A Touch of Realism

"A Touch of Realism" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki. The narrative features Saki's signature wit and social commentary, exploring themes of human nature and societal norms. The story typically revolves around a clash of perspectives between characters, highlighting the often absurd nature of human interactions and the clash between fantasy and reality. Through clever dialogue and dramatic irony, Saki crafts a tale that invites readers to reflect on the complexities of life and the sometimes stark disparity between appearance and truth.

• Short story

								
“I hope you’ve come full of suggestions for Christmas,” said Lady Blonze
to her latest arrived guest; “the old-fashioned Christmas and the
up-to-date Christmas are both so played out.  I want to have something
really original this year.”

“I was staying with the Mathesons last month,” said Blanche Boveal
eagerly, “and we had such a good idea.  Every one in the house-party had
to be a character and behave consistently all the time, and at the end of
the visit one had to guess what every one’s character was.  The one who
was voted to have acted his or her character best got a prize.”

“It sounds amusing,” said Lady Blonze.

“I was St. Francis of Assisi,” continued Blanche; “we hadn’t got to keep
to our right sexes.  I kept getting up in the middle of a meal, and
throwing out food to the birds; you see, the chief thing that one
remembers of St. Francis is that he was fond of the birds.  Every one was
so stupid about it, and thought that I was the old man who feeds the
sparrows in the Tuileries Gardens.  Then Colonel Pentley was the Jolly
Miller on the banks of Dee.”

“How on earth did he do that?” asked Bertie van Tahn.

“‘He laughed and sang from morn till night,’” explained Blanche.

“How dreadful for the rest of you,” said Bertie; “and anyway he wasn’t on
the banks of Dee.”

“One had to imagine that,” said Blanche.

“If you could imagine all that you might as well imagine cattle on the
further bank and keep on calling them home, Mary-fashion, across the
sands of Dee.  Or you might change the river to the Yarrow and imagine it
was on the top of you, and say you were Willie, or whoever it was,
drowned in Yarrow.”

“Of course it’s easy to make fun of it,” said Blanche sharply, “but it
was extremely interesting and amusing.  The prize was rather a fiasco,
though.  You see, Millie Matheson said her character was Lady Bountiful,
and as she was our hostess of course we all had to vote that she had
carried out her character better than anyone.  Otherwise I ought to have
got the prize.”

“It’s quite an idea for a Christmas party,” said Lady Blonze; “we must
certainly do it here.”

Sir Nicholas was not so enthusiastic.  “Are you quite sure, my dear, that
you’re wise in doing this thing?” he said to his wife when they were
alone together.  “It might do very well at the Mathesons, where they had
rather a staid, elderly house-party, but here it will be a different
matter.  There is the Durmot flapper, for instance, who simply stops at
nothing, and you know what Van Tahn is like.  Then there is Cyril
Skatterly; he has madness on one side of his family and a Hungarian
grandmother on the other.”

“I don’t see what they could do that would matter,” said Lady Blonze.

“It’s the unknown that is to be dreaded,” said Sir Nicholas.  “If
Skatterly took it into his head to represent a Bull of Bashan, well, I’d
rather not be here.”

“Of course we shan’t allow any Bible characters.  Besides, I don’t know
what the Bulls of Bashan really did that was so very dreadful; they just
came round and gaped, as far as I remember.”

“My dear, you don’t know what Skatterly’s Hungarian imagination mightn’t
read into the part; it would be small satisfaction to say to him
afterwards: ‘You’ve behaved as no Bull of Bashan would have behaved.’”

“Oh, you’re an alarmist,” said Lady Blonze; “I particularly want to have
this idea carried out.  It will be sure to be talked about a lot.”

“That is quite possible,” said Sir Nicholas.

                                * * * * *

Dinner that evening was not a particularly lively affair; the strain of
trying to impersonate a self-imposed character or to glean hints of
identity from other people’s conduct acted as a check on the natural
festivity of such a gathering.  There was a general feeling of gratitude
and acquiescence when good-natured Rachel Klammerstein suggested that
there should be an hour or two’s respite from “the game” while they all
listened to a little piano-playing after dinner.  Rachel’s love of piano
music was not indiscriminate, and concentrated itself chiefly on
selections rendered by her idolised offspring, Moritz and Augusta, who,
to do them justice, played remarkably well.

The Klammersteins were deservedly popular as Christmas guests; they gave
expensive gifts lavishly on Christmas Day and New Year, and Mrs.
Klammerstein had already dropped hints of her intention to present the
prize for the best enacted character in the game competition.  Every one
had brightened at this prospect; if it had fallen to Lady Blonze, as
hostess, to provide the prize, she would have considered that a little
souvenir of some twenty or twenty-five shillings’ value would meet the
case, whereas coming from a Klammerstein source it would certainly run to
several guineas.

The close time for impersonation efforts came to an end with the final
withdrawal of Moritz and Augusta from the piano.  Blanche Boveal retired
early, leaving the room in a series of laboured leaps that she hoped
might be recognised as a tolerable imitation of Pavlova.  Vera Durmot,
the sixteen-year-old flapper, expressed her confident opinion that the
performance was intended to typify Mark Twain’s famous jumping frog, and
her diagnosis of the case found general acceptance.  Another guest to set
an example of early bed-going was Waldo Plubley, who conducted his life
on a minutely regulated system of time-tables and hygienic routine.
Waldo was a plump, indolent young man of seven-and-twenty, whose mother
had early in his life decided for him that he was unusually delicate, and
by dint of much coddling and home-keeping had succeeded in making him
physically soft and mentally peevish.  Nine hours’ unbroken sleep,
preceded by elaborate breathing exercises and other hygienic ritual, was
among the indispensable regulations which Waldo imposed on himself, and
there were innumerable small observances which he exacted from those who
were in any way obliged to minister to his requirements; a special teapot
for the decoction of his early tea was always solemnly handed over to the
bedroom staff of any house in which he happened to be staying.  No one
had ever quite mastered the mechanism of this precious vessel, but Bertie
van Tahn was responsible for the legend that its spout had to be kept
facing north during the process of infusion.

On this particular night the irreducible nine hours were severely
mutilated by the sudden and by no means noiseless incursion of a
pyjama-clad figure into Waldo’s room at an hour midway between midnight
and dawn.

“What is the matter?  What are you looking for?” asked the awakened and
astonished Waldo, slowly recognising Van Tahn, who appeared to be
searching hastily for something he had lost.

“Looking for sheep,” was the reply.

“Sheep?” exclaimed Waldo.

“Yes, sheep.  You don’t suppose I’m looking for giraffes, do you?”

“I don’t see why you should expect to find either in my room,” retorted
Waldo furiously.

“I can’t argue the matter at this hour of the night,” said Bertie, and
began hastily rummaging in the chest of drawers.  Shirts and underwear

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes