A SAKI DOUBLE PLAY! THE OPEN WINDOW and A MATTER OF SENTIMENT by H.H.MUNRO (SAKI)

Welcome back, listeners, to 1001 Classic Short Stories and Tales. This is your host and storyteller, John Hagedorn. There are writers who delight in the grand sweep of drama, and then there is Saki, the pen name of H. H. Monroe, a master of the short, sharp tail that slips beneath your guard and leaves you smiling, unsettled, or both. The Open Window, first published in 1914, is one of his most famous pieces, and for good reason. It is a story that begins with perfect politeness, unfolds with quiet tension, and ends with a twist so quick and so wickedly delivered that it still catches readers off balance more than a century later. We have two Saki stories for you today, The Open Window and A Matter of Sentiment, beginning with The Open Window, a story in which we'll meet Frampton Nuttall, a nervous gentleman seeking rest and quiet in the English countryside. He calls upon Mrs. Sappleton, hoping for a calm visit, but instead finds himself in the company of her young niece, Vera, whose name, fittingly, means truth. And yet truth is the very last thing Vera offers him. With a face of innocence and a storyteller's instinct, she spins a tale that transforms an ordinary sitting-room into a stage of suspense, grief, and ghostly expectation. Saki's genius lies in the way he lets the tension build, gently, almost playfully, until the moment when the open window, which is a French glass door, becomes something far more ominous than a source of fresh air. And then, with a single stroke, he reveals the joke, the storyteller, and the victim all at once. It is a short story, yes, but it's crafted with the precision of a watchmaker and the mischief of a born trickster. In just a few pages, Saki gives us a character study, a satire of polite society, and a master class in the art of the twist ending. For all you potential short story writers out there, this is an excellent story to use to sharpen your craft. Tonight, as we revisit The Open Window, we step into a world where appearances deceive, where stories shape reality, and where a clever young mind proves far more dangerous than any ghost. And now, the first of our two stories. The Open Window. "'My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttall,' said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen. "'In the meantime, you must try and put up with me.' Frampton Nuttall endeavored to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately, he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve-cure which he was supposed to be undergoing. I know how it will be, his sister had said, when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat. You will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice. Frampton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division. Do you know many of the people round here? asked Denise, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion. Hardly a soul, said Frampton. My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here. He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret. "'Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?' pursued the self-possessed young lady. "'Only her name and address,' admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or the widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation. "'Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,' said the child. "'That would be since your sister's time.' "'Her tragedy?' asked Frampton. "'Somehow, in this restful country spot, tragedy seemed out of place.' "'You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,' said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened out onto a lawn. "'It is quite warm for the time of year. "'Sure,' said Frampton. "'But has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?' "'Out through that window three years ago to a day, "'her husband and her two brothers went off for their day's shooting. "'They never came back. "'In crossing the moor to their favorite snipe shooting ground, "'they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. "'It had been the dreadful wet summer, you know, "'and places that were safe in other years "'gave way suddenly without warning.' "'their bodies were never recovered. "'That was the dreadful part of it. "'Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note "'and became falteringly human. "'Poor auntie always thinks that they'll come back some day, "'they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, "'and walk in that window just as they used to do. why the window is kept open every evening it quite dusk dear Auntie She often told me how they went out her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm and Ronnie her youngest brother singing, Birdie, why do you bound, as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will walk in through that window. Ugh! She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Frampton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance. I hope Vera's been amusing you, she said. She has been very interesting, said Frampton. I hope you don't mind the open window, said Mrs. Sappleton briskly. My husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for stipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?' She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Frampton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on a less ghastly topic. He was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly strained past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary. The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, an avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise, announced Frampton, who labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause, and cure. On the matter of diet, they are not so much in agreement. He continued. No, said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention, but not to what Frampton was saying. "'Here they are at last!' she cried, "'just in time for tea. "'And don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!' "'Frampton shivered slightly "'and turned towards the niece with a look "'intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. "'The child was staring out through the open window "'with a dazed horror in her eyes. "'In a chill shock of nameless fear, "'Frampton swung round in his seat "'and looked in the same direction. "'In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window. They all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out at the dusk, "'I said, Bertie, why do you bound?' Frampton grabbed quietly at his stick and hat, the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in its headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision. "'Here we are, my dear,' said the bearer of the white Macintosh, coming in through the window. "'Fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who is that man who bolted out as we came up?' "'A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttall,' said Mrs. Sappleton, "'could only talk about his illnesses, "'and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. "'One would think he'd seen a ghost.' "'I expect it was the Spaniel,' said the niece calmly. "'He told me he had a horror of dogs. "'He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Kanges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creature snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve. Romance at a short notice was her specialty. We hope you enjoyed The Open Window by H.H. Monroe, otherwise known as Saki. We'll return with our second Saki story, A Matter of Sentiment, right after the sponsor messages. And now, A Matter of Sentiment. There are writers who observe society, and then there is Saki, who dissects it with a smile so subtle you don't realize you've been cut off until the neighbor arrives a beat too late. A Matter of Sentiment is one of those deceptively light pieces in which he takes a perfectly ordinary social situation and exposes the vanity, the pettiness, and the quiet absurdities that lie beneath the polished surface of Edwardian respectability. In this story, we meet characters who are outwardly refined, impeccably mannered, and deeply concerned with appearances. Yet behind the lace curtains and polite conversation, Saki reveals a world driven by ego, rivalry, and the deliciously human desire to come out on top, no matter how trivial the contest. It's a reminder that in Saki's England, sentiment is rarely sentimental. It a currency a weapon or a mask What makes the tale so enjoyable is the way Saki lets the comedy unfold without ever raising his voice He trusts the reader to notice the sly wink The understated jab. The moment when propriety slips just enough to show the truth underneath. And, as always, he leaves us with that unmistakable Saki aftertaste. A blend of wit, irony, and the sense that human nature hasn't changed nearly as much as we like to think. And now our story, A Matter of Sentiment. It was the eve of the great race, and scarcely a member of Lady Susan's house party had as yet a single bet on. It was one of those unsatisfactory years when one horse held a commanding market position, not by reason of any general belief in its crushing superiority, but because it was extremely difficult to pitch on any other candidate to whom to pin one's faith. Per adventure it was the favorite, not in the sense of being a popular fancy, but by virtue of a lack of confidence in any one of his rather undistinguished rivals. The brains of club land were much exercised in seeking out possible merit where none was very obvious to the naked intelligence, and the house party at Lady Susan's was possessed by the same uncertainty and irresolution that infected wider circles. It is just the time for bringing off a good coup, said Bertie Van Ton. Undoubtedly, but with what? demanding Clovis for the twentieth time. The women of the party were just as keenly interested in the matter, and just as helplessly perplexed, even the mother of Clovis, who usually got good racing information from her dressmaker, and who confessed herself fancy-free on this occasion. Colonel Drake, who was professor of military history at a minor cramming establishment, was the only person who had a definite selection for the event. But as his choice varied every three hours, he was worse than useless as an inspired guide. The crowning difficulty of the problem was that it could only be fitfully and furtively discussed. Lady Susan disapproved of racing. She disapproved of many things. Some people went as far as to say that she disapproved of most things. Disapproval was to her what neuralgia and fancy needlework are to many other women. She disapproved of early morning tea at Auction Bridge, of skiing and the two-step, of the Russian ballet and the Chelsea Arch Club Ball, of the French policy in Morocco, and the British policy everywhere. It was not that she was particularly strict or narrow in her views of life, but she had been the eldest sister of a large family of self-indulgent children, and her particular form of indulgence had consisted in openly disapproving of the foibles of the others. Unfortunately, the hobby had grown up with her. As she was rich, influential, and very, very kind, most people were content to count their early tea as well lost on her behalf. Still, the necessity for hurriedly dropping the discussion of an enthralling topic, and suppressing all mention of it during her presence on the scene, was an affliction at a moment like the present, when time was slipping away and indecision was the prevailing note. After a lunchtime of rather strangled and uneasy conversation, Clovis managed to get most of the party together at the further end of the kitchen garden, on the pretext of admiring the Himalayan pheasants. He had made an important discovery. Modkin, the butler, who, as Clovis expressed it, had grown prematurely gray in Lady Susan's service, added to his other excellent qualities an intelligent interest in matters connected with the turf. On the subject of the forthcoming race, he was not illuminating, except in so far that he shared the prevailing unwillingness to see a winner in her adventure too. But where he outshone all the members of the house party was in the fact that he had a second cousin who was head stable lad at a neighboring racing establishment, and usually gifted with much inside information as to private form and possibilities. Only the fact of her ladyship having taken it into her head to invite a house party for the last week of May had prevented Mr. Motkin from paying a visit of consultation to his relative with respect to the big race. There was still time to cycle over if he could get leave of absence for the afternoon on some species excuse. "'Well, let's jolly well hope he does,' said Bertie Van Ton. "'Under the circumstances, a second cousin is almost as useful as second sight.' "'That stable ought to know something, if knowledge is to be found anywhere,' said Mrs. Packletide, hopefully. "'I expect you'll find he'll echo my fancy for motorboat,' said Colonel Drake. At this moment the subject had to be hastily dropped. Lady Susan bore down upon them, leaning on the arm of Clovis's mother, to whom she was confiding the fact that she disapproved of the craze for Pekingese spaniels. It was the third thing she had found time to disapprove of since lunch, without counting her silent and permanent disapproval of the way Clovis's mother did her hair. "'We've been admiring the Himalayan pheasants,' said Mrs. Packledide suavely. "'They went off to a bird show at Nottingham early this morning,' said Lady Susan, with the air of one who disapproves of hasty and ill-considered lying. "'Their house, I mean. Such perfect roosting arrangements, and all so clean,' resumed Mrs. Packletide, with an increased glow of enthusiasm. The odious birdie van Ton was murmuring audible prayers for Mrs. Packletide's ultimate estrangement from the paths of falsehood. hope you don mind dinner being a quarter of an hour late tonight said Lady Susan has had an urgent summons to go and see a sick relative this afternoon He wanted a bicycle there but I sending him in the motor How very kind of you. Of course, we don't mind dinner being put off. The assurances came with unanimous and hearty sincerity. At the dinner table that night, an undercurrent of furtive curiosity directed itself toward Motkin's impassive countenance. One or two of the guests almost expected to find a slip of paper concealed in their napkins, bearing the name of the second cousin's selection. They had not long to wait. As the butler went round with the murmured question, "'Sherry?' he added in an even lower tone the cryptic words, "'Better not.' Mrs. Packletide gave a start of alarm, and refused the sherry. There seemed some sinister suggestion in the butler's warning, as though her hostess had suddenly become addicted to the Borgia habit. A moment later, the explanation flashed on her that, better not, was the name of one of the runners in the big race. Clovis was already penciling it on his cuff, and Colonel Drake, in his turn, was signaling to everyone in hoarse whispers and dumb show the fact that he had all along fancied B.N. Early next morning, a sheet of telegrams went townward, representing the marked commands of the house party in Servants Hall. It was a wet afternoon, and most of Lady Susan's guests hung about the hall, waiting apparently for the appearance of tea, though it was scarcely yet due. The advent of a telegram quickened everyone into a flutter of expectancy. The page who brought the telegram to Clovis waited with unusual alertness to know if there might be an answer. Clovis read the message and gave an exclamation of annoyance. No bad news, I hope, said Lady Susan. Everyone else knew that the news was not good. It's only the result of the derby, he blurted out. Sadowa won, an utter outsider. Sadowa! exclaimed Lady Susan. You don't say so! How remarkable! It's the first time I've ever backed a horse. In fact, I disapprove of horse racing. But just for once, in a way, I put money on this horse, and it's gone and won. May I ask, said Mrs. Packletide, amid the general silence, why you put your money on this particular horse? None of the sporting profits mentioned it as having an outside chance. Well, said Lady Susan, you may laugh at me, but it was the name that attracted me. You see, I was always mixed up with the Franco-German war. I was married on the day that the war was declared, and my eldest child was born the day that peace was signed, so anything connected with the war has always interested me, and when I saw there was a horse running in the derby called after one of the battles in the Franco-German war, I said I must put some money on it, for once in a way, though I disapprove of racing. And it's actually won! There was a general groan. No one groaned more deeply than the professor of military history. We hope you enjoyed A Matter of Sentiment by Saki. It's been a long time since we've done a Saki story, so I wanted to give you a little background on him. Hector Hugh Monroe was a witty British author who published under the pen name Saki, or H.H. Monroe. role. The inspiration for the pen name Saki is unknown. It may be based upon a character in a poem or on a South American monkey. Given Monroe's intellect, wit, and mischievous nature, it's possible it was based on both simultaneously. As a writer, Saki was a master of the short story form and is often compared to O. Henry and Dorothy Parker. I'll have to get around to her one of these days. Monroe was born in Akiya, Burma, now known as Myanmar, in 1870. In 1872, while she was on a trip to England, his mother Mary was charged by a cow. She suffered a miscarriage, never recovered, and died in 1872 when Monroe was only two years old. After her death, the Monroe children were sent from Burma back to England, where they lived with their grandmother and aunts in a strict puritanical household. In his early career, Monroe became a police officer in India and was posted to Burma where he contracted malaria before returning to England in 1895. When the war broke out, Monroe refused a commission, joined the British armed forces as a regular trooper where he was certain to see battle. He was killed in action by a German sniper. His last words were reported as, Put that bloody cigarette out. In one of those unfortunate twists of fate, the papers that Monroe had left behind were destroyed by his sister Ethel, who wrote her own account of their childhood. Monroe had a penchant for mocking the popular customs and manners of Edwardian England. He often did so by depicting characters in a setting and manner that would contrast their behavior with that of the natural world, often demonstrating that the simple and straightforward rules of nature would always trump the vanities of men. Many more Saki stories to come here at 1001 Classic Short Stories and Tales. Until next time, everyone, take care, and we'll be back soon at 1001 Classic Short Stories and Tales. Thank you.