The Chaplet

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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A strange stillness hung over the restaurant; it was one of those rare momentswhen the orchestra was not discoursing the strains of the Ice-cream Sailorwaltz."Did I ever tell you," asked Clovis of his friend, "the tragedy of music atmealtimes?"It was a gala evening at the Grand Sybaris Hotel, and a special dinner wasbeing served in the Amethyst dining-hall. The Amethyst dining-hall had almost aEuropean reputation, especially with that section of Europe which ishistorically identified with the Jordan Valley. Its cooking was beyond reproach,and its orchestra was sufficiently highly salaried to be above criticism.Thither came in shoals the intensely musical and the almost intensely musical,who are very many, and in still greater numbers the merely musical, who know howTschaikowsky's name is pronounced and can recognize several of Chopin'snocturnes if you give them due warning; these eat in the nervous, detachedmanner of roebuck feeding in the open, and keep anxious ears cocked towards theorchestra for the first hint of a recognizable melody." 'Ah, yes, Pagliacci,' they murmur, as the opening strains follow hot upon thesoup, and if no contradiction is forthcoming from any better-informed quarterthey break forth into subdued humming by way of supplementing the efforts of themusicians. Sometimes the melody starts on level terms with the soup, in whichcase the banqueters contrive somehow to hum between the spoonfuls; the facialexpression of enthusiasts who are punctuating potage St. Germain with Pagliacciis not beautiful, but it should be seen by those who are bent on observing allsides of life. One cannot discount the unpleasant things of this world merely bylooking the other way."In addition to the aforementioned types the restaurant was patronized by a fairsprinkling of the absolutely non-musical; their presence in the dining-hallcould only be explained on the supposition that they had come there to dine."The earlier stages of the dinner had worn off. The wine lists had beenconsulted, by some with the blank embarrassment of a school-boy suddenly calledon to locate a Minor Prophet in the tangled hinterland of the Old Testament, byothers with the severe scrutiny which suggests that they have visited most ofthe higher-priced wines in their own homes and probed their family weaknesses.The diners who chose their wine in the latter fashion always gave their ordersin a penetrating voice, with a plentiful garnishing of stage directions. Byinsisting on having your bottle pointing to the north when the cork is beingdrawn, and calling the waiter Max, you may induce an impression on your guestswhich hours of laboured boasting might be powerless to achieve. For thispurpose, however, the guests must be chosen as carefully as the wine."Standing aside from the revellers in the shadow of a massive pillar was aninterested spectator who was assuredly of the feast, and yet not in it. MonsieurAristide Saucourt was the chef of the Grand Sybaris Hotel, and if he had anequal in his profession he had never acknowledged the fact. In his own domain hewas a potentate, hedged around with the cold brutality that Genius expectsrather than excuses in her children; he never forgave, and those who served himwere careful that there should be little to forgive. In the outer world, theworld which devoured his creations, he was an influence; how profound or howshallow an influence he never attempted to guess. It is the penalty and thesafeguard of genius that it computes itself by troy weight in a world thatmeasures by vulgar hundredweights.Once in a way the great man would be seized with a desire to watch the effect ofhis master-efforts, just as the guiding brain of Krupp's might wish at a suprememoment to intrude into the firing line of an artillery duel. And such anoccasion was the present. For the first time in the history of the Grand SybarisHotel, he was presenting to its guests the dish which he had brought to thatpitch of perfection which almost amounts to scandal. Canetons a la moded'Ambleve. In thin gilt lettering on the creamy white of the menu how littlethose words conveyed to the bulk of the imperfectly educated diners. And yet howmuch specialized effort had been lavished, how much carefully treasured lore hadbeen ungarnered, before those six words could be written. In the Department ofDeux-Sevres ducklings had lived peculiar and beautiful lives and died in theodour of satiety to furnish the main theme of the dish; champignons, which evena purist for Saxon English would have hesitated to address as mushrooms, hadcontributed their languorous atrophied bodies to the garnishing, and a saucedevised in the twilight reign of the Fifteenth Louis had been summoned back fromthe imperishable past to take its part in the wonderful confection. Thus far hadhuman effort laboured to achieve the desired result; the rest had been left tohuman genius - the genius of Aristide Saucourt."And now the moment had arrived for the serving of the great dish, the dishwhich world-weary Grand Dukes and market-obsessed money magnates counted amongtheir happiest memories. And at the same moment something else happened. Theleader of the highly salaried orchestra placed his violin caressingly againsthis chin, lowered his eyelids, and floated into a sea of melody." 'Hark!' said most of the diners, 'he is playing "The Chaplet." '"They knew it was 'The Chaplet' because they had heard it played at luncheon andafternoon tea, and at supper the night before, and had not had time to forget." 'Yes, he is playing "The Chaplet," ' they reassured one another. The generalvoice was unanimous on the subject. The orchestra had already played it eleventimes that day, four times by desire and seven times from force of habit, butthe familiar strains were greeted with the rapture due to a revelation. A murmurof much humming rose from half the tables in the room, and some of the moreoverwrought listeners laid down knife and fork in order to be able to burst inwith loud clappings at the earliest permissible moment."And the Canetons a la mode d'Ambleve? In stupefied, sickened wonder Aristidewatched them grow cold in total neglect, or suffer the almost worse indignity ofperfunctory pecking and listless munching while the banqueters lavished theirapproval and applause on the music-makers. Calves' liver and bacon, with parsleysauce, could hardly have figured more ignominiously in the evening'sentertainment. And while the master of culinary art leaned back against thesheltering pillar, choking with a horrible brain-searing rage that could find nooutlet for its agony, the orchestra leader was bowing his acknowledgments of thehand-clappings that rose in a storm around him. Turning to his colleagues henodded the signal for an encore. But before the violin had been lifted anew intoposition there came from the shadow of the pillar an explosive negative." 'Noh! Noh! You do not play thot again!'"The musician turned in furious astonishment. Had he taken warning from the lookin the other man's eyes he might have acted differently. But the admiringplaudits were ringing in his ears, and he snarled out sharply, 'That is for meto decide.'" 'Noh! You play thot never again,' shouted the chef, and the next moment he hadflung himself violently upon the loathed being who had supplanted him in theworld's esteem. A large metal tureen, filled to the brim with steaming soup, hadjust been placed on a side table in readiness for a late party of diners; beforethe waiting staff or the guests had time to realize what was happening, Aristidehad dragged his struggling victim up to the table and plunged his head deep downinto the almost boiling contents of the tureen. At the further end of the roomthe diners were still spasmodically applauding in view of an encore."Whether the leader of the orchestra died from drowning by soup, or from theshock to his professional vanity, or was scalded to death, the doctors werenever wholly able to agree. Monsieur Aristide Saucourt, who now lives incomplete retirement, always inclined to the drowning theory."

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