by Saki
THE BYZANTINE OMELETTE
Sophie Chattel-Monkheim was a Socialist by conviction and aChattel-Monkheim by marriage. The particular member of that wealthyfamily whom she had married was rich, even as his relatives countedriches. Sophie had very advanced and decided views as to thedistribution of money: it was a pleasing and fortunate circumstance thatshe also had the money. When she inveighed eloquently against the evilsof capitalism at drawing-room meetings and Fabian conferences she wasconscious of a comfortable feeling that the system, with all itsinequalities and iniquities, would probably last her time. It is one ofthe consolations of middle-aged reformers that the good they inculcatemust live after them if it is to live at all.
On a certain spring evening, somewhere towards the dinner-hour, Sophiesat tranquilly between her mirror and her maid, undergoing the process ofhaving her hair built into an elaborate reflection of the prevailingfashion. She was hedged round with a great peace, the peace of one whohas attained a desired end with much effort and perseverance, and who hasfound it still eminently desirable in its attainment. The Duke of Syriahad consented to come beneath her roof as a guest, was even now installedbeneath her roof, and would shortly be sitting at her dining-table. As agood Socialist, Sophie disapproved of social distinctions, and deridedthe idea of a princely caste, but if there were to be these artificialgradations of rank and dignity she was pleased and anxious to have anexalted specimen of an exalted order included in her house-party. Shewas broad-minded enough to love the sinner while hating the sin—not thatshe entertained any warm feeling of personal affection for the Duke ofSyria, who was a comparative stranger, but still, as Duke of Syria, hewas very, very welcome beneath her roof. She could not have explainedwhy, but no one was likely to ask her for an explanation, and mosthostesses envied her.
“You must surpass yourself to-night, Richardson,” she said complacentlyto her maid; “I must be looking my very best. We must all surpassourselves.”
The maid said nothing, but from the concentrated look in her eyes and thedeft play of her fingers it was evident that she was beset with theambition to surpass herself.
A knock came at the door, a quiet but peremptory knock, as of some onewho would not be denied.
“Go and see who it is,” said Sophie; “it may be something about thewine.”
Richardson held a hurried conference with an invisible messenger at thedoor; when she returned there was noticeable a curious listlessness inplace of her hitherto alert manner.
“What is it?” asked Sophie.
“The household servants have ‘downed tools,’ madame,” said Richardson.
“Downed tools!” exclaimed Sophie; “do you mean to say they’ve gone onstrike?”
“Yes, madame,” said Richardson, adding the information: “It’s Gasparethat the trouble is about.”
“Gaspare?” said Sophie wanderingly; “the emergency chef! The omelettespecialist!”
“Yes, madame. Before he became an omelette specialist he was a valet,and he was one of the strike-breakers in the great strike at LordGrimford’s two years ago. As soon as the household staff here learnedthat you had engaged him they resolved to ‘down tools’ as a protest.They haven’t got any grievance against you personally, but they demandthat Gaspare should be immediately dismissed.”
“But,” protested Sophie, “he is the only man in England who understandshow to make a Byzantine omelette. I engaged him specially for the Dukeof Syria’s visit, and it would be impossible to replace him at shortnotice. I should have to send to Paris, and the Duke loves Byzantineomelettes. It was the one thing we talked about coming from thestation.”
“He was one of the strike-breakers at Lord Grimford’s,” reiteratedRichardson.
“This is too awful,” said Sophie; “a strike of servants at a moment likethis, with the Duke of Syria staying in the house. Something must bedone immediately. Quick, finish my hair and I’ll go and see what I cando to bring them round.”
“I can’t finish your hair, madame,” said Richardson quietly, but withimmense decision. “I belong to the union and I can’t do anotherhalf-minute’s work till the strike is settled. I’m sorry to bedisobliging.”
“But this is inhuman!” exclaimed Sophie tragically; “I’ve always been amodel mistress and I’ve refused to employ any but union servants, andthis is the result. I can’t finish my hair myself; I don’t know how to.What am I to do? It’s wicked!”
“Wicked is the word,” said Richardson; “I’m a good Conservative and I’veno patience with this Socialist foolery, asking your pardon. It’styranny, that’s what it is, all along the line, but I’ve my living tomake, same as other people, and I’ve got to belong to the union. Icouldn’t touch another hair-pin without a strike permit, not if you wasto double my wages.”
The door burst open and Catherine Malsom raged into the room.
“Here’s a nice affair,” she screamed, “a strike of household servantswithout a moment’s warning, and I’m left like this! I can’t appear inpublic in this condition.”
After a very hasty scrutiny Sophie assured her that she could not.
“Have they all struck?” she asked her maid.
“Not the kitchen staff,” said Richardson, “they belong to a differentunion.”
“Dinner at least will be assured,” said Sophie, “that is something to bethankful for.”
“Dinner!” snorted Catherine, “what on earth is the good of dinner whennone of us will be able to appear at it? Look at your hair—and look atme! or rather, don’t.”
“I know it’s difficult to manage without a maid; can’t your husband beany help to you?” asked Sophie despairingly.
“Henry? He’s in worse case than any of us. His man is the only personwho really understands that ridiculous new-fangled Turkish bath that heinsists on taking with him everywhere.”
“Surely he could do without a Turkish bath for one evening,” said Sophie;“I can’t appear without hair, but a Turkish bath is a luxury.”
“My good woman,” said Catherine, speaking with a fearful intensity,“Henry was in the bath when the strike started. In it, do youunderstand? He’s there now.”
“Can’t he get out?”
“He doesn’t know how to. Every time he pulls the lever marked ‘release’he only releases hot steam. There are two kinds of steam in the bath,‘bearable’ and ‘scarcely bearable’; he has released them both. By thistime I’m probably a widow.”
“I simply can’t send away Gaspare,” wailed Sophie; “I should never beable to secure another omelette specialist.”
“Any difficulty that I may experience in securing another husband is ofcourse a trifle beneath anyone’s consideration,” said Catherine bitterly.
Sophie capitulated. “Go,” she said to Richardson, “and tell the StrikeCommittee, or whoever are directing this affair, that Gaspare is herewithdismissed. And ask Gaspare to see me presently in the library, when Iwill pay him what is due to him and make what excuses I can; and then flyback and finish my hair.”
Some half an hour later Sophie marshalled her guests in the Grand Salonpreparatory to the formal march to the dining-room. Except that HenryMalsom was of the ripe raspberry tint that one sometimes sees at privatetheatricals representing the human complexion, there was little outwardsign among those assembled of the crisis that had just been encounteredand surmounted. But the tension had been too stupefying while it lastednot to leave some mental effects behind it. Sophie talked at random toher illustrious guest, and found her eyes straying with increasingfrequency towards the great doors through which would presently come theblessed announcement that dinner was served. Now and again she glancedmirror-ward at the reflection of her wonderfully coiffed hair, as aninsurance underwriter might gaze thankfully at an overdue vessel that hadridden safely into harbour in the wake of a devastating hurricane. Thenthe doors opened and the welcome figure of the butler entered the room.But he made no general announcement of a banquet in readiness, an
d thedoors closed behind him; his message was for Sophie alone.
“There is no dinner, madame,” he said gravely; “the kitchen staff have‘downed tools.’ Gaspare belongs to the Union of Cooks and KitchenEmployees, and as soon as they heard of his summary dismissal at amoment’s notice they struck work. They demand his instant reinstatementand an apology to the union. I may add, madame, that they are very firm;I’ve been obliged even to hand back the dinner rolls that were already onthe table.”
After the lapse of eighteen months Sophie Chattel-Monkheim is beginningto go about again among her old haunts and associates, but she still hasto be very careful. The doctors will not let her attend anything at allexciting, such as a drawing-room meeting or a Fabian conference; it isdoubtful, indeed, whether she wants to.