ui Review Saki’s?The Open Window?(written, audio, and video).
To prepare:
- Think about your reaction to the different forms of the story and what it might mean for you as a learner.
- Consider how humans use their perspective to understand new experiences by imagining the details of a story
- Consider the imagery you created in your mind as you interacted with the written version of The Open Window. Describe this imagery and discuss whether it helped you understand the story. Did the imagery or imagined tone change when you listened to the audio? How?
- After watching the video, have you changed your mind about the stories or the characters? If so, describe the change and why you think this happened?
- Since technology has made it easier to share visual versions of written works, does that impact our need to “see to believe” or influence how easily we understand material we have read but not seen?
- Please limit your resources to the resources I provided…. No external references please.
- Bennett, Mike (Producer). (2013). The open window by SakiLinks to an external site. [Video file]. Retrieved from
- Shorts, F. (2008, June 27). The Open Doors: Future ShortsLinks to an external site.. Retrieved June 08, 2020, from
- The Open Window
by Saki (H.H. Munro)
MY AUNT will be down presently, Mr Nuttel,’ said a self-possessed young lady of
fifteen. ‘In the meantime, you must put up with me.’
Framton Nuttel tried to make pleasant conversation while waiting for the Aunt.
Privately, he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on total strangers
would help the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing in this rural
retreat.
‘I’ll just give you letters to all the people I know there,’ his sister had said.
‘Otherwise you’ll bury yourself and not speak to a soul and your nerves will be worse
than ever from moping.’
‘Do you know many people around here?’ asked the niece.
‘Hardly a soul. My sister gave me letters of introduction to some people here.’
‘Then you know practically nothing about my Aunt?’ continued the self-possessed
young lady.
‘Only her name and address,’ admitted the caller.
‘Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,’ said the child.
‘Her tragedy?’ asked Framton. Somehow, in this restful spot, tragedies seemed
out of place.
‘You may wonder why we keep that window open so late in the year,’ said the
niece, indicating a large French window that opened on a lawn. ‘Out through that
window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for
their day’s shooting. In crossing the moor, they were engulfed in a treacherous bog.
Their bodies were never recovered.’
Here the child’s voice faltered. ‘Poor Aunt always thinks that they’ll come back
someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in the
window. That is why it is kept open every evening till dusk. She has often told me how
they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm. You know,
sometimes on still evenings like this I get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in
through that window —’
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt
bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for keeping him waiting.
‘I hope you don’t mind the open window,’ she said. ‘My husband and brothers will
be home directly from shooting and they always come in this way.’
She rattled on cheerfully about the prospects for duck shooting in the winter.
Framton made a desperate effort to turn the talk to a less ghastly topic, conscious that
his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and that her eyes were
constantly straying past him to the open window. It was certainly an unfortunate
coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
‘The doctors ordered me a complete rest from mental excitement and physical
exercise,’ announced Framton, who imagined that everyone — even a complete
stranger — was interested in his illness.
‘Oh?’ said Mrs Sappleton, vaguely. Then she suddenly brightened into attention
— but not to what Framton was saying.
‘Here they are at last!’ she cried. ‘In time for tea, and muddy up to the eyes.’
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to
convey sympathetic understanding. The child was staring through the open window
with dazed horror in her eyes. Framton swung round and looked in the same direction.In the deepening twilight three figures were walking noiselessly across the lawn,
a tired brown spaniel close at their heels. They all carried guns, and one had a white
coat over his shoulders.
Framton grabbed his stick; the hall door and the gravel drive were dimly noted
stages in his headlong retreat.
‘Here we are, my dear,’ said the bearer of the white mackintosh. ‘Who was that
who bolted out as we came up?’
‘An extraordinary man, a Mr Nuttel,’ said Mrs Sappleton, ‘who could only talk
about his illness, and dashed off without a word of apology when you arrived. One
would think he had seen a ghost.’
‘I expect it was the spaniel,’ said the niece calmly. He told me he had a horror of
dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of
stray dogs and had to spend the night in a newly-dug grave with the creatures
snarling and foaming above him. Enough to make anyone lose his nerve.’
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