The Secret of the League: The Story of a Social WarBramah, Ernest
Science
The Secret of the League: The Story of a Social War
Bramah, Ernest
Dystopias -- Fiction; Great Britain -- Politics and government -- Fiction; Social classes -- Fiction
The poor, ever suspicious of the doings of those of their own class when
set high in authority, at once leapt to the conclusion that they were
being made the victims of a double game. It was nothing to them that the
Anglo-Pennsylvanian and the Anglo-Caucasian companies were now trading
at a loss; it was common knowledge that their richer League neighbours
had not had the price of their oil increased, and they knew all too well
that they themselves had. With the lack of balanced reasoning that had
formerly been one of the Government's best weapons, they at once
concluded that they alone were paying the tax, and the unparalleled
injustice of it sowed a crop of bitterness in their hearts.
If that was the net result at home, the foreign effect of the policy was
not a whit more satisfactory. Studland, the Consul-General at Odessa,
one of the most capable men in the Service, cabled a despatch full of
temperate and solemn warning the moment he heard of the step. It was too
late then, if, indeed, his words would have been regarded. Russia
replied by promptly trebling her existing tax on imported coal, and at
the same time gave Germany rebate terms that practically made it a tax
on _English_ coal. It was said that Russia had only been waiting for a
favourable opportunity, and was more anxious to develop her own new coal
fields in the Donetz basin than to import at all. As far as the Treasury
was concerned, the oil tax yielded little more than was absorbed by the
thirty thousand extra men thrown out of work by Russia's action. The
Government had given a rook for a bishop.
A little time ago the Cabinet had been prepared to greet winter as a
friend. Without quite possessing the ingenuousness of their amiable
Comrade Bilch, they had thought cynically of the pampered aristocrats
shivering in Mayfair drawing-rooms, of the comfort-loving middle classes
sitting before their desolate suburban hearths, of blue-faced men
setting out breakfastless for freezing offices, and of pallid women
weeping as they tried to warm the hands of little children, as they put
them in their icy beds.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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