The Saki Megapack

by H. H. Munro

  “He has evidently sold his masterpiece,” whispered Sylvia Strubble to Mrs. Nougat-Jones, who had come in late.

  “Who has bought it?” she whispered back.

  “Don’t know; he hasn’t said anything yet, but it must be some American. Do you see, he has got a little American flag on the dessert dish, and he has put pennies in the music box three times, once to play the ‘Star-spangled Banner,’ then a Sousa march, and then the ‘Star-spangled Banner’ again. It must be an American millionaire, and he’s evidently got a very big price for it; he’s just beaming and chuckling with satisfaction.”

  “We must ask him who has bought it,” said Mrs. Nougat-Jones.

  “Hush! no, don’t. Let’s buy some of his sketches, quick, before we are supposed to know that he’s famous; otherwise he’ll be doubling the prices. I am so glad he’s had a success at last. I always believed in him, you know.”

  For the sum of ten shillings each Miss Strubble acquired the drawings of the camel dying in Upper Berkeley Street and of the giraffes quenching their thirst in Trafalgar Square; at the same price Mrs. Nougat-Jones secured the study of roosting sand-grouse. A more ambitious picture, “Wolves and wapiti fighting on the steps of the Athenæum Club,” found a purchaser at fifteen shillings.

  “And now what are your plans?” asked a young man who contributed occasional paragraphs to an artistic weekly.

  “I go back to Stolpmünde as soon as the ship sails,” said the artist, “and I do not return. Never.”

  “But your work? Your career as painter?”

  “Ah, there is nossing in it. One starves. Till to-day I have sold not one of my sketches. To-night you have bought a few, because I am going away from you, but at other times, not one.”

  “But has not some American—?”

  “Ah, the rich American,” chuckled the artist. “God be thanked. He dash his car right into our herd of schwines as they were being driven out to the fields. Many of our best schwines he killed, but he paid all damages. He paid perhaps more than they were worth, many times more than they would have fetched in the market after a month of fattening, but he was in a hurry to get on to Dantzig. When one is in a hurry one must pay what one is asked. God be thanked for rich Americans, who are always in a hurry to get somewhere else. My father and mother, they have now so plenty of money; they send me some to pay my debts and come home. I start on Monday for Stolpmünde and I do not come back. Never.”

  “But your picture, the hyænas?”

  “No good. It is too big to carry to Stolpmünde. I burn it.”

  In time he will be forgotten, but at present Knopfschrank is almost as sore a subject as Sledonti with some of the frequenters of the Nuremberg Restaurant, Owl Street, Soho.

  STRAY SAKI STORIES

  Sake remains best known for the two novels and three short story collections contained in this volume. After his death, a number of stray works were assembled in The Square Egg and Other Sketches (1924). To our eye, all of these works are very minor and were no doubt omitted by the author from previous collections quite deliberately. However, we include the best five here, including a Clovis tale and “The Square Egg” (our favorite of the lot—though slow to start, the ending is worth it once you get there).

  CLOVIS ON THE ALLEGED ROMANCE OF BUSINESS

  “It is the fashion nowadays,” said Clovis, “to talk about the romance of Business. There isn’t such a thing. The romance has all been the other way, with the idle apprentice, the truant, the runaway, the individual who couldn’t be bothered with figures and book-keeping and left business to look after itself. I admit that a grocer’s shop is one of the most romantic and thrilling things that I have ever happened on, but the romance and thrill are centred in the groceries, not the grocer. The citron and spices and nuts and dates, the barrelled anchovies and Dutch cheeses, the jars of caviar and the chests of tea, they carry the mind away to Levantine coast towns and tropic shores, to the Old World wharfs and quays of the Low Countries, to dusty Astrachan and far Cathay; if the grocer’s apprentice has any romance in him it is not a business education he gets behind the grocer’s counter, it is a standing invitation to dream and to wander, and to remain poor. As a child such places as South America and Asia Minor were brought painstakingly under my notice, the names of their principal rivers and the heights of their chief mountain peaks were committed to my memory, and I was earnestly enjoined to consider them as parts of the world that I lived in; it was only when I visited a large well-stocked grocer’s shop that I realized that they certainly existed. Such galleries of romance and fascination are not bequeathed to us by the business man; he is only the dull custodian, who talks glibly of Spanish olives and Rangoon rice, a Spain that he has never known or wished to know, a Rangoon that he has never imagined or could imagine. It was the unledgered wanderer, the careless-hearted seafarer, the aimless outcast, who opened up new trade routes, tapped new markets, brought home samples or cargoes of new edibles and unknown condiments. It was they who brought the glamour and romance to the threshold of business life, where it was promptly reduced to pounds, shillings, and pence; invoiced, double-entried, quoted, written-off, and so forth; most of those terms are probably wrong, but a little inaccuracy sometimes saves tons of explanation.

  “On the other side of the account there is the industrious apprentice, who grew up into the business man, married early and worked late, and lived, thousands and thousands of him, in little villas outside big towns. He is buried by the thousand in Kensal Green and other large cemeteries; any romance that was ever in him was buried prematurely in shop and warehouse and office. Whenever I feel in the least tempted to be business-like or methodical or even decently industrious I go to Kensal Green and look at the graves of those who died in business.”

  THE COMMENTS OF MOUNG KA

  Moung Ka, cultivator of rice and philosophic virtues, sat on the raised platform of his cane-built house by the banks of the swiftly flowing Irrawaddy. On two sides of the house there was a bright-green swamp, which stretched away to where the uncultivated jungle growth began. In the bright-green swamp, which was really a rice-field when you looked closely at it, bitterns and pond-herons and elegant cattle-egrets stalked and peered with the absorbed air of careful and conscientious reptile-hunters, who could never forget that, while they were undoubtedly useful, they were also distinctly decorative. In the tall reed growth by the riverside grazing buffaloes showed in patches of dark slaty blue, like plums fallen amid long grass, and in the tamarind trees that shaded Moung Ka’s house the crows, restless, raucous-throated, and much-too-many, kept up their incessant afternoon din, saying over and over again all the things that crows have said since there were crows to say them.

  Moung Ka sat smoking his enormous green-brown cigar, without which no Burmese man, woman, or child seems really complete, dispensing from time to time instalments of worldly information for the benefit and instruction of his two companions. The steamer which came up-river from Mandalay thrice a week brought Moung Ka a Rangoon news-sheet, in which the progress of the world’s events was set forth in telegraphic messages and commented on in pithy paragraphs. Moung Ka, who read these things and retailed them as occasion served to his friends and neighbours, with philosophical additions of his own, was held in some esteem locally as a political thinker; in Burma it is possible to be a politician without ceasing to be a philosopher.

  His friend Moung Thwa, dealer in teakwood, had just returned down-river from distant Bhamo, where he had spent many weeks in dignified, unhurried chaffering with Chinese merchants; the first place to which he had naturally turned his steps, bearing with him his betel-box and fat cigar, had been the raised platform of Moung Ka’s cane-built house under the tamarind trees. The youthful Moung Shoogalay, who had studied in the foreign schools at Mandalay and knew many English words, was also of the little group that sat listening to Moung Ka’s bulletin of the world’s health and ignoring the screeching of the crows.

  There had been the usual preliminary t
alk of timber and the rice market and sundry local matters, and then the wider and remoter things of life came under review.

  “And what has been happening away from here?” asked Moung Thwa of the newspaper reader.

  “Away from here” comprised that considerable portion of the world’s surface which lay beyond the village boundaries.

  “Many things,” said Moung Ka reflectively, “but principally two things of much interest and of an opposite nature. Both, however, concern the action of Governments.”

  Moung Thwa nodded his head gravely, with the air of one who reverenced and distrusted all Governments.

  “The first thing, of which you may have heard on your journeyings,” said Moung Ka, “is an act of the Indian Government, which has annulled the not-long-ago accomplished partition of Bengal.”

  “I heard something of this,” said Moung Thwa, “from a Madrassi merchant on the boat journey. But I did not learn the reasons that made the Government take this step. Why was the partition annulled?”

  “Because,” said Moung Ka, “it was held to be against the wishes of the greater number of the people of Bengal. Therefore the Government made an end of it.”

  Moung Thwa was silent for a moment. “Is it a wise thing the Government has done?” he asked presently.

  “It is a good thing to consider the wishes of a people,” said Moung Ka. “The Bengalis may be a people who do not always wish what is best for them. Who can say? But at least their wishes have been taken into consideration, and that is a good thing.”

  “And the other matter of which you spoke?” questioned Moung Thwa, “the matter of an opposite nature.”

  “The other matter,” said Moung Ka, “is that the British Government has decided on the partition of Britain. Where there has been one Parliament and one Government there are to be two Parliaments and two Governments, and there will be two treasuries and two sets of taxes.”

  Moung Thwa was greatly interested at this news.

  “And is the feeling of the people of Britain in favour of this partition?” he asked. “Will they not dislike it, as the people of Bengal disliked the partition of their Province?”

  “The feeling of the people of Britain has not been consulted, and will not be consulted,” said Moung Ka; “the Act of Partition will pass through one Chamber where the Government rules supreme, and the other Chamber can only delay it a little while, and then it will be made into the Law of the Land.”

  “But is it wise not to consult the feeling of the people?” asked Moung Thwa.

  “Very wise,” answered Moung Ka, “for if the people were consulted they would say ‘No,’ as they have always said when such a decree was submitted to their opinion, and if the people said ‘No’ there would be an end of the matter, but also an end of the Government. Therefore, it is wise for the Government to shut its ears to what the people may wish.”

  “But why must the people of Bengal be listened to and the people of Britain not listened to?” asked Moung Thwa; “surely the partition of their country affects them just as closely. Are their opinions too silly to be of any weight?”

  “The people of Britain are what is called a Democracy,” said Moung Ka.

  “A Democracy?” questioned Moung Thwa. “What is that?”

  “A Democracy,” broke in Moung Shoogalay eagerly, “is a community that governs itself according to its own wishes and interests by electing accredited representatives who enact its laws and supervise and control their administration. Its aim and object is government of the community in the interests of the community.”

  “Then,” said Moung Thwa, turning to his neighbour, “if the people of Britain are a Democracy—”

  “I never said they were a Democracy,” interrupted Moung Ka placidly.

  “Surely we both heard you!” exclaimed Moung Thwa.

  “Not correctly,” said Moung Ka; “I said they are what is called a Democracy.”

  THE GALA PROGRAMME

  AN UNRECORDED EPISODE IN ROMAN HISTORY

  It was an auspicious day in the Roman Calendar, the birthday of the popular and gifted young Emperor Placidus Superbus. Everyone in Rome was bent on keeping high festival, the weather was at its best, and naturally the Imperial Circus was crowded to its fullest capacity. A few minutes before the hour fixed for the commencement of the spectacle a loud fanfare of trumpets proclaimed the arrival of Caasar, and amid the vociferous acclamations of the multitude the Emperor took his seat in the Imperial Box. As the shouting of the crowd died away, an even more thrilling salutation could be heard in the near distance, the angry, impatient roaring and howling of the beasts caged in the Imperial menagerie.

  “Explain the programme to me,” commanded the Emperor, having beckoned the Master of the Ceremonies to his side.

  That eminent official wore a troubled look.

  “Gracious Caesar,” he announced, “a most promising and entertaining programme has been devised and prepared for your august approval. In the first place there is to be a chariot contest of unusual brilliancy and interest; three teams that have never hitherto suffered defeat are to contend for the Herculaneum Trophy, together with the purse which your Imperial generosity has been pleased to add. The chances of the competing teams are accounted to be as nearly as possible equal, and there is much wagering among the populace. The black Thracians are perhaps the favourites—”

  “I know, I know,” interrupted Caesar, who had listened to exhaustive talk on the same subject all the morning; “what else is there on the programme?”

  “The second part of the programme,” said the Imperial Official, “consists of a grand combat of wild beasts, specially selected for their strength, ferocity, and fighting qualities. There will appear simultaneously in the arena fourteen Nubian lions and lionesses, five tigers, six Syrian bears, eight Persian panthers, and three North African ditto, a number of wolves and lynxes from the Teutonic forests, and seven gigantic wild bulls from the same region. There will also be wild swine of unexampled savageness, a rhinoceros from the Barbary coast, some ferocious man-apes, and a hyaena, reputed to be mad.”

  “It promises well,” said the Emperor.

  “It promised well, O Caesar,” said the official dolorously, “it promised marvellously well; but between the promise and the performance a cloud has arisen.”

  “A cloud? What cloud?” queried Caesar, with a frown.

  “The Suffragetae,” explained the official; “they threaten to interfere with the chariot race.”

  “I’d like to see them do it !” exclaimed the Emperor indignantly.

  “I fear your Imperial wish may be unpleasantly gratified,” said the Master of the Ceremonies; “we are taking, of course, every possible precaution, and guarding all the entrances to the arena and the stables with a triple guard; but it is rumoured that at the signal for the entry of the chariots five hundred women will let themselves down with ropes from the public seats and swarm all over the course. Naturally no race could be run under such circumstances; the programme will be ruined.”

  “On my birthday,” said Placidus Superbus, “they would not dare to do such an outrageous thing.”

  “The more august the occasion, the more desirous they will be to advertise themselves and their cause,” said the harassed official; “they do not scruple to make riotous interference even with the ceremonies in the temples.”

  “Who are these Suffragetae?” asked the Emperor. “Since I came back from my Pannonian expedition, I have heard of nothing else but their excesses and demonstrations.”

  “They are a political sect of very recent origin, and their aim seems to be to get a big share of political authority into their hands. The means they are taking to convince us of their fitness to help in making and administering the laws consist of wild indulgence in tumult, destruction, and defiance of all authority. They have already damaged some of the most historically valuable of our public treasures, which can never be replaced.”

  “Is it possible that the sex which we ho
ld in such honour and for which we feel such admiration can produce such hordes of Furies?” asked the Emperor.

  “It takes all sorts to make a sex,” observed the Master of the Ceremonies, who possessed a certain amount of worldly wisdom; “also,” he continued anxiously, “it takes very little to upset a gala programme.”

  “Perhaps the disturbance that you anticipate will turn out to be an idle threat,” said the Emperor consolingly.

  “But if they should carry out their intention,” said the official, “the programme will be utterly ruined.”

  The Emperor said nothing.

  * * * *

  Five minutes later, the trumpets rang out for the commencement of the entertainment. A hum of excited anticipation ran through the ranks of the spectators, and final bets on the issue of the great race were hurriedly shouted. The gates leading from the stables were slowly swung open, and a troop of mounted attendants rode round the track to ascertain that everything was clear for the momentous contest. Again the trumpets rang out, and then, before the foremost chariot had appeared, there arose a wild tumult of shouting, laughing, angry protests, and shrill screams of defiance. Hundreds of women were being lowered by their accomplices into the arena. A moment later they were running and dancing in frenzied troops across the track where the chariots were supposed to compete. No team of arena-trained horses would have faced such a frantic mob; the race was clearly an impossibility. Howls of disappointment and rage rose from the spectators, howls of triumph echoed back from the women in possession. The vain efforts of the circus attendants to drive out the invading horde merely added to the uproar and confusion; as fast as the Suffragetae were thrust away from one portion of the track, they swarmed on to another.