LANCELOT CHETROF stood at the end of a long bare passage, restlessly consulting his watch and fervently wishing himself half an hour older with a certain painful experience already registered in the past; unfortunately it still belonged to the future, and what was still more horrible, to the immediate future. Like many boys new to a school he had cultivated an unhealthy passion for obeying rules and requirements, and his zeal in this direction had proved his undoing. In his hurry to be doing two or three estimable things at once he had omitted to study the notice-board in more than a perfunctory fashion and had thereby missed a football practice specially ordained for newly-joined boys. His fellow juniors of a term’s longer standing had graphically enlightened him as to the inevitable consequences of his lapse; the dread which attaches to the unknown was, at any rate, deleted from his approaching doom, though at the moment he felt scarcely grateful for the knowledge placed at his disposal with such lavish solicitude.
“You’ll get six of the very best, over the back of a chair,” said one.
“They’ll draw a chalk line across you, of course you know,” said another.
“A chalk line?”
“Rather. So that every cut can be aimed exactly at the same spot. It hurts much more that way.”
Lancelot tried to nourish a wan hope that there might be an element of exaggeration in this uncomfortably realistic description. Continue reading →
FRANCESCA BASSINGTON sat in the drawing-room of her house in Blue Street, W.,[1] regaling herself and her estimable brother Henry with China tea and small cress sandwiches. The meal was of that elegant proportion which, while ministering sympathetically to the desires of the moment, is happily reminiscent of a satisfactory luncheon and blessedly expectant of an elaborate dinner to come.
In her younger days Francesca had been known as the beautiful Miss Greech; at forty, although much of the original beauty remained, she was just dear Francesca Bassington. No one would have dreamed of calling her sweet, but a good many people who scarcely knew her were punctilious about putting in the “dear.”
Her enemies, in their honester moments, would have admitted that she was svelte and knew how to dress, but they would have agreed with her friends in asserting that she had no soul. When one’s friends and enemies agree on any particular point they are usually wrong. Francesca herself, if pressed in an unguarded moment to describe her soul, would probably have described her drawing-room. Not that she would have considered that the one had stamped the impress of its character on the other, so that close scrutiny might reveal its outstanding features, and even suggest its hidden places, but because she might have dimly recognised that her drawing-room was her soul.
Francesca was one of those women towards whom Fate appears to have the best intentions and never to carry them into practice. With the advantages put at her disposal she might have been expected to command a more than average share of feminine happiness. So many of the things that make for fretfulness, disappointment and discouragement in a woman’s life were removed from her path that she might well have been considered the fortunate Miss Greech, or later, lucky Francesca Bassington. And she was not of the perverse band of those who make a rock-garden of their souls by dragging into them all the stoney griefs and unclaimed troubles they can find lying around them. Francesca loved the smooth ways and pleasant places of life; she liked not merely to look on the bright side of things but to live there and stay there. And the fact that things had, at one time and another, gone badly with her and cheated her of some of her early illusions made her cling the closer to such good fortune as remained to her now that she seemed to have reached a calmer period of her life. To undiscriminating friends she appeared in the guise of a rather selfish woman, but it was merely the selfishness of one who had seen the happy and unhappy sides of life and wished to enjoy to the utmost what was left to her of the former. The vicissitudes of fortune had not soured her, but they had perhaps narrowed her in the sense of making her concentrate much of her sympathies on things that immediately pleased and amused her, or that recalled and perpetuated the pleasing and successful incidents of other days. And it was her drawing-room in particular that enshrined the memorials or tokens of past and present happiness. Continue reading →
Up to now, I’ve concentrated on annotating Munro’s short stories, but I’ve been re-reading his first novel and will be posting it here chapter-by-chapter (with notes, of course) over the next few months.
The first chapter will be available some time next week.
London, the Carlton Hotel, from Leonard A. Lauder collection of Raphael Tuck & Sons postcards; Curt Teich Postcard Archives Collection via archive.org
“A most variable climate,” said the Duchess; “and how unfortunate that we should have had that very cold weather at a time when coal was so dear! So distressing for the poor.”
“Someone has observed that Providence is always on the side of the big dividends,”2 remarked Reginald.
The Duchess ate an anchovy in a shocked manner; she was sufficiently old-fashioned to dislike irreverence towards dividends.
Reginald had left the selection of a feeding-ground to her womanly intuition, but he chose the wine himself, knowing that womanly intuition stops short at claret. A woman will cheerfully choose husbands for her less attractive friends, or take sides in a political controversy without the least knowledge of the issues involved—but no woman ever cheerfully chose a claret.
“Hors d’œuvres have always a pathetic interest for me,” said Reginald: “they remind me of one’s childhood that one goes through, wondering what the next course is going to be like—and during the rest of the menu one wishes one had eaten more of the hors d’œuvres. Don’t you love watching the different ways people have of entering a restaurant? There is the woman who races in as though her whole scheme of life were held together by a one-pin despotism which might abdicate its functions at any moment; it’s really a relief to see her reach her chair in safety. Then there are the people who troop in with an-unpleasant-duty-to-perform air, as if they were angels of Death entering a plague city. You see that type of Briton very much in hotels abroad. And nowadays there are always the Johannes-bourgeois, who bring a Cape-to-Cairo3 atmosphere with them—what may be called the Rand Manner, I suppose.”4
“Talking about hotels abroad,” said the Duchess, “I am preparing notes for a lecture at the Club on the educational effects of modern travel, dealing chiefly with the moral side of the question. I was talking to Lady Beauwhistle’s aunt the other day—she’s just come back from Paris, you know. Such a sweet woman—”
“And so silly. In these days of the over-education of women she’s quite refreshing. They say some people went through the siege of Paris without knowing that France and Germany were at war; but the Beauwhistle aunt is credited with having passed the whole winter in Paris under the impression that the Humberts5 were a kind of bicycle … Isn’t there a bishop or somebody who believes we shall meet all the animals we have known on earth in another world?6 How frightfully embarrassing to meet a whole shoal of whitebait you had last known at Prince’s!7 I’m sure in my nervousness I should talk of nothing but lemons. Still, I daresay they would be quite as offended if one hadn’t eaten them. I know if I were served up at a cannibal feast I should be dreadfully annoyed if anyone found fault with me for not being tender enough, or having been kept too long.”
“My idea about the lecture,” resumed the Duchess hurriedly, “is to inquire whether promiscuous Continental travel doesn’t tend to weaken the moral fibre of the social conscience. There are people one knows, quite nice people when they are in England, who are so different when they are anywhere the other side of the Channel.”
“The people with what I call Tauchnitz morals,”8 observed Reginald. “On the whole, I think they get the best of two very desirable worlds. And, after all, they charge so much for excess luggage on some of those foreign lines that it’s really an economy to leave one’s reputation behind one occasionally.”
“A scandal, my dear Reginald, is as much to be avoided at Monaco or any of those places as at Exeter, let us say.”
“Scandal, my dear Irene—I may call you Irene, mayn’t I?”
“I don’t know that you have known me long enough for that.”
“I’ve known you longer than your god-parents had when they took the liberty of calling you that name. Scandal is merely the compassionate allowance which the gay make to the humdrum. Think how many blameless lives are brightened by the blazing indiscretions of other people. Tell me, who is the woman with the old lace at the table on our left? Oh, that doesn’t matter; it’s quite the thing nowadays to stare at people as if they were yearlings at Tattersall’s.”9
“Mrs. Spelvexit? Quite a charming woman; separated from her husband—”
“Incompatibility of income?”
“Oh, nothing of that sort. By miles of frozen ocean, I was going to say. He explores ice-floes and studies the movements of herrings, and has written a most interesting book on the home-life of the Esquimaux; but naturally he has very little home-life of his own.”
“A husband who comes home with the Gulf Stream would be rather a tied-up asset.”
“His wife is exceedingly sensible about it. She collects postage-stamps. Such a resource. Those people with her are the Whimples, very old acquaintances of mine; they’re always having trouble, poor things.”
“Trouble is not one of those fancies you can take up and drop at any moment; it’s like a grouse-moor or the opium-habit—once you start it you’ve got to keep it up.”
“Their eldest son was such a disappointment to them; they wanted him to be a linguist, and spent no end of money on having him taught to speak—oh, dozens of languages!—and then he became a Trappist monk. And the youngest, who was intended for the American marriage market,10 has developed political tendencies, and writes pamphlets about the housing of the poor. Of course it’s a most important question, and I devote a good deal of time to it myself in the mornings; but, as Laura Whimple says, it’s as well to have an establishment of one’s own before agitating about other people’s. She feels it very keenly, but she always maintains a cheerful appetite, which I think is so unselfish of her.”
“There are different ways of taking disappointment. There was a girl I knew who nursed a wealthy uncle through a long illness, borne by her with Christian fortitude, and then he died and left his money to a swine-fever hospital. She found she’d about cleared stock in fortitude by that time, and now she gives drawing-room recitations. That’s what I call being vindictive.”
“Life is full of its disappointments,” observed the Duchess, “and I suppose the art of being happy is to disguise them as illusions. But that, my dear Reginald, becomes more difficult as one grows older.”
“I think it’s more generally practised than you imagine. The young have aspirations that never come to pass, the old have reminiscences of what never happened. It’s only the middle-aged who are really conscious of their limitations—that is why one should be so patient with them. But one never is.”
“After all,” said the Duchess, “the disillusions of life may depend on our way of assessing it. In the minds of those who come after us we may be remembered for qualities and successes which we quite left out of the reckoning.”
“It’s not always safe to depend on the commemorative tendencies of those who come after us. There may have been disillusionments in the lives of the mediæval saints, but they would scarcely have been better pleased if they could have foreseen that their names would be associated nowadays chiefly with racehorses and the cheaper clarets. And now, if you can tear yourself away from the salted almonds, we’ll go and have coffee under the palms that are so necessary for our discomfort.”
“The little Toop child” is (as many readers no doubt know) devoured by the werewolf Gabriel-Ernest in the story of the same name (Reginald in Russia).
I had always assumed that “Toop” was another of Saki’s invented names (like “Spoopin” in ‘The Talking-Out of Tarrington’), and that it was deliberately ridiculous-sounding in order to minimise any sympathy one might feel for the wholly undeserving victim.
But then yesterday I was talking with a small group of people about surnames and one of them happened to mention that his mother’s maiden name was Toop. So it does exist after all!
It is (the Internet informs me) Viking in origin. I fear I may be about to embark on a long quest to find out whether Packletide, Bimberton, Throckmorton, Thropplestance etc. etc. are also real…
[Edit 23/04/2025: a correspondent kindly writes that Throckmorton is absolutely a real last name, but there seem to be no references on findagrave.com to Bimbertons, Packletides, or Thropplestances. (Nor for that matter are there any Sangrails, but I didn’t really expect to find any!)]
I thought readers might be interested to see the only known manuscript of a Munro story (“The Recessional” from The Chronicles of Clovis).
The first page of ‘The Recessional’ by Saki (H.H. Munro)
Munro’s sister Ethel disposed of most of his papers once she had compiled and published The Toys of Peace, The Square Egg and her memoir of her brother. The J. W. Lambert archive, held in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, contains a copy of the manuscript of “The Recessional” (published 8 July 1911 in the Westminster Gazette), which allows us probably the only glimpse we will ever get into Munro’s working practices (MS. Eng. c. 2347, fols. 265–75). Presumably Lambert acquired it while compiling The Bodley Head Saki (published 1963), though how and from whom remains unknown.
There are eleven pages in total. At times the copy has cut off the very final letter or two of a line. The manuscript is very clean and corroborates what fellow journalist A. Rothay Reynolds wrote in a memoir written in September 1918 (published as an introduction to The Toys of Peace): “His writing-pad was usually propped up with a book to make it slant and he wrote slowly in a very clear hand, rarely erasing a word or making a correction” (xx).
“Other people’s dreams are about as universally interesting as accounts of other people’s gardens, or chickens, or children.”
― ‘A Bread and Butter Miss’
In an article for Evelyn Waugh Studies (the newsletter for the Evelyn Waugh Society), Martin Stead suggests that Saki was one influence on Evelyn Waugh’s novel A Handful of Dust:
One other likely influence is the novelThe Unbearable Bassington(1912) by Saki (H.H. Munro).The bulk ofthis work takes place inLondon, and, like Waugh’s novel, shows up theshallownessof the charactersin the fashionableworld.Then, at the end, theaction shifts abruptly to the jungle, to where the hero,Comus Bassington, has been exiled, andwhere he dies, hopelessly mourning his former life.Waugh admired Saki, and wrote the 1947 introduction for a reprintof Bassington,althoughhe felt the novel to be less successful than theshort stories.Waugh andSakicertainly share a number of points,suchasa clipped, pared-down style, someextremelydark humour, and the habit of telling much oftheir stories in dialogue.
If you haven’t read A Handful of Dust, you should! (I am assuming my readers have read The Unbearable Bassington.)
Prompted by the thought of translating the first Reginald story into Russian, Lora Sirufova has written a short but fascinating article about the identity of the narrator, that unknown “I” who introduced Reginald to the world thus:
I did it—I who should have known better. I persuaded Reginald to go to the McKillops’ garden–party against his will.
