The Romancers

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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It was autumn in London, that blessed season betweenthe harshness of winter and the insincerities of summer;a trustful season when one buys bulbs and sees to theregistration of one's vote, believing perpetually inspring and a change of Government.Morton Crosby sat on a bench in a secluded corner ofHyde Park, lazily enjoying a cigarette and watching theslow grazing promenade of a pair of snow-geese, the malelooking rather like an albino edition of the russet-huedfemale. Out of the corner of his eye Crosby also notedwith some interest the hesitating hoverings of a humanfigure, which had passed and repassed his seat two orthree times at shortening intervals, like a wary crowabout to alight near some possibly edible morsel.Inevitably the figure came to an anchorage on the bench,within easy talking distance of its original occupant.The uncared-for clothes, the aggressive, grizzled beard,and the furtive, evasive eye of the new-comer bespoke theprofessional cadger, the man who would undergo hours ofhumiliating tale-spinning and rebuff rather thanadventure on half a day's decent work.For a while the new-comer fixed his eyes straight infront of him in a strenuous, unseeing gaze; then hisvoice broke out with the insinuating inflection of onewho has a story to retail well worth any loiterer's whileto listen to."It's a strange world," he said.As the statement met with no response he altered itto the form of a question."I daresay you've found it to be a strange world,mister?""As far as I am concerned," said Crosby, "thestrangeness has worn off in the course of thirty-sixyears.""Ah," said the greybeard, "I could tell you thingsthat you'd hardly believe. Marvellous things that havereally happened to me.""Nowadays there is no demand for marvellous thingsthat have really happened," said Crosby discouragingly;"the professional writers of fiction turn these thingsout so much better. For instance, my neighbours tell mewonderful, incredible things that their Aberdeens andchows and borzois have done; I never listen to them. Onthe other hand, I have read 'The Hound of theBaskervilles' three times."The greybeard moved uneasily in his seat; then heopened up new country."I take it that you are a professing Christian," heobserved."I am a prominent and I think I may say aninfluential member of the Mussulman community of EasternPersia," said Crosby, making an excursion himself intothe realms of fiction.The greybeard was obviously disconcerted at this newcheck to introductory conversation, but the defeat wasonly momentary."Persia. I should never have taken you for aPersian," he remarked, with a somewhat aggrieved air."I am not," said Crosby; "my father was an Afghan.""An Afghan!" said the other, smitten into bewilderedsilence for a moment. Then he recovered himself andrenewed his attack."Afghanistan. Ah! We've had some wars with thatcountry; now, I daresay, instead of fighting it we mighthave learned something from it. A very wealthy country,I believe. No real poverty there."He raised his voice on the word "poverty" with asuggestion of intense feeling. Crosby saw the openingand avoided it."It possesses, nevertheless, a number of highlytalented and ingenious beggars," he said; "if I had notspoken so disparagingly of marvellous things that havereally happened I would tell you the story of Ibrahim andthe eleven camel-loads of blotting-paper. Also I haveforgotten exactly how it ended.""My own life-story is a curious one," said thestranger, apparently stifling all desire to hear thehistory of Ibrahim; "I was not always as you see me now.""We are supposed to undergo complete change in thecourse of every seven years," said Crosby, as anexplanation of the foregoing announcement."I mean I was not always in such distressingcircumstances as I am at present," pursued the strangerdoggedly."That sounds rather rude," said Crosby stiffly,"considering that you are at present talking to a manreputed to be one of the most gifted conversationalistsof the Afghan border.""I don't mean in that way," said the greybeardhastily; "I've been very much interested in yourconversation. I was alluding to my unfortunate financialsituation. You mayn't hardly believe it, but at thepresent moment I am absolutely without a farthing. Don'tsee any prospect of getting any money, either, for thenext few days. I don't suppose you've ever foundyourself in such a position," he added."In the town of Yom," said Crosby, "which is inSouthern Afghanistan, and which also happens to be mybirthplace, there was a Chinese philosopher who used tosay that one of the three chiefest human blessings was tobe absolutely without money. I forget what the other twowere.""Ah, I daresay," said the stranger, in a tone thatbetrayed no enthusiasm for the philosopher's memory; "anddid he practise what he preached? That's the test.""He lived happily with very little money orresources," said Crosby."Then I expect he had friends who would help himliberally whenever he was in difficulties, such as I amin at present.""In Yom," said Crosby, "it is not necessary to havefriends in order to obtain help. Any citizen of Yomwould help a stranger as a matter of course."The greybeard was now genuinely interested.The conversation had at last taken a favourableturn."If someone, like me, for instance, who was inundeserved difficulties, asked a citizen of that town youspeak of for a small loan to tide over a few days'impecuniosity - five shillings, or perhaps a ratherlarger sum - would it be given to him as a matter ofcourse?""There would be a certain preliminary," said Crosby;"one would take him to a wine-shop and treat him to ameasure of wine, and then, after a little high-flownconversation, one would put the desired sum in his handand wish him good-day. It is a roundabout way ofperforming a simple transaction, but in the East all waysare roundabout."The listener's eyes were glittering."Ah," he exclaimed, with a thin sneer ringingmeaningly through his words, "I suppose you've given upall those generous customs since you left your town.Don't practise them now, I expect.""No one who has lived in Yom," said Crosbyfervently, "and remembers its green hills covered withapricot and almond trees, and the cold water that rushesdown like a caress from the upland snows and dashes underthe little wooden bridges, no one who remembers thesethings and treasures the memory of them would ever giveup a single one of its unwritten laws and customs. To methey are as binding as though I still lived in thathallowed home of my youth.""Then if I was to ask you for a small loan - " beganthe greybeard fawningly, edging nearer on the seat andhurriedly wondering how large he might safely make hisrequest, "if I was to ask you for, say - ""At any other time, certainly," said Crosby; "in themonths of November and December, however, it isabsolutely forbidden for anyone of our race to give orreceive loans or gifts; in fact, one does not willinglyspeak of them. It is considered unlucky. We willtherefore close this discussion.""But it is still October!" exclaimed the adventurerwith an eager, angry whine, as Crosby rose from his seat;"wants eight days to the end of the month!""The Afghan November began yesterday," said Crosbyseverely, and in another moment he was striding acrossthe Park, leaving his recent companion scowling andmuttering furiously on the seat."I don't believe a word of his story," he chatteredto himself; "pack of nasty lies from beginning to end.Wish I'd told him so to his face. Calling himself anAfghan!"The snorts and snarls that escaped from him for thenext quarter of an hour went far to support the truth ofthe old saying that two of a trade never agree.

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