstein, I’m done,” he just managed to gasp through a mouthful of snow. “You’d better drip back to the Palace and tell ‘em to launch the ambulance pronto. Go one step farther I cannot.”
And then the dazed monarch became aware that a third party had materialised from the Everywhere. Vaguely, he recognised his old pal, Yonder Peasant.
“What’s all this how-d’you-do, your Nibs?” the fellow asked. “Can I lend a hand?”
“You can,” Hopkinstein replied. “If I help to boost our gracious King on to your shoulders, d’you think you could carry him pickaback to the Palace?”
“I’ll say I can. I’m as tough as hickory, Eighty-one come next Michaelmas, and as hefty as a three-year-old. Oopsy-daisy, then! … There! and see here, Mr. Page, you walk in my footsteps, and you’ll find it’s not near so bad for your chilblains.”
* * * *
They deposited the King on the sofa in the parlour. He opened his eyes and saw Yonder Peasant drooping over him.
“Anything I can do for your Maj?”
“I’m hungry. Bring me flesh,” said Wence. “Not just any old flesh, though. Tell the chef to hot up the remains of the turkey… and if it’s not troubling you too much, just heave a couple of pine-logs on the hearth.”
A few minutes later, waited on assiduously by Hopkinstein and Yonder Peasant, Good King Wenceslas dined. They plied him with turkey; they plied him with tongue, they plied him with little green peas; they gave him three helpings of pudding (with sauce), and topped him with biscuits and cheese. At the end of the repast the King ostentatiously put tuppence under his plate.
“For valor,” he said, graciously in his saviour’s direction.
“Couldn’t dream of it, King, couldn’t dream of it!” quoth the good fellow, “thanking you all the same. Only too happy to oblige, I’m sure.”
“Well, go and have a glass of beer in the kitchen,” said the King.
* * * *
“A pretty cheap skate you showed yourself, Wence,” remarked Iggultruda, acidulously, as they retired that night. “Why, that hobo did your job!”
“Come to that,” said the King sleepily, “I did his. And if it’s not a Good Deed to do another man’s job for him — well, ask me another.”
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