Beasts and Super-Beasts
much grasp of the international situation as those that had germinated
within half a mile of Downing Street. Quite in keeping, too, with the
older and better traditions of British journalism was the manner of the
home-coming; no bombast, no personal advertisement, no flamboyant
interviews. Even a complimentary luncheon at the Voyagers’ Club was
courteously declined. Indeed, it began to be felt that the
self-effacement of the returned pressmen was being carried to a pedantic
length. Foreman compositors, advertisement clerks, and other members of
the non-editorial staff, who had, of course, taken no part in the great
trek, found it as impossible to get into direct communication with the
editor and his satellites now that they had returned as when they had
been excusably inaccessible in Central Asia. The sulky, overworked
office-boy, who was the one connecting link between the editorial brain
and the business departments of the paper, sardonically explained the new
aloofness as the ‘Yarkand manner.’ Most of the reporters and sub-editors
seemed to have been dismissed in autocratic fashion since their return
and new ones engaged by letter; to these the editor and his immediate
associates remained an unseen presence, issuing its instructions solely
through the medium of curt typewritten notes. Something mystic and
Tibetan and forbidden had replaced the human bustle and democratic
simplicity of pre-migration days, and the same experience was encountered
by those who made social overtures to the returned wanderers. The most
brilliant hostess of Twentieth Century London flung the pearl of her
hospitality into the unresponsive trough of the editorial letter-box; it
seemed as if nothing short of a Royal command would drag the
hermit-souled _revenants_ from their self-imposed seclusion. People
began to talk unkindly of the effect of high altitudes and Eastern
atmosphere on minds and temperaments unused to such luxuries. The
Yarkand manner was not popular.”
“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 manœuvres 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.”