Iron Winter

I don’t have much luck with Celebrity Carol Services. Years ago I went to the parliamentary carol service at which, by tradition, the Prime Minister is a reader.

Tony Blair missed the gig because he was starting a war in the Middle East. I guessed the significance of his absence but thought it best to stay put rather than dash out to blab to my clients – it did shift the price of oil. Anyway, last week I went to the National Churches Trust Carol Concert at St James’s Piccadilly and, blow me down, two of the three celebrity readers pulled out. Huw Edwards, a TV news reader, had to report on the Prime Minister’s vote of confidence and Bill Bryson pulled a sickie. I feel a digression coming on … my aunt once asked when that French race l’Arc de Triomphe was run. She’d only ever heard of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. Likewise I made an idiot of myself when my  uncle, who had coxed the Cambridge VIII, took me to Henley. He was talking of the Ladies Plate; “but, Uncle Henty, I didn’t know ladies rowed at Henley”.

Anyway, I have a pretty good idea why Bill Bryson cut the carol service. He would have had to read A Christmas Poem by Helen Steiner Rice. It is more bilge than the pumps can cope with. The Chairman of the National Churches Trust, Dr Stephen Sklaroff,  bagged the best reading for himself. It was new to me and most enjoyable.

The Russian winter of 1910 was the severest in memory. It was so cold that it was known as the ‘Iron Winter’.

Because of its location, a prosperous and popular hotel some twenty kilometres from Moscow, suffered particular loss of business. No one had stayed there for weeks and the owner had laid off most of his staff.

One evening, he was surprised to hear a knock on his front door. Upon opening it, he was confronted by a grey bearded, raggedy old man. The old man said that he had been out in the snow for several days. He was freezing cold and starving hungry. Could the hotelier give him a meal and a bed for the night?

“I can certainly do that”, said the hotelier, “For one night’s accommodation plus a meal, the charge is three roubles. Can you pay?” The old man confessed that he had no money, but if he was sent away, he would surely die in the cold.

The hotelier felt sorry for the old man and told him to come inside. He took him to the kitchen where, bubbling away on the stove was a pot of borsch (beetroot soup). The hotelier ladled out a large portion of the borsch, added a twist of sour cream and for good measure, gave his visitor half a loaf of rye bread. The raggedy old man was obviously very hungry and soon disposed of the bread and the soup. The hotelier laughed to see a great beetroot stain along the bottom of the old man’s moustache

The raggedy old man thanked the hotelier for the food and said, “You won’t see the going of me in the morning, but although I have no money now, I will pay you the three roubles when I have it”. The hotelier said nothing but did not expect to see either the three roubles or the old man ever again.

The snow eventually cleared and business began to pick up. In fact the hotel became busier than it had ever been.

In the spring, being a devoutly religious man, the hotelier decided to go to the great cathedral in the city to give thanks to God for the hotel’s recovery and continued success.
Upon arrival in the capital he made straight for the cathedral. Once inside, he gazed around the interior of the ancient church. His eyes fell upon the many icons that adorned the walls. He was drawn in particular to one image in a far corner.

It was painted in the likeness of an old man with a grey beard and seemed vaguely familiar. As he drew closer, he noticed a dark, beetroot like stain upon the moustache. He looked at the name inscribed beneath the image. It read, “Saint Nicholas”

He reached for a candle to place in front of the icon and as he moved the loose earth into which he would fix the candle, his hand touched something small and hard. It was a coin, a rouble. Beside it were two more. He picked them up and looked again at the icon.

The beetroot stain was gone and the face was smiling.