Mark

"Mark" by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki, is a short story that reflects the author's signature wit and keen social observations. The narrative revolves around themes of innocence, cunning, and the unexpected consequences of seemingly simple actions. Through the interactions of its characters, Saki explores the nuances of human behavior and the clash between appearances and reality, ultimately delivering a twist that highlights the irony and unpredictability of life. The story showcases Saki's sharp prose and dark humor, making it a compelling read for fans of early 20th-century literature.

• Short story

								
Augustus Mellowkent was a novelist with a future; that is to say, a
limited but increasing number of people read his books, and there seemed
good reason to suppose that if he steadily continued to turn out novels
year by year a progressively increasing circle of readers would acquire
the Mellowkent habit, and demand his works from the libraries and
bookstalls.  At the instigation of his publisher he had discarded the
baptismal Augustus and taken the front name of Mark.

"Women like a name that suggests some one strong and silent, able but
unwilling to answer questions.  Augustus merely suggests idle splendour,
but such a name as Mark Mellowkent, besides being alliterative, conjures
up a vision of some one strong and beautiful and good, a sort of blend of
Georges Carpentier and the Reverend What's-his-name."

One morning in December Augustus sat in his writing-room, at work on the
third chapter of his eighth novel.  He had described at some length, for
the benefit of those who could not imagine it, what a rectory garden
looks like in July; he was now engaged in describing at greater length
the feelings of a young girl, daughter of a long line of rectors and
archdeacons, when she discovers for the first time that the postman is
attractive.

"Their eyes met, for a brief moment, as he handed her two circulars and
the fat wrapper-bound bulk of the East Essex News.  Their eyes met, for
the merest fraction of a second, yet nothing could ever be quite the same
again.  Cost what it might she felt that she must speak, must break the
intolerable, unreal silence that had fallen on them.  'How is your
mother's rheumatism?' she said."

The author's labours were cut short by the sudden intrusion of a
maidservant.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the maid, handing a card with the
name Caiaphas Dwelf inscribed on it; "says it's important."

Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor's mission
was probably illusory, but he had never met any one with the name
Caiaphas before.  It would be at least a new experience.

Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, cold
grey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose.  He had
a large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that he
had left a package of similar volumes in the hall.  He took a seat before
it had been offered him, placed the book on the table, and began to
address Mellowkent in the manner of an "open letter."

"You are a literary man, the author of several well-known books--"

"I am engage on a book at the present moment--rather busily engaged,"
said Mellowkent, pointedly.

"Exactly," said the intruder; "time with you is a commodity of
considerable importance.  Minutes, even, have their value."

"They have," agreed Mellowkent, looking at his watch.

"That," said Caiaphas, "is why this book that I am introducing to your
notice is not a book that you can afford to be without.  Right Here is
indispensable for the writing man; it is no ordinary encyclopaedia, or I
should not trouble to show it to you.  It is an inexhaustible mine of
concise information--"

"On a shelf at my elbow," said the author, "I have a row of reference
books that supply me with all the information I am likely to require."

"Here," persisted the would-be salesman, "you have it all in one compact
volume.  No matter what the subject may be which you wish to look up, or
the fact you desire to verify, Right Here gives you all that you want
to know in the briefest and most enlightening form.  Historical
reference, for instance; career of John Huss, let us say.  Here we are:
'Huss, John, celebrated religious reformer.  Born 1369, burned at
Constance 1415.  The Emperor Sigismund universally blamed.'"

"If he had been burnt in these days every one would have suspected the
Suffragettes," observed Mellowkent.

"Poultry-keeping, now," resumed Caiaphas, "that's a subject that might
crop up in a novel dealing with English country life.  Here we have all
about it: 'The Leghorn as egg-producer.  Lack of maternal instinct in the
Minorca.  Gapes in chickens, its cause and cure.  Ducklings for the early
market, how fattened.'  There, you see, there it all is, nothing
lacking."

"Except the maternal instinct in the Minorca, and that you could hardly
be expected to supply."

"Sporting records, that's important, too; now how many men, sporting men
even, are there who can say off-hand what horse won the Derby in any
particular year?  Now it's just a little thing of that sort--"

"My dear sir," interrupted Mellowkent, "there are at least four men in my
club who can not only tell me what horse won in any given year, but what
horse ought to have won and why it didn't.  If your book could supply a
method for protecting one from information of that sort it would do more
than anything you have yet claimed for it."

"Geography," said Caiaphas, imperturbably; "that's a thing that a busy
man, writing at high pressure, may easily make a slip over.  Only the
other day a well-known author made the Volga flow into the Black Sea
instead of the Caspian; now, with this book--"

"On a polished rose-wood stand behind you there reposes a reliable and up-
to-date atlas," said Mellowkent; "and now I must really ask you to be
going."

"An atlas," said Caiaphas, "gives merely the chart of the river's course,
and indicates the principal towns that it passes.  Now Right Here gives
you the scenery, traffic, ferry-boat charges, the prevalent types of
fish, boatmen's slang terms, and hours of sailing of the principal river
steamers.  If gives you--"

Mellowkent sat and watched the hard-featured, resolute, pitiless
salesman, as he sat doggedly in the chair wherein he had installed
himself, unflinchingly extolling the merits of his undesired wares.  A
spirit of wistful emulation took possession of the author; why could he
not live up to the cold stern name he had adopted?  Why must he sit here
weakly and listen to this weary, unconvincing tirade, why could he not be
Mark Mellowkent for a few brief moments, and meet this man on level
terms?

A sudden inspiration flashed across his.

"Have you read my last book, The Cageless Linnet?" he asked.

"I don't read novels," said Caiaphas tersely.

"Oh, but you ought to read this one, every one ought to," exclaimed
Mellowkent, fishing the book down from a shelf; "published at six
shillings, you can have it at four-and-six.  There is a bit in chapter
five that I feel sure you would like, where Emma is alone in the birch
copse waiting for Harold Huntingdon--that is the man her family want her
to marry.  She really wants to marry him, too, but she does not discover
that till chapter fifteen.  Listen: 'Far as the eye could stretch rolled

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes