The Byzantine Omelette

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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Sophie Chattel-Monkheim was a Socialist byconviction and a Chattel-Monkheim by marriage. Theparticular member of that wealthy family whom she hadmarried was rich, even as his relatives counted riches.Sophie had very advanced and decided views as to thedistribution of money: it was a pleasing and fortunatecircumstance that she also had the money. When sheinveighed eloquently against the evils of capitalism atdrawing-room meetings and Fabian conferences she wasconscious of a comfortable feeling that the system, withall its inequalities and iniquities, would probably lasther time. It is one of the consolations of middle-agedreformers that the good they inculcate must live afterthem if it is to live at all.On a certain spring evening, somewhere towards thedinner-hour, Sophie sat tranquilly between her mirror andher maid, undergoing the process of having her hair builtinto an elaborate reflection of the prevailing fashion.She was hedged round with a great peace, the peace of onewho has attained a desired end with much effort andperseverance, and who has found it still eminentlydesirable in its attainment. The Duke of Syria hadconsented to come beneath her roof as a guest, was evennow installed beneath her roof, and would shortly besitting at her dining-table. As a good Socialist, Sophiedisapproved of social distinctions, and derided the ideaof a princely caste, but if there were to be theseartificial gradations of rank and dignity she was pleasedand anxious to have an exalted specimen of an exaltedorder included in her house-party. She was broad-mindedenough to love the sinner while hating the sin - not thatshe entertained any warm feeling of personal affectionfor the Duke of Syria, who was a comparative stranger,but still, as Duke of Syria, he was very, very welcomebeneath her roof. She could not have explained why, butno one was likely to ask her for an explanation, and mosthostesses envied her."You must surpass yourself to-night, Richardson,"she said complacently to her maid; "I must be looking myvery best. We must all surpass ourselves."The maid said nothing, but from the concentratedlook in her eyes and the deft play of her fingers it wasevident that she was beset with the ambition to surpassherself.A knock came at the door, a quiet but peremptoryknock, as of some one who would not be denied."Go and see who it is," said Sophie; "it may besomething about the wine."Richardson held a hurried conference with aninvisible messenger at the door; when she returned therewas noticeable a curious listlessness in place of herhitherto alert manner."What is it?" asked Sophie."The household servants have 'downed tools,'madame," said Richardson."Downed tools!" exclaimed Sophie; "do you mean tosay they've gone on strike?""Yes, madame," said Richardson, adding theinformation: "It's Gaspare that the trouble is about.""Gaspare?" said Sophie wanderingly; "the emergencychef! The omelette specialist!""Yes, madame. Before he became an omelettespecialist he was a valet, and he was one of the strike-breakers in the great strike at Lord Grimford's two yearsago. As soon as the household staff here learned thatyou had engaged him they resolved to `down tools' as aprotest. They haven't got any grievance against youpersonally, but they demand that Gaspare should beimmediately dismissed.""But," protested Sophie, "he is the only man inEngland 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 shortnotice. I should have to send to Paris, and the Dukeloves Byzantine omelettes. It was the one thing wetalked about coming from the station.""He was one of the strike-breakers at LordGrimford's," reiterated Richardson."This is too awful," said Sophie; "a strike ofservants at a moment like this, with the Duke of Syriastaying in the house. Something must be doneimmediately. Quick, finish my hair and I'll go and seewhat I can do to bring them round.""I can't finish your hair, madame," said Richardsonquietly, but with immense decision. "I belong to theunion and I can't do another half-minute's work till thestrike 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 toemploy any but union servants, and this is the result. Ican't finish my hair myself; I don't know how to. Whatam I to do? It's wicked!""Wicked is the word," said Richardson; "I'm a goodConservative and I've no patience with this Socialistfoolery, asking your pardon. It's tyranny, that's whatit is, all along the line, but I've my living to make,same as other people, and I've got to belong to theunion. I couldn't touch another hair-pin without astrike permit, not if you was to double my wages."The door burst open and Catherine Malsom raged intothe room."Here's a nice affair," she screamed, "a strike ofhousehold servants without a moment's warning, and I'mleft like this! I can't appear in public in thiscondition."After a very hasty scrutiny Sophie assured her thatshe could not."Have they all struck?" she asked her maid."Not the kitchen staff," said Richardson, "theybelong 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 thegood of dinner when none of us will be able to appear atit? 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 Sophiedespairingly."Henry? He's in worse case than any of us. His manis the only person who really understands that ridiculousnew-fangled Turkish bath that he insists on taking withhim everywhere.""Surely he could do without a Turkish bath for oneevening," said Sophie; "I can't appear without hair, buta Turkish bath is a luxury.""My good woman," said Catherine, speaking with afearful intensity, "Henry was in the bath when the strikestarted. In it, do you understand? He's there now.""Can't he get out?""He doesn't know how to. Every time he pulls thelever marked 'release' he only releases hot steam. Thereare 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 be able to secure another omelettespecialist.""Any difficulty that I may experience in securinganother husband is of course a trifle beneath anyone'sconsideration," said Catherine bitterly.Sophie capitulated. "Go," she said to Richardson,"and tell the Strike Committee, or whoever are directingthis affair, that Gaspare is herewith dismissed. And askGaspare to see me presently in the library, when I willpay 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 guestsin the Grand Salon preparatory to the formal march to thedining-room. Except that Henry Malsom was of the riperaspberry tint that one sometimes sees at privatetheatricals representing the human complexion, there waslittle outward sign among those assembled of the crisisthat had just been encountered and surmounted. But thetension had been too stupefying while it lasted not toleave some mental effects behind it. Sophie talked atrandom to her illustrious guest, and found her eyesstraying with increasing frequency towards the greatdoors through which would presently come the blessedannouncement that dinner was served. Now and again sheglanced mirror-ward at the reflection of her wonderfullycoiffed hair, as an insurance underwriter might gazethankfully at an overdue vessel that had ridden safelyinto harbour in the wake of a devastating hurricane.Then the doors opened and the welcome figure of thebutler entered the room. But he made no generalannouncement of a banquet in readiness, and the doorsclosed behind him; his message was for Sophie alone."There is no dinner, madame," he said gravely; "thekitchen staff have 'downed tools.' Gaspare belongs tothe Union of Cooks and Kitchen Employees, and as soon asthey heard of his summary dismissal at a moment's noticethey struck work. They demand his instant reinstatementand an apology to the union. I may add, madame, thatthey are very firm; I've been obliged even to hand backthe 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 oldhaunts and associates, but she still has to be verycareful. The doctors will not let her attend anything atall exciting, such as a drawing-room meeting or a Fabianconference; it is doubtful, indeed, whether she wants to.

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The Byzantine Omelette was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Fri, Apr 26, 2013

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