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The Byzantine Omelette

by H. H. Munro ("Saki")

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SOPHIE CHATTEL-MONKHEIM was a Socialist by  conviction and a Chattel-Monkheim by marriage.  The  particular member of that wealthy family whom she had  married was rich, even as his relatives counted riches.   Sophie had very advanced and decided views as to the  distribution of money: it was a pleasing and fortunate  circumstance that she also had the money.  When she  inveighed eloquently against the evils of capitalism at  drawing-room meetings and Fabian conferences she was  conscious of a comfortable feeling that the system, with  all its inequalities and iniquities, would probably last  her time.  It is one of the consolations of middle-aged  reformers that the good they inculcate must live after  them if it is to live at all.

On a certain spring evening, somewhere towards the  dinner-hour, Sophie sat tranquilly between her mirror and  her maid, undergoing the process of having her hair built  into an elaborate reflection of the prevailing fashion.   She was hedged round with a great peace, the peace of one  who has attained a desired end with much effort and  perseverance, and who has found it still eminently  desirable in its attainment.  The Duke of Syria had  consented to come beneath her roof as a guest, was even  now installed beneath her roof, and would shortly be  sitting at her dining-table.  As a good Socialist, Sophie  disapproved of social distinctions, and derided the idea  of a princely caste, but if there were to be these  artificial gradations of rank and dignity she was pleased  and anxious to have an exalted specimen of an exalted  order included in her house-party.  She was broad-minded  enough to love the sinner while hating the sin - not that  she entertained any warm feeling of personal affection  for the Duke of Syria, who was a comparative stranger,  but still, as Duke of Syria, he was very, very welcome  beneath her roof.  She could not have explained why, but  no one was likely to ask her for an explanation, and most  hostesses envied her.

"You must surpass yourself to-night, Richardson,"  she said complacently to her maid; "I must be looking my  very best.  We must all surpass ourselves."

The maid said nothing, but from the concentrated  look in her eyes and the deft play of her fingers it was  evident that she was beset with the ambition to surpass  herself.

A knock came at the door, a quiet but peremptory  knock, as of some one who would not be denied.

"Go and see who it is," said Sophie; "it may be  something about the wine."

Richardson held a hurried conference with an  invisible messenger at the door; when she returned there  was noticeable a curious listlessness in place 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 on strike?"

"Yes, madame," said Richardson, adding the  information: "It's Gaspare that the trouble is about."

"Gaspare?" said Sophie wanderingly; "the emergency  chef!  The omelette specialist!"

"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 Lord Grimford's two years  ago.  As soon as the household staff here learned that  you had engaged him they resolved to `down tools' as a  protest.  They haven't got any grievance against you  personally, but they demand that Gaspare should be  immediately dismissed."

"But," protested Sophie, "he is the only man in  England who understands how to make a Byzantine omelette.   I engaged him specially for the Duke of Syria's visit,  and it would be impossible to replace him at short  notice.  I should have to send to Paris, and the Duke  loves Byzantine omelettes.  It was the one thing we  talked about coming from the station."

"He was one of the strike-breakers at Lord  Grimford's," reiterated Richardson.

"This is too awful," said Sophie; "a strike of  servants at a moment like this, with the Duke of Syria  staying in the house.  Something must be done  immediately.  Quick, finish my hair and I'll go and see  what I can do to bring them round."

"I can't finish your hair, madame," said Richardson  quietly, but with immense decision.  "I belong to the  union and I can't do another half-minute's work till the  strike is settled.  I'm sorry to be disobliging."

"But this is inhuman!" exclaimed Sophie tragically;  "I've always been a model mistress and I've refused to  employ any but union servants, and this 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've no patience with this Socialist  foolery, asking your pardon.  It's tyranny, that's what  it is, all along the line, but I've my living to make,  same as other people, and I've got to belong to the  union.  I couldn't touch another hair-pin without a  strike permit, not if you was to 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 servants without a moment's warning, and I'm  left like this!  I can't appear in public 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 different union."

"Dinner at least will be assured," said Sophie,  "that is something to be thankful for."

"Dinner!" snorted Catherine, "what on earth is the  good of dinner when none of us will be able to appear at  it?  Look at your hair - and look at me! or rather,  don't."

"I know it's difficult to manage without a maid;  can't your husband be any help to you?" asked Sophie  despairingly.

"Henry?  He's in worse case than any of us.  His man  is the only person who really understands that ridiculous  new-fangled Turkish bath that he insists 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 you understand?  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 this  time I'm probably a widow."

"I simply can't send away Gaspare," wailed Sophie;  "I should never be able to secure another omelette  specialist."

"Any difficulty that I may experience in securing  another husband is of course a trifle beneath anyone's  consideration," said Catherine bitterly.

Sophie capitulated.  "Go," she said to Richardson,  "and tell the Strike Committee, or whoever are directing  this affair, that Gaspare is herewith dismissed.  And ask  Gaspare to see me presently in the library, when I will  pay him what is due to him and make what excuses I can;  and then fly back and finish my hair."

Some half an hour later Sophie marshalled her guests  in the Grand Salon preparatory to the formal march to the  dining-room.  Except that Henry Malsom was of the ripe  raspberry tint that one sometimes sees at private  theatricals representing the human complexion, there was  little outward sign among those assembled of the crisis  that had just been encountered and surmounted.  But the  tension had been too stupefying while it lasted not to  leave some mental effects behind it.  Sophie talked at  random to her illustrious guest, and found her eyes  straying with increasing frequency towards the great  doors through which would presently come the blessed  announcement that dinner was served.  Now and again she  glanced mirror-ward at the reflection of her wonderfully  coiffed hair, as an insurance underwriter might gaze  thankfully at an overdue vessel that had ridden safely  into harbour in the wake of a devastating hurricane.   Then the doors opened and the welcome figure of the  butler entered the room.  But he made no general  announcement of a banquet in readiness, and the doors  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 Kitchen Employees, and as soon as  they heard of his summary dismissal at a moment's notice  they struck work.  They demand his instant reinstatement  and 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 on the table."

After the lapse of eighteen months Sophie Chattel- Monkheim is beginning to go about again among her old  haunts and associates, but she still has to be very  careful.  The doctors will not let her attend anything at  all exciting, such as a drawing-room meeting or a Fabian  conference; it is doubtful, indeed, whether she wants to.

 
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