English writer Hector Hugh Munro, known as Saki, in an undated portrait by EO Hoppe.Time Life Pictures / GETTY IMAGES
As succulent as his work is, Saki is not a hot sauce.
It is the pseudonym of the Anglo-Indian author Hector Hugh Munro (1870-1916).
He chose it carefully and it's full of ulterior motives.
Since he took that job, let's take a look at it.
Saki was the treasure chest where this Victorian homosexual, with philonazi flirtations and lover of branded silk vests, the son of an inspector general of the British police in India and of a blurred woman with aristocratic pretenses who died gored by a cow.
At this point it is essential for me to pause to stifle laughter, because this tragic event is already worthy of one of the fiercest tales of his distinguished son.
Shortly after that episode, the future writer, barely two years old, stayed in the family home in Devon and was taken care of, at a safe distance, by his sinister paternal aunts (or were they maternal?).
Only the father returned to India.
That curious child and all his short life, exotic and resplendent, never got to be separated.
Imagine him, very young, taking his first steps through the Bay of Bengal and hunting spirits or chasing fruitful images.
For the moment, the dream was out of reach;
crushed, but throbbing inside, awaiting more favorable events.
The boy studied and waited.
His vivid memories began to build a unique, sarcastic, yet eminently refined literary personality;
with a macabre point that he cultivated like an exotic plant.
He never gave his arm to twist.
As soon as he could, he returned to his world.
As a military policeman, he worked in the Burmese city of Mandalay, but malaria forced him to return to England for the second time.
After disappointment - or rather, fate - he began to write.
He was 26 years old and had a lot of unexploded explosive material.
He traveled the world, was a newspaper correspondent, wrote a history of Russia, observed his surroundings and developed a clinical eye to uncover hypocritical British high society.
His sharp articles on the parliamentary life of the moment made it clear that no one would stop him.
He searched for and chose a name in which all his passions were hinted.
They were many and disparate, but they hit it off.
This is only achieved by a vocational observer and a strong temperament.
In 1900 Saki was born.
Where did it come from?
Saki is an imposing-looking ape that lives in South America.
Its uniqueness is that, despite its fearsome appearance, if you catch a glimpse of its sweet face, you will come across white skin with golden sparkles, and a broad forehead, topped by an oval in the shape of a heart.
It has a very long tail and is a skilled hunter.
A wild and glorious creature gifted with what it takes: at the time, many jokes about Saki's sexual attributes were whispered in the men's clubs.
But there is more.
In Japanese
saki
is a verb that means to flourish: many girls are given that name, which is commonly translated as Flora.
If we add all these clues to the fact that Saki knew how to move with as much ease in the literary environment as in the night hunts, it is even more impressive that, already famous, he volunteered in the First World War, and died under sniper fire at 46 years old.
Now, finally, we are ready to face the quality of his humor and the charity with the animals that he loved so much.
He was convinced that human beings always end up looking like our pets.
And it's true.
When I was very young they gave me a
Selham blue terrier
.
He was picky about food and rough with strangers.
We named him Clovis, one of Saki's most famous characters, and I can assure you that, to this day, I have inherited his angry and spoiled character.
All kinds of stories run about Saki.
I would like to think that, in truth, the last words of this complacent and passionate soldier were: "Throw away that damn cigarette now."
Was he referring to the deadly bullet?
I'd bet his entire work on me.
I've read it, I hope, almost all of Saki, and my favorite character is still Clovis.
Before flying over
The Clovis Chronicles
, take a look at what Jorge Luis Borges, capricious reader and reflective critic (as it should be) wrote about him: “With a kind of modesty, Saki gives a tone of triviality to the stories whose intimate plot is bitter and cruel.
That delicacy, that lightness, that lack of emphasis can be reminiscent of Oscar Wilde's delicate comedies ”.
Light, yes, but nothing elusive — and it is not because he contradicts Borges — because their collected stories cover about 809 pages, more or less.
I handle the volume of
Complete Tales
, published in Spanish by Alfanhuí in November 2005. I usually glean it, as they say, sprawled between feather cushions, and with nothing to do for several hours.
All Saki has side effects: a few wrinkles at the corner of the lips and the absolute impossibility of answering the phone.
If this shameless observer were still alive, he couldn't resist having one of his most cumbersome characters, Reginald, use these
Complete Tales
as a very heavy window stopper.
In that anthology we now enjoy, missing, I am afraid, are the tales allegedly destroyed by his ruthless and puritanical sister Ethel.
But he could not handle this passage from
Esmé
, a very famous story that belongs to the book
The Chronicles of Clovis
, first published in 1912. It is a story of psychological terror that ends up becoming genuine horror.
It happens as evening falls on a large English estate where fop Clovis spends his weekend.
In the company of two expert ladies, they look for a wild beast: a supposedly trained hyena.
When they find her they call her Esmé.
Shortly before, they have come across a little gypsy who is crying.
He follows them closely and his laments overwhelm the little group.
Speaks Clovis: “The accompaniment of the groans was clarified.
The gypsy was firm and I suppose painfully held between his jaws.
Oh my GOD!
Shouted Constance, "what can we do, what are we going to do?"
“I have no doubt that on Judgment Day Constance will ask more questions than any of the seraphim who question her,” murmurs Clovis.
The matter goes on for about two pages and has a glossy and sticky closure.
The hyena belonged to Constance's neighbor friend, Lord Pabham.
Clovis steps in to return it to him without a scratch.
Horrendous things are said about the gypsy and his progeny that I will leave to your oblivion.
You can follow BABELIA on
and
, or sign up here to receive
our weekly newsletter
.
