The Peace Offering

"The Peace Offering" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, known by his pen name Saki. It explores themes of social interaction, irony, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative centers around a gathering in a rural setting where a seemingly simple act of goodwill spirals into unexpected consequences. Through sharp wit and keen observations, Munro critiques social conventions and highlights the often absurd nature of human behavior, revealing the tension between intention and interpretation in social exchanges.

• Short story

								
"I want you to help me in getting up a dramatic entertainment of some
sort," said the Baroness to Clovis.  "You see, there's been an election
petition down here, and a member unseated and no end of bitterness and
ill-feeling, and the County is socially divided against itself.  I
thought a play of some kind would be an excellent opportunity for
bringing people together again, and giving them something to think of
besides tiresome political squabbles."

The Baroness was evidently ambitious of reproducing beneath her own
roof the pacifying effects traditionally ascribed to the celebrated
Reel of Tullochgorum.

"We might do something on the lines of Greek tragedy," said Clovis,
after due reflection; "the Return of Agamemnon, for instance."

The Baroness frowned.

"It sounds rather reminiscent of an election result, doesn't it?"

"It wasn't that sort of return," explained Clovis; "it was a
home-coming."

"I thought you said it was a tragedy."

"Well, it was.  He was killed in his bathroom, you know."

"Oh, now I know the story, of course.  Do you want me to take the part
of Charlotte Corday?"

"That's a different story and a different century," said Clovis; "the
dramatic unities forbid one to lay a scene in more than one century at
a time.  The killing in this case has to be done by Clytemnestra."

"Rather a pretty name.  I'll do that part.  I suppose you want to be
Aga--whatever his name is?"

"Dear no.  Agamemnon was the father of grown-up children, and probably
wore a beard and looked prematurely aged.  I shall be his charioteer or
bath-attendant, or something decorative of that kind.  We must do
everything in the Sumurun manner, you know."

"I don't know," said the Baroness; "at least, I should know better if
you would explain exactly what you mean by the Sumurun manner."

Clovis obliged: "Weird music, and exotic skippings and flying leaps,
and lots of drapery and undrapery.  Particularly undrapery."

"I think I told you the County are coming.  The County won't stand
anything very Greek."

"You can get over any objection by calling it Hygiene, or limb-culture,
or something of that sort.  After all, every one exposes their insides
to the public gaze and sympathy nowadays, so why not one's outside?"

"My dear boy, I can ask the County to a Greek play, or to a costume
play, but to a Greek-costume play, never.  It doesn't do to let the
dramatic instinct carry one too far; one must consider one's
environment.  When one lives among greyhounds one should avoid giving
life-like imitations of a rabbit, unless one want's one's head snapped
off.  Remember, I've got this place on a seven years' lease.  And
then," continued the Baroness, "as to skippings and flying leaps; I
must ask Emily Dushford to take a part.  She's a dear good thing, and
will do anything she's told, or try to; but can you imagine her doing a
flying leap under any circumstances?"

"She can be Cassandra, and she need only take flying leaps into the
future, in a metaphorical sense."

"Cassandra; rather a pretty name.  What kind of character is she?"

"She was a sort of advance-agent for calamities.  To know her was to
know the worst.  Fortunately for the gaiety of the age she lived in, no
one took her very seriously.  Still, it must have been fairly galling
to have her turning up after every catastrophe with a conscious air of
'perhaps another time you'll believe what I say.'"

"I should have wanted to kill her."

"As Clytemnestra I believe you gratify that very natural wish."

"Then it has a happy ending, in spite of it being a tragedy?"

"Well, hardly," said Clovis; "you see, the satisfaction of putting a
violent end to Cassandra must have been considerably damped by the fact
that she had foretold what was going to happen to her. She probably
dies with an intensely irritating 'what-did-I-tell-you' smile on her
lips.  By the way, of course all the killing will be done in the
Sumurun manner."

"Please explain again," said the Baroness, taking out a notebook and
pencil.

"Little and often, you know, instead of one sweeping blow.  You see,
you are at your own home, so there's no need to hurry over the
murdering as though it were some disagreeable but necessary duty."

"And what sort of end do I have?  I mean, what curtain do I get?"

"I suppose you rush into your lover's arms.  That is where one of the
flying leaps will come in."

The getting-up and rehearsing of the play seemed likely to cause, in a
restricted area, nearly as much heart-burning and ill-feeling as the
election petition.  Clovis, as adapter and stage-manager, insisted, as
far as he was able, on the charioteer being quite the most prominent
character in the play, and his panther-skin tunic caused almost as much
trouble and discussion as Clytemnestra's spasmodic succession of
lovers, who broke down on probation with alarming uniformity.  When the
cast was at length fixed beyond hope of reprieve matters went scarcely
more smoothly.  Clovis and the Baroness rather overdid the Sumurun
manner, while the rest of the company could hardly be said to attempt
it at all.  As for Cassandra, who was expected to improvise her own
prophecies, she appeared to be as incapable of taking flying leaps into
futurity as of executing more than a severely plantigrade walk across
the stage.

"Woe!  Trojans, woe to Troy!" was the most inspired remark she could
produce after several hours of conscientious study of all the available
authorities.

"It's no earthly use foretelling the fall of Troy," expostulated
Clovis, "because Troy has fallen before the action of the play begins.
And you mustn't say too much about your own impending doom either,
because that will give things away too much to the audience."

After several minutes of painful brain-searching, Cassandra smiled
reassuringly.

"I know.  I'll predict a long and happy reign for George the Fifth."

"My dear girl," protested Clovis, "have you reflected that Cassandra
specialized in foretelling calamities?"

There was another prolonged pause and another triumphant issue.

"I know.  I'll foretell a most disastrous season for the foxhounds."

"On no account," entreated Clovis; "do remember that all Cassandra's
predictions came true.  The M.F.H. and the Hunt Secretary are both
awfully superstitious, and they are both going to be present."

Cassandra retreated hastily to her bedroom to bathe her eyes before
appearing at tea.

The Baroness and Clovis were by this time scarcely on speaking terms.
Each sincerely wished their respective rôle to be the pivot round which
the entire production should revolve, and each lost no opportunity for

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