Saki (1) (1870–1916)

"Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination"

I love that kind of writing, those kinds of sentences: controlled, complex, original. In other words, just so stinkin' well written, a contrast to the loosey-goosey vernacular (as is this review, all my reviews).

This is just show more one short story from the collection, The Chronicles of Clovis, by Saki, 1911. I will be reading all the stories soon. I have a minor 2025 project where I want to purposely read works from www.gutenberg.org. I don't know why. I want to give the site some love, I think. Does reading in the html from there give it love? I hope so. (I also do make semi-regular small donations to it and www.openlibrary.org.)

Another minor mission I'm on is to learn, "What is this sort of story called?!" It's the kind of short tale where at the end, there is, not exactly a twist, but a sudden comeuppance for one or more of the characters as a result of their bad, or at least misguided, behavior. I've read two others like that of late: The Phoenix by Sylvia Townsend Warner (of Lolly Willowes fame and Mr Loveday's Little Outing & Other Early Stories by Evelyn Waugh of Brideshead Revisited fame.

So, something of a sub-sub genre. (I'm vaguely also reminded of some of Ray Bradbury short stories which depend upon a sudden realization at the end.)

It's as if the writer is entertaining you and knows you are blithely going along, willing to be entertained effortlessly. Then at the end, slap!, as if the writer is saying, "What do you think of that? Now go back and contemplate what you've just read and with a little more depth this time if you please." It's a little gimmicky, but also perversely rewarding.

If you know the name of the technique, I'd love to know!

"Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar." show less

Munro's mind runs on rest-cures and unrest-cures, but it's mostly the latter if Clovis Sangrail is around (or even if he's not: sometimes he is a mere listener or inactive participant, sometimes he makes one comment, and sometimes, as in “Hermann the Irascible,” “Sredni Vashtar,””The Chaplet,””Mowsle Barton,” and other stories, he's not there at all). Clovis's England is one where most of the inhabitants are the idle rich, where the god Pan holds sway in some rural quarters show more and witchcraft in others, where prominent men of politics and business can be suddenly replaced by angels, and where Clovis struggles, usually successfully, for control in townhouses and country houses with the Baronesses and Lady Bastables. For example, when the Baroness wants to jolly everyone up after a divisive local election, she lights on the idea of a play, and Clovis suggests Agamemnon with predictably disastrous results. Lady Bastable's fear of social upheaval enables Clovis to stampede her with a shout of “the jacquerie!” Here, as in some of the dialogue, we can hear traces of Wilde: “All decent people live beyond their incomes nowadays, and those who aren't respectable live beyond other people's. A few gifted individuals manage to do both.” Elsewhere in the same story (“The Match-maker”): “brevity is the soul of widowhood.” One of my favorite remarks is the Baroness's to Constance Broddle in Esme: “You're looking nicer than usual . . . but that's so easy for you.”
A strain of offhand cruelty runs through the stories. Although the wicked are punished in “Sredni Vashtar,” the gypsy child eaten by the hyena in “Esme” seems innocent enough, and there is no poetic justice in the suicide of the humorless Eleanor Stringham―though there might be in the murder of the orchestra leader b y the chef in “The Chaplet.” People come to sticky ends in “The Easter Egg” and “The Hounds of Fate.”
We are apt to forget, looking back at the stories, that Clovis is still in his teens at their beginning. But the themes of the stories are often those of adolescent fantasy and wish-fulfillment. My mother is about to leave me with Lady Bastable for a week, but what if I could prevent it? What if the pets around me could talk or assume enough fierceness to punish my aunt-tormentor? What if I could control the Baroness that everyone finds so formidable? What if all the venal politicians could be turned into animals and replaced by beings who intended nothing but good? Isn't there an odd resemblance between people and their pets? Suppose it extended to behavior? show less

A tribute

My father cultivated my love of Saki, by reading aloud to me as a child.
There was always something of the pontificating Reginald about him.
And he probably wanted me to be a wily Saki child, outwitting the adults - with the exception of himself.
I regularly read the stories through early adulthood.
Later, Saki faded to a fond memory - but one I always intended to return to.

In recent weeks, I’ve been dipping in and out of the stories again, and I told my father.
We chatted and he show more mentioned this was his favourite (though neither Reginald nor children feature).
Of course, I read it.
Of course, I loved it.
I wish I’d told him that before it was suddenly too late.
This one’s for you, Daddy.
I miss you.

Image: With my father, July 2018

The Story

The opening line shows how Saki influenced Wodehouse - another love my father inculcated in me and who I need to revisit:
“Egbert came into the large, dimly lit drawing-room with the air of a man who is not certain whether he is entering a dovecote or a bomb factory, and is prepared for either eventuality.”

Egbert and Lady Anne are an aging couple. The script of their relationship is familiar but not necessarily predictable. Each has their role. Egbert’s is supplicant and peace-maker.

“By way of breaking whatever ice might be floating on the surface he made a remark about a dim religious light. He or Lady Anne were accustomed to make that remark between 4.30 and 6 on winter and late autumn evenings.”

But something is wrong. Differently so.

“As a rule Lady Anne’s displeasure became articulate and markedly voluble after four minutes of introductory muteness.”

Egbert tries to surmise what, and defaults to small talk, feeding the cat, and eventually to apologies. To no avail.

“To get the worst of an argument with her was no new experience. To get the worst of a monologue was a humiliating novelty.”

My Father

SPOILER for story is implied below...

My father loved fierce, intelligent, informed debate and didn’t suffer fools gladly, if at all.
I am my father’s daughter.
We are/were (which tense?) both opinionated and we disagreed on many things.
But we enjoyed sparring, and it didn’t make us doubt our love for each other.

The twist in the story is comically dark and maybe a bit predictable.
But in the circumstances, it is horribly apt as well.
My father would have appreciated that.
But he can’t.
I must try.

I could win arguments now, but as Saki and Egbert knew, there would be no joy in that.

It’s a cliché because it’s true:
You only really appreciate what you have when you’ve lost it.

I am lost right now.

More Saki

I'm gradually collating reviews of Saki short stories under The Best of Saki, HERE, as I read them in a rambling way, over several weeks and months.

You can find his stories, free, on Gutenberg. For example, HERE. Most are very short. show less

This is a singular book. For Americans, who might not be familiar with H. H. Munro (known as Saki), it can be a bit surprising the witheringly dry sense of humour that shows throughout the stories. Further, the tendency of his characters to employ sarcasm and outright invective towards the more pretentious members of society (who often seem to be scornful, flighty women), makes his book seem like an unlikely companion to Jane Austen's work. However, while Austen was more masterful in the show more development of characters that were realistic, Saki's main characters can sometimes seem like the fantastical superheros of a shrinking individual who hopes to vanquish those he deems to be too serious or self-satisfied; a vicarious visualization of what he wishes he could do. In that way, he writes much like an introverted adolescent might speak to themselves—after they have had to deal too much with overbearing and foolish adults. If you can get over some of the less delicate definitions of the fairer sex, and dispense with any shred of concern for social conventions, you might find this a rather humorous collection. show less