The Unrest-Cure

"The Unrest-Cure" is a satirical short story by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name, Saki. The story follows the protagonist, Clovis Sangrail, who embarks on a mission to cure the ennui of his friend, the emotionally stifled and restless Mrs. Cornelia. To achieve this, Clovis orchestrates a series of comedic and chaotic events, ultimately revealing the absurdities of social conventions and the pitfalls of meddling in others' lives. With Saki's trademark wit and sharp commentary, the narrative explores themes of boredom, social expectations, and the futility of attempting to impose changes on others.

• Short story

								
On the rack in the railway carriage immediately opposite Clovis was a
solidly wrought travelling-bag, with a carefully written label, on
which was inscribed, "J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near
Slowborough."  Immediately below the rack sat the human embodiment of
the label, a solid, sedate individual, sedately dressed, sedately
conversational.  Even without his conversation (which was addressed to
a friend seated by his side, and touched chiefly on such topics as the
backwardness of Roman hyacinths and the prevalence of measles at the
Rectory), one could have gauged fairly accurately the temperament and
mental outlook of the travelling bag's owner.  But he seemed unwilling
to leave anything to the imagination of a casual observer, and his talk
grew presently personal and introspective.

"I don't know how it is," he told his friend, "I'm not much over forty,
but I seem to have settled down into a deep groove of elderly
middle-age.  My sister shows the same tendency.  We like everything to
be exactly in its accustomed place; we like things to happen exactly at
their appointed times; we like everything to be usual, orderly,
punctual, methodical, to a hair's breadth, to a minute.  It distresses
and upsets us if it is not so.  For instance, to take a very trifling
matter, a thrush has built its nest year after year in the catkin-tree
on the lawn; this year, for no obvious reason, it is building in the
ivy on the garden wall.  We have said very little about it, but I think
we both feel that the change is unnecessary, and just a little
irritating."

"Perhaps," said the friend, "it is a different thrush."

"We have suspected that," said J. P. Huddle, "and I think it gives us
even more cause for annoyance.  We don't feel that we want a change of
thrush at our time of life; and yet, as I have said, we have scarcely
reached an age when these things should make themselves seriously felt."

"What you want," said the friend, "is an Unrest-cure."

"An Unrest-cure?  I've never heard of such a thing."

"You've heard of Rest-cures for people who've broken down under stress
of too much worry and strenuous living; well, you're suffering from
overmuch repose and placidity, and you need the opposite kind of
treatment."

"But where would one go for such a thing?"

"Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for Kilkenny, or do a
course of district visiting in one of the Apache quarters of Paris, or
give lectures in Berlin to prove that most of Wagner's music was
written by Gambetta; and there's always the interior of Morocco to
travel in.  But, to be really effective, the Unrest-cure ought to be
tried in the home.  How you would do it I haven't the faintest idea."

It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis became galvanized
into alert attention.  After all, his two days' visit to an elderly
relative at Slowborough did not promise much excitement.  Before the
train had stopped he had decorated his sinister shirt-cuff with the
inscription, "J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough."

      *      *      *      *      *

Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy as she
sat reading Country Life in the morning room.  It was her day and hour
and place for reading Country Life, and the intrusion was absolutely
irregular; but he bore in his hand a telegram, and in that household
telegrams were recognized as happening by the hand of God.  This
particular telegram partook of the nature of a thunderbolt.  "Bishop
examining confirmation class in neighbourhood unable stay rectory on
account measles invokes your hospitality sending secretary arrange."

"I scarcely know the Bishop; I've only spoken to him once," exclaimed
J. P. Huddle, with the exculpating air of one who realizes too late the
indiscretion of speaking to strange Bishops. Miss Huddle was the first
to rally; she disliked thunderbolts as fervently as her brother did,
but the womanly instinct in her told her that thunderbolts must be fed.

"We can curry the cold duck," she said.  It was not the appointed day
for curry, but the little orange envelope involved a certain departure
from rule and custom.  Her brother said nothing, but his eyes thanked
her for being brave.

"A young gentleman to see you," announced the parlour-maid.

"The secretary!" murmured the Huddles in unison; they instantly
stiffened into a demeanour which proclaimed that, though they held all
strangers to be guilty, they were willing to hear anything they might
have to say in their defence.  The young gentleman, who came into the
room with a certain elegant haughtiness, was not at all Huddle's idea
of a bishop's secretary; he had not supposed that the episcopal
establishment could have afforded such an expensively upholstered
article when there were so many other claims on its resources.  The
face was fleetingly familiar; if he had bestowed more attention on the
fellow-traveller sitting opposite him in the railway carriage two days
before he might have recognized Clovis in his present visitor.

"You are the Bishop's secretary?" asked Huddle, becoming consciously
deferential.

"His confidential secretary," answered Clovis.  "You may call me
Stanislaus; my other name doesn't matter.  The Bishop and Colonel
Alberti may be here to lunch.  I shall be here in any case."

It sounded rather like the programme of a Royal visit.

"The Bishop is examining a confirmation class in the neighbourhood,
isn't he?" asked Miss Huddle.

"Ostensibly," was the dark reply, followed by a request for a
large-scale map of the locality.

Clovis was still immersed in a seemingly profound study of the map when
another telegram arrived.  It was addressed to "Prince Stanislaus, care
of Huddle, The Warren, etc."  Clovis glanced at the contents and
announced: "The Bishop and Alberti won't be here till late in the
afternoon."  Then he returned to his scrutiny of the map.

The luncheon was not a very festive function.  The princely secretary
ate and drank with fair appetite, but severely discouraged
conversation.  At the finish of the meal he broke suddenly into a
radiant smile, thanked his hostess for a charming repast, and kissed
her hand with deferential rapture.

Miss Huddle was unable to decide in her mind whether the action
savoured of Louis Quatorzian courtliness or the reprehensible Roman
attitude towards the Sabine women.  It was not her day for having a
headache, but she felt that the circumstances excused her, and retired
to her room to have as much headache as was possible before the
Bishop's arrival.  Clovis, having asked the way to the nearest
telegraph office, disappeared presently down the carriage drive.  Mr.
Huddle met him in the hall some two hours later, and asked when the
Bishop would arrive.

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