Beasts and Super Beasts

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"And the contents of the paper," said the nephew, "did they show the
influence of the new style?"

"Ah!" said Sir Lulworth, "that was the exciting thing. In home affairs,
social questions, and the ordinary events of the day not much change was
noticeable. A certain Oriental carelessness seemed to have crept into
the editorial department, and perhaps a note of lassitude not unnatural
in the work of men who had returned from what had been a fairly arduous
journey. The aforetime standard of excellence was scarcely maintained,
but at any rate the general lines of policy and outlook were not departed
from. It was in the realm of foreign affairs that a startling change
took place. Blunt, forcible, outspoken articles appeared, couched in
language which nearly turned the autumn manoeuvres of six important
Powers into mobilisations. Whatever else the _Daily Intelligencer_ had
learned in the East, it had not acquired the art of diplomatic ambiguity.
The man in the street enjoyed the articles and bought the paper as he had
never bought it before; the men in Downing Street took a different view.
The Foreign Secretary, hitherto accounted a rather reticent man, became
positively garrulous in the course of perpetually disavowing the
sentiments expressed in the _Daily Intelligencer's_ leaders; and then one
day the Government came to the conclusion that something definite and
drastic must be done. A deputation, consisting of the Prime Minister,
the Foreign Secretary, four leading financiers, and a well-known
Nonconformist divine, made its way to the offices of the paper. At the
door leading to the editorial department the way was barred by a nervous
but defiant office-boy.

"'You can't see the editor nor any of the staff,' he announced.

"'We insist on seeing the editor or some responsible person,' said the
Prime Minister, and the deputation forced its way in. The boy had spoken
truly; there was no one to be seen. In the whole suite of rooms there
was no sign of human life.

"'Where is the editor?' 'Or the foreign editor?' 'Or the chief leader-
writer? Or anybody?'

"In answer to the shower of questions the boy unlocked a drawer and
produced a strange-looking envelope, which bore a Khokand postmark, and a
date of some seven or eight months back. It contained a scrap of paper
on which was written the following message:

"'Entire party captured by brigand tribe on homeward journey. Quarter
of million demanded as ransom, but would probably take less. Inform
Government, relations, and friends.'

"There followed the signatures of the principal members of the party and
instructions as to how and where the money was to be paid.

"The letter had been directed to the office-boy-in-charge, who had
quietly suppressed it. No one is a hero to one's own office-boy, and he
evidently considered that a quarter of a million was an unwarrantable
outlay for such a doubtfully advantageous object as the repatriation of
an errant newspaper staff. So he drew the editorial and other salaries,
forged what signatures were necessary, engaged new reporters, did what
sub-editing he could, and made as much use as possible of the large
accumulation of special articles that was held in reserve for
emergencies. The articles on foreign affairs were entirely his own
composition.

"Of course the whole thing had to be kept as quiet as possible; an
interim staff, pledged to secrecy, was appointed to keep the paper going
till the pining captives could be sought out, ransomed, and brought home,
in twos and threes to escape notice, and gradually things were put back
on their old footing. The articles on foreign affairs reverted to the
wonted traditions of the paper."

"But," interposed the nephew, "how on earth did the boy account to the
relatives all those months for the non-appearance--"

"That," said Sir Lulworth, "was the most brilliant stroke of all. To the
wife or nearest relative of each of the missing men he forwarded a
letter, copying the handwriting of the supposed writer as well as he
could, and making excuses about vile pens and ink; in each letter he told
the same story, varying only the locality, to the effect that the writer,
alone of the whole party, was unable to tear himself away from the wild
liberty and allurements of Eastern life, and was going to spend several
months roaming in some selected region. Many of the wives started off
immediately in pursuit of their errant husbands, and it took the
Government a considerable time and much trouble to reclaim them from
their fruitless quests along the banks of the Oxus, the Gobi Desert, the
Orenburg steppe, and other outlandish places. One of them, I believe, is
still lost somewhere in the Tigris Valley."

"And the boy?"

"Is still in journalism."




THE BYZANTINE OMELETTE


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.




THE FEAST OF NEMESIS


"It's a good thing that Saint Valentine's Day has dropped out of vogue,"
said Mrs. Thackenbury; "what with Christmas and New Year and Easter, not
to speak of birthdays, there are quite enough remembrance days as it is.
I tried to save myself trouble at Christmas by just sending flowers to
all my friends, but it wouldn't work; Gertrude has eleven hot-houses and
about thirty gardeners, so it would have been ridiculous to send flowers
to her, and Milly has just started a florist's shop, so it was equally
out of the question there. The stress of having to decide in a hurry
what to give to Gertrude and Milly just when I thought I'd got the whole
question nicely off my mind completely ruined my Christmas, and then the
awful monotony of the letters of thanks: 'Thank you so much for your
lovely flowers. It was so good of you to think of me.' Of course in the
majority of cases I hadn't thought about the recipients at all; their
names were down in my list of 'people who must not be left out.' If I
trusted to remembering them there would be some awful sins of omission."

"The trouble is," said Clovis to his aunt, "all these days of intrusive
remembrance harp so persistently on one aspect of human nature and
entirely ignore the other; that is why they become so perfunctory and
artificial. At Christmas and New Year you are emboldened and encouraged
by convention to send gushing messages of optimistic goodwill and servile
affection to people whom you would scarcely ask to lunch unless some one
else had failed you at the last moment; if you are supping at a
restaurant on New Year's Eve you are permitted and expected to join hands
and sing 'For Auld Lang Syne' with strangers whom you have never seen
before and never want to see again. But no licence is allowed in the
opposite direction."

"Opposite direction; what opposite direction?" queried Mrs. Thackenbury.

"There is no outlet for demonstrating your feelings towards people whom
you simply loathe. That is really the crying need of our modern
civilisation. Just think how jolly it would be if a recognised day were
set apart for the paying off of old scores and grudges, a day when one
could lay oneself out to be gracefully vindictive to a carefully
treasured list of 'people who must not be let off.' I remember when I
was at a private school we had one day, the last Monday of the term I
think it was, consecrated to the settlement of feuds and grudges; of
course we did not appreciate it as much as it deserved, because, after
all, any day of the term could be used for that purpose. Still, if one
had chastised a smaller boy for being cheeky weeks before, one was always
permitted on that day to recall the episode to his memory by chastising
him again. That is what the French call reconstructing the crime."

"I should call it reconstructing the punishment," said Mrs. Thackenbury;
"and, anyhow, I don't see how you could introduce a system of primitive
schoolboy vengeance into civilised adult life. We haven't outgrown our
passions, but we are supposed to have learned how to keep them within
strictly decorous limits."

"Of course the thing would have to be done furtively and politely," said
Clovis; "the charm of it would be that it would never be perfunctory like
the other thing. Now, for instance, you say to yourself: 'I must show
the Webleys some attention at Christmas, they were kind to dear Bertie at
Bournemouth,' and you send them a calendar, and daily for six days after
Christmas the male Webley asks the female Webley if she has remembered to
thank you for the calendar you sent them. Well, transplant that idea to
the other and more human side of your nature, and say to yourself: 'Next
Thursday is Nemesis Day; what on earth can I do to those odious people
next door who made such an absurd fuss when Ping Yang bit their youngest
child?' Then you'd get up awfully early on the allotted day and climb
over into their garden and dig for truffles on their tennis court with a
good gardening fork, choosing, of course, that part of the court that was
screened from observation by the laurel bushes. You wouldn't find any
truffles but you would find a great peace, such as no amount of present-
giving could ever bestow."

"I shouldn't," said Mrs. Thackenbury, though her air of protest sounded a
bit forced; "I should feel rather a worm for doing such a thing."

"You exaggerate the power of upheaval which a worm would be able to bring
into play in the limited time available," said Clovis; "if you put in a
strenuous ten minutes with a really useful fork, the result ought to
suggest the operations of an unusually masterful mole or a badger in a
hurry."

"They might guess I had done it," said Mrs. Thackenbury.

"Of course they would," said Clovis; "that would be half the satisfaction
of the thing, just as you like people at Christmas to know what presents
or cards you've sent them. The thing would be much easier to manage, of
course, when you were on outwardly friendly terms with the object of your
dislike. That greedy little Agnes Blaik, for instance, who thinks of
nothing but her food, it would be quite simple to ask her to a picnic in
some wild woodland spot and lose her just before lunch was served; when
you found her again every morsel of food could have been eaten up."

"It would require no ordinary human strategy to lose Agnes Blaik when
luncheon was imminent: in fact, I don't believe it could be done."

"Then have all the other guests, people whom you dislike, and lose the
luncheon. It could have been sent by accident in the wrong direction."

"It would be a ghastly picnic," said Mrs. Thackenbury.

"For them, but not for you," said Clovis; "you would have had an early
and comforting lunch before you started, and you could improve the
occasion by mentioning in detail the items of the missing banquet--the
lobster Newburg and the egg mayonnaise, and the curry that was to have
been heated in a chafing-dish. Agnes Blaik would be delirious long
before you got to the list of wines, and in the long interval of waiting,
before they had quite abandoned hope of the lunch turning up, you could
induce them to play silly games, such as that idiotic one of 'the Lord
Mayor's dinner-party,' in which every one has to choose the name of a
dish and do something futile when it is called out. In this case they
would probably burst into tears when their dish is mentioned. It would
be a heavenly picnic."

Mrs. Thackenbury was silent for a moment; she was probably making a
mental list of the people she would like to invite to the Duke Humphrey
picnic. Presently she asked: "And that odious young man, Waldo Plubley,
who is always coddling himself--have you thought of anything that one
could do to him?" Evidently she was beginning to see the possibilities
of Nemesis Day.

"If there was anything like a general observance of the festival," said
Clovis, "Waldo would be in such demand that you would have to bespeak him
weeks beforehand, and even then, if there were an east wind blowing or a
cloud or two in the sky he might be too careful of his precious self to
come out. It would be rather jolly if you could lure him into a hammock
in the orchard, just near the spot where there is a wasps' nest every
summer. A comfortable hammock on a warm afternoon would appeal to his
indolent tastes, and then, when he was getting drowsy, a lighted fusee
thrown into the nest would bring the wasps out in an indignant mass, and
they would soon find a 'home away from home' on Waldo's fat body. It
takes some doing to get out of a hammock in a hurry."

"They might sting him to death," protested Mrs. Thackenbury.

"Waldo is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death,"
said Clovis; "but if you didn't want to go as far as that, you could have
some wet straw ready to hand, and set it alight under the hammock at the
same time that the fusee was thrown into the nest; the smoke would keep
all but the most militant of the wasps just outside the stinging line,
and as long as Waldo remained within its protection he would escape
serious damage, and could be eventually restored to his mother, kippered
all over and swollen in places, but still perfectly recognisable."

"His mother would be my enemy for life," said Mrs. Thackenbury.

"That would be one greeting less to exchange at Christmas," said Clovis.




THE DREAMER


It was the season of sales. The august establishment of Walpurgis and
Nettlepink had lowered its prices for an entire week as a concession to
trade observances, much as an Arch-duchess might protestingly contract an
attack of influenza for the unsatisfactory reason that influenza was
locally prevalent. Adela Chemping, who considered herself in some
measure superior to the allurements of an ordinary bargain sale, made a
point of attending the reduction week at Walpurgis and Nettlepink's.

"I'm not a bargain hunter," she said, "but I like to go where bargains
are."

Which showed that beneath her surface strength of character there flowed
a gracious undercurrent of human weakness.

With a view to providing herself with a male escort Mrs. Chemping had
invited her youngest nephew to accompany her on the first day of the
shopping expedition, throwing in the additional allurement of a
cinematograph theatre and the prospect of light refreshment. As Cyprian
was not yet eighteen she hoped he might not have reached that stage in
masculine development when parcel-carrying is looked on as a thing
abhorrent.

"Meet me just outside the floral department," she wrote to him, "and
don't be a moment later than eleven."

Cyprian was a boy who carried with him through early life the wondering
look of a dreamer, the eyes of one who sees things that are not visible
to ordinary mortals, and invests the commonplace things of this world
with qualities unsuspected by plainer folk--the eyes of a poet or a house
agent. He was quietly dressed--that sartorial quietude which frequently
accompanies early adolescence, and is usually attributed by novel-writers
to the influence of a widowed mother. His hair was brushed back in a
smoothness as of ribbon seaweed and seamed with a narrow furrow that
scarcely aimed at being a parting. His aunt particularly noted this item
of his toilet when they met at the appointed rendezvous, because he was
standing waiting for her bareheaded.

"Where is your hat?" she asked.

"I didn't bring one with me," he replied.

Adela Chemping was slightly scandalised.

"You are not going to be what they call a Nut, are you?" she inquired
with some anxiety, partly with the idea that a Nut would be an
extravagance which her sister's small household would scarcely be
justified in incurring, partly, perhaps, with the instinctive
apprehension that a Nut, even in its embryo stage, would refuse to carry
parcels.

Cyprian looked at her with his wondering, dreamy eyes.

"I didn't bring a hat," he said, "because it is such a nuisance when one
is shopping; I mean it is so awkward if one meets anyone one knows and
has to take one's hat off when one's hands are full of parcels. If one
hasn't got a hat on one can't take it off."

Mrs. Chemping sighed with great relief; her worst fear had been laid at
rest.