The Giraffe Problem
The general public knows little about the Problem Club...
During the Victorian period, there became a clear distinction between the roles of men and women. For the first time men typically worked outside the home in factories, shops, or offices, while women stayed at home to undertake household tasks, look after children, or to supervise servants.
This division of labour was supported by the concept of ‘Separate Spheres’ - the idea that there were inherent differences in the qualities of men and women. As a result, domestic and social interactions between men and women were often segregated. Groups of men meeting in the way described in this story became commonplace.
The Giraffe Problem by Barry Pain
The general public knows little about the Problem Club. Nor can it be said that the references to it which have appeared from time to time in the Press have been enlightening, or even reasonably accurate.
For instance, a paragraph in a recent issue of a society paper, makes various statements as to the Problem Club. It says that the club has its premises underground in Piccadilly London, that a former Premier1 is a member of it, and that high play2 frequently goes on. The actual truth is that there are no club premises. The famous but old-fashioned restaurant that reserves two rooms on the first floor for the club’s monthly meetings is not situated in Piccadilly. No Premier has ever been a member, and there is no high play in the accepted sense of the term. The amount that a member can win or lose in the monthly competitions will be stated presently, and any betting on the results is prohibited.
Silly misrepresentations of this kind have caused some annoyance, and it is now thought that a discreet but authorised account of some part of the proceedings of the club would be preferable.
The club consists of twelve members, and the annual subscription is one hundred and thirty-four pounds3. Of this sum twenty-four pounds is allotted to the club expenses, including the club dinners which are held on the first Saturday in every month. Each member in turn acts as chairman at one dinner in the year, afterwards adjudicating upon the problem competition for that month, while at the other eleven meetings he is himself a competitor. The winner receives the whole of the entrance fees. If there is more than one winner this amount is divided equally between them.
The record books of the club show that the record of seven wins was made by Mr Pusely-Smythe in 1911, although on two occasions out of the seven he had to share the prize with another successful competitor.
The problems are set by the members, and must not be of a mathematical nature. Some of the problems have been rather curious, and it has occasionally happened that in the course of their practical solution members have been led to do things which might prejudice them in their domestic or social relations, or even subject them to the penalties of the law. Therefore it should be admitted that the club has necessarily been of the nature of a secret society.
This is an account of the forty-third meeting of the Problem Club, with various precautions being taken to prevent the discovery of the identity of members.
Dinner was over, and the members had adjourned to the lofty and comfortable room where the business of the evening was transacted.
The waiters left the room and Sir Charles Bunford, an elderly gentleman of distinguished appearance who was chairman for the evening, took his place at his table and arranged his papers.
Conversation ceased. The other members seated themselves informally in a semicircle of easy chairs. There was indeed, a marked absence of formality at the Problem Club.
“Now, gentlemen,” Sir Charles began, “let us review the Giraffe Problem, that was set last month. I will remind you of the problem.
“It is required to induce a woman who is unaware of your intention to say to you, ‘You ought to have been a giraffe’. ”
“Now, of course, I was not a competitor, but upon my word, I don’t think we have had anything quite so easy.’”
There were several dissentient voices, “Not a bit of it.” “Can’t agree with you there, Bunford.” “Wish I’d found it so.”
“Oh, very well,” said Sir Charles smiling. “I should have thought there were a score of conversational openings to which the inevitable reply would be, ‘You ought to have been a giraffe.’ I may be wrong, but I still expect that the prize to-night will have to be divided between four or five of you. However, we’ll see what luck you’ve had. I’ll begin with you, doctor.”
