A Young Turkish Catastrophe

"A Young Turkish Catastrophe" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name, Saki. Set against the backdrop of the early 20th century, the story explores themes of irony, social critique, and the absurdities of human behavior. With Saki's hallmark wit and sharp humor, the narrative unfolds a series of events involving a young Turkish boy and the unexpected consequences of his actions. The tale showcases Saki's ability to blend satire with poignant observations about society and individual folly, making it a compelling read that highlights the complexities of life in a rapidly changing world.

• Short story

								
The Minister for Fine Arts (to whose Department had been lately added the
new sub-section of Electoral Engineering) paid a business visit to the
Grand Vizier.  According to Eastern etiquette they discoursed for a while
on indifferent subjects.  The minister only checked himself in time from
making a passing reference to the Marathon Race, remembering that the
Vizier had a Persian grandmother and might consider any allusion to
Marathon as somewhat tactless.  Presently the Minister broached the
subject of his interview.

"Under the new Constitution are women to have votes?" he asked suddenly.

"To have votes?  Women?" exclaimed the Vizier in some astonishment.  "My
dear Pasha, the New Departure has a flavour of the absurd as it is; don't
let's try and make it altogether ridiculous.  Women have no souls and no
intelligence; why on earth should they have votes?"

"I know it sounds absurd," said the Minister, "but they are seriously
considering the idea in the West."

"Then they must have a larger equipment of seriousness than I gave them
credit for.  After a lifetime of specialised effort in maintaining my
gravity I can scarcely restrain an inclination to smile at the
suggestion.  Why, out womenfolk in most cases don't know how to read or
write.  How could they perform the operation of voting?"

"They could be shown the names of the candidates and where to make their
cross."

"I beg your pardon?" interrupted the Vizier.

"Their crescent, I mean," corrected the Minister.  "It would be to the
liking of the Young Turkish Party," he added.

"Oh, well," said the Vizier, "if we are to do the thing at all we may as
well go the whole h---" he pulled up just as he was uttering the name of
an unclean animal, and continued, "the complete camel.  I will issue
instructions that womenfolk are to have votes."

                                * * * * *

The poll was drawing to a close in the Lakoumistan division.  The
candidate of the Young Turkish Party was known to be three or four
hundred votes ahead, and he was already drafting his address, returning
thanks to the electors.  His victory had been almost a foregone
conclusion, for he had set in motion all the approved electioneering
machinery of the West.  He had even employed motorcars.  Few of his
supporters had gone to the poll in these vehicles, but, thanks to the
intelligent driving of his chauffeurs, many of his opponents had gone to
their graves or to the local hospitals, or otherwise abstained from
voting.  And then something unlooked-for happened.  The rival candidate,
Ali the Blest, arrived on the scene with his wives and womenfolk, who
numbered, roughly, six hundred.  Ali had wasted little effort on election
literature, but had been heard to remark that every vote given to his
opponent meant another sack thrown into the Bosphorus.  The Young Turkish
candidate, who had conformed to the Western custom of one wife and hardly
any mistresses, stood by helplessly while his adversary's poll swelled to
a triumphant majority.

"Cristabel Columbus!" he exclaimed, invoking in some confusion the name
of a distinguished pioneer; "who would have thought it?"

"Strange," mused Ali, "that one who harangued so clamorously about the
Secret Ballot should have overlooked the Veiled Vote."

And, walking homeward with his constituents, he murmured in his beard an
improvisation on the heretic poet of Persia:

    "One, rich in metaphors, his Cause contrives
    To urge with edged words, like Kabul knives;
    And I, who worst him in this sorry game,
    Was never rich in anything but--wives."
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