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.