SHOCK TACTICS - SPECULATIONS

SHOCK TACTICS

On a late spring afternoon Ella sat on a greenpainted chair in Kensington Gardens, staring listlessly at an uninteresting stretch of park landscape, that blossomed suddenly into tropical radiance as an expected figure appeared in the middle distance.

"Hullo, Bertie!" she exclaimed sedately, when the figure arrived at the painted chair that was the nearest neighbour to her own, and dropped into it eagerly, yet with a certain due regard for the set of its trousers; "hasn't it been a perfect spring afternoon?"

The statement was a distinct untruth as far as Ella's own feelings were concerned; until the arrival of Bertie, the afternoon had been anything but perfect. 

Bertie made a suitable reply, in which a questioning note seemed to hover.

"Thank you ever so much for those lovely handkerchiefs," said Ella, answering the unspoken question; "they were just what I've been wanting. There's only one thing spoilt my pleasure in your gift," she added with a pout.

"What was that?" asked Bertie anxiously, fearful that perhaps he had chosen a size of handkerchief that was not within the correct feminine limit.

"I should have liked to have written and thanked you for them as soon as I got them," said Ella, and Bertie's sky clouded at once.

"You know what mother is," he protested: "she opens all my letters, and if she found I'd been giving presents to any one there'd have been something to talk about for the next fortnight."

"Surely, at the age of twenty --" began Ella.

"I'm not twenty till September," interrupted Bertie.

"At the age of nineteen years and eight months," persisted Ella, "you might be allowed to keep your correspondence private to yourself."

"I ought to be, but things aren't always what they ought to be. Mother opens every letter that comes into the house, whoever it's for. My sisters and I have made rows about it time and again, but she goes on doing it."

"I'd find some way to stop her if I were in your place," said Ella valiantly. ...

"Is anything the matter?" asked Bertie's friend Clovis when they met that evening.

"Why do you ask?" said Bertie.

"When you wear a look of tragic gloom, it's especially noticeable. Didn't she like the handkerchiefs?"

Bertie explained the situation.

"It is rather galling, you [You] know," he added, "when a girl has a lot of things she wants to write to you [You] and can't send a letter except by some roundabout, underhand way."

"One never realizes one's [One's] blessings while one [One] enjoys them," said Clovis; "now I have to spend a considerable amount of ingenuity inventing excuses for not having written to people."

"It's not a joking matter," said Bertie resentfully, "you [You] wouldn't find it funny if [IF?!!] your mother [Your puritanical "father" Krishna] opened all your [Your] letters."

"The funny thing to me is that you [You] should let her [him] do it."

"I can't stop it. I've argued about it --"

"You haven't used the right kind of argument, I expect." ...

It was a day or two after the conversation that a letter addressed to Bertie Heasant slid into the letter-box at his home, and thence into the hands of his mother. Mrs. Heasant was one of those emptyminded individuals to whom other people's affairs are perpetually interesting. The more private they are intended to be the more acute is the interest they arouse. She would have opened this particular letter in any case; the fact that it was marked "private" merely caused her to open it with headlong haste rather than matter-of-fact deliberation. The harvest of sensation that rewarded her was beyond all expectations.

"Bertie," it began, "I wonder if you will have the nerve to do it: it will take some nerve, too. Don't forget the jewels. They are a detail, but details interest me. ["Don't forget Your keys." - UIUC fake "Cynthia".]

"Yours as ever,

"Clotilde."

"Your mother must not know of my existence. If questioned swear you [You] never heard of me."

For years Mrs. Heasant had searched Bertie's correspondence diligently for traces of possible dissipation or youthful entanglements, and at last the suspicions that had stimulated her inquisitorial zeal were justified by this one splendid haul. That any one wearing the exotic name "Clotilde" [or a fake young "Japanese" teenage girl "Miki"] should write to Bertie under the incriminating announcement "as ever" was sufficiently electrifying, without the astounding allusion to the jewels. Mrs. Heasant could recall novels and dramas wherein jewels played an exciting and commanding role, and here, under her own roof, before her very eyes as it were, her own son was carrying on an intrigue in which jewels were merely an interesting detail. Bertie was not due home for another hour, but his sisters were available for the immediate unburdening of a scandal-laden mind.

"Bertie is in the toils of an adventuress," she screamed, "her name is Clotilde," she added, as if she thought they had better know the worst at once.*

* If you are caught in the toils of an unpleasant feeling or situation [or s. honeytrap], you are trapped by it."- Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English

(From Saki/H. H. Munro: "SHOCK TACTICS" in SAKI: 76 SHORT STORIES, Rupa & Co., 468 pages, Rs. 95.)

SPECULATIONS

God = K. S.    (w. "Mary"?)

Adam/Krishna/Jesus etc./Son of God vs. Satan/f. "God"/f. "Brahma"/PF

Sons of Adam or Satan: WF and NL/f. "Shiv" = Cain and Abel

Kishalay Sinha [G]