by Saki
THE UNKINDEST BLOW
The season of strikes seemed to have run itself to a standstill. Almostevery trade and industry and calling in which a dislocation couldpossibly be engineered had indulged in that luxury. The last and leastsuccessful convulsion had been the strike of the World’s Union ofZoological Garden attendants, who, pending the settlement of certaindemands, refused to minister further to the wants of the animalscommitted to their charge or to allow any other keepers to take theirplace. In this case the threat of the Zoological Gardens authoritiesthat if the men “came out” the animals should come out also hadintensified and precipitated the crisis. The imminent prospect of thelarger carnivores, to say nothing of rhinoceroses and bull bison, roamingat large and unfed in the heart of London, was not one which permitted ofprolonged conferences. The Government of the day, which from itstendency to be a few hours behind the course of events had been nicknamedthe Government of the afternoon, was obliged to intervene withpromptitude and decision. A strong force of Bluejackets was despatchedto Regent’s Park to take over the temporarily abandoned duties of thestrikers. Bluejackets were chosen in preference to land forces, partlyon account of the traditional readiness of the British Navy to goanywhere and do anything, partly by reason of the familiarity of theaverage sailor with monkeys, parrots, and other tropical fauna, butchiefly at the urgent request of the First Lord of the Admiralty, who waskeenly desirous of an opportunity for performing some personal act ofunobtrusive public service within the province of his department.
“If he insists on feeding the infant jaguar himself, in defiance of itsmother’s wishes, there may be another by-election in the north,” said oneof his colleagues, with a hopeful inflection in his voice. “By-electionsare not very desirable at present, but we must not be selfish.”
As a matter of fact the strike collapsed peacefully without any outsideintervention. The majority of the keepers had become so attached totheir charges that they returned to work of their own accord.
And then the nation and the newspapers turned with a sense of relief tohappier things. It seemed as if a new era of contentment was about todawn. Everybody had struck who could possibly want to strike or whocould possibly be cajoled or bullied into striking, whether they wantedto or not. The lighter and brighter side of life might now claim someattention. And conspicuous among the other topics that sprang intosudden prominence was the pending Falvertoon divorce suit.
The Duke of Falvertoon was one of those human _hors d’œuvres_ thatstimulate the public appetite for sensation without giving it much tofeed on. As a mere child he had been precociously brilliant; he haddeclined the editorship of the _Anglian Review_ at an age when most boysare content to have declined _mensa_, a table, and though he could notclaim to have originated the Futurist movement in literature, his“Letters to a possible Grandson,” written at the age of fourteen, hadattracted considerable notice. In later days his brilliancy had beenless conspicuously displayed. During a debate in the House of Lords onaffairs in Morocco, at a moment when that country, for the fifth time inseven years, had brought half Europe to the verge of war, he hadinterpolated the remark “a little Moor and how much it is,” but in spiteof the encouraging reception accorded to this one political utterance hewas never tempted to a further display in that direction. It began to begenerally understood that he did not intend to supplement his numeroustown and country residences by living overmuch in the public eye.
And then had come the unlooked-for tidings of the imminent proceedingsfor divorce. And such a divorce! There were cross-suits and allegationsand counter-allegations, charges of cruelty and desertion, everything infact that was necessary to make the case one of the most complicated andsensational of its kind. And the number of distinguished people involvedor cited as witnesses not only embraced both political parties in therealm and several Colonial governors, but included an exotic contingentfrom France, Hungary, the United States of North America, and the GrandDuchy of Baden. Hotel accommodation of the more expensive sort began toexperience a strain on its resources. “It will be quite like the Durbarwithout the elephants,” exclaimed an enthusiastic lady who, to do herjustice, had never seen a Durbar. The general feeling was one ofthankfulness that the last of the strikes had been got over before thedate fixed for the hearing of the great suit.
As a reaction from the season of gloom and industrial strife that hadjust passed away the agencies that purvey and stage-manage sensationslaid themselves out to do their level best on this momentous occasion.Men who had made their reputations as special descriptive writers weremobilised from distant corners of Europe and the further side of theAtlantic in order to enrich with their pens the daily printed records ofthe case; one word-painter, who specialised in descriptions of howwitnesses turn pale under cross-examination, was summoned hurriedly backfrom a famous and prolonged murder trial in Sicily, where indeed histalents were being decidedly wasted. Thumb-nail artists and expert kodakmanipulators were retained at extravagant salaries, and special dressreporters were in high demand. An enterprising Paris firm of costumebuilders presented the defendant Duchess with three special creations, tobe worn, marked, learned, and extensively reported at various criticalstages of the trial; and as for the cinematograph agents, their industryand persistence was untiring. Films representing the Duke sayinggood-bye to his favourite canary on the eve of the trial were inreadiness weeks before the event was due to take place; other filmsdepicted the Duchess holding imaginary consultations with fictitiouslawyers or making a light repast off specially advertised vegetariansandwiches during a supposed luncheon interval. As far as humanforesight and human enterprise could go nothing was lacking to make thetrial a success.
Two days before the case was down for hearing the advance reporter of animportant syndicate obtained an interview with the Duke for the purposeof gleaning some final grains of information concerning his Grace’spersonal arrangements during the trial.
“I suppose I may say this will be one of the biggest affairs of its kindduring the lifetime of a generation,” began the reporter as an excuse forthe unsparing minuteness of detail that he was about to make quest for.
“I suppose so—if it comes off,” said the Duke lazily.
“If?” queried the reporter, in a voice that was something between a gaspand a scream.
“The Duchess and I are both thinking of going on strike,” said the Duke.
“Strike!”
The baleful word flashed out in all its old hideous familiarity. Wasthere to be no end to its recurrence?
“Do you mean,” faltered the reporter, “that you are contemplating amutual withdrawal of the charges?”
“Precisely,” said the Duke.
“But think of the arrangements that have been made, the specialreporting, the cinematographs, the catering for the distinguished foreignwitnesses, the prepared music-hall allusions; think of all the money thathas been sunk—”
“Exactly,” said the Duke coldly, “the Duchess and I have realised that itis we who provide the material out of which this great far-reachingindustry has been built up. Widespread employment will be given andenormous profits made during the duration of the case, and we, on whomall the stress and racket falls, will get—what? An unenviable notorietyand the privilege of paying heavy legal expenses whichever way theverdict goes. Hence our decision to strike. We don’t wish to bereconciled; we fully realise that it is a grave step to take, but unlesswe get some reasonable consideration out of this vast stream of wealthand industry that we have called into being we intend coming out of courtand staying out. Good afternoon.”
The news of this latest strike spread universal dismay. Itsinaccessibility to the ordinary methods of persuasion made it peculiarlyformidable. If the Duke and Duchess persisted in being reconciled theGovernment could hardly be called on to interfere. Public opinion in theshape of social ostracism might be brought to bear on them, but that wasas far as coercive measures could go. There was nothing for it but aconferen
ce, with powers to propose liberal terms. As it was, several ofthe foreign witnesses had already departed and others had telegraphedcancelling their hotel arrangements.
The conference, protracted, uncomfortable, and occasionally acrimonious,succeeded at last in arranging for a resumption of litigation, but it wasa fruitless victory. The Duke, with a touch of his earlier precocity,died of premature decay a fortnight before the date fixed for the newtrial.