Гектор Манро - The Complete Short Stories of Saki

‘Could you reach this flask if I threw it over to you?’ asked Ulrich suddenly; ‘there is good wine in it, and one may as well be as comfortable as one can. Let us drink, even if tonight one of us dies.’

‘No, I can scarcely see anything; there is so much blood caked round my eyes,’ said Georg, ‘and in any case I don’t drink wine with an enemy.’

Ulrich was silent for a few minutes, and lay listening to the weary screeching of the wind. An idea was slowly forming and growing in his brain, an idea that gained strength every time that he looked across at the man who was fighting so grimly against pain and exhaustion. In the pain and languor that Ulrich himself was feeling the old fierce hatred seemed to be dying down.

‘Neighbour,’ he said presently, ‘do as you please if your men come first. It was a fair compact. But as for me, I’ve changed my mind. If my men are the first to come you shall be the first to be helped, as though you were my guest. We have quarrelled like devils all our lives over this stupid strip of forest, where the trees can’t even stand upright in a breath of wind. Lying here tonight, thinking, I’ve come to think we’ve been rather fools; there are better things in life than getting the better of a boundary dispute. Neighbour, if you will help me to bury the old quarrel I◦– I will ask you to be my friend.’

Georg Znaeym was silent for so long that Ulrich thought, perhaps, he had fainted with the pain of his injuries. Then he spoke slowly and in jerks.

‘How the whole region would stare and gabble if we rode into the market-square together. No one living can remember seeing a Znaeym and a von Gradwitz talking to one another in friendship. And what peace there would be among the forester folk if we ended our feud tonight. And if we choose to make peace among our people there is none other to interfere, no interlopers from outside…You would come and keep the Sylvester night beneath my roof, and I would come and feast on some high day at your castle…I would never fire a shot on your land, save when you invited me as a guest; and you should come and shoot with me down in the marshes where the wildfowl are. In all the countryside there are none that could hinder if we willed to make peace. I never thought to have wanted to do other than hate you all my life, but I think I have changed my mind about things too, this last half-hour. And you offered me your wine-flask…Ulrich von Gradwitz, I will be your friend.’

For a space both men were silent, turning over in their minds the wonderful changes that this dramatic reconciliation would bring about. In the cold, gloomy forest, with the wind tearing in fitful gusts through the naked branches and whistling round the tree-trunks, they lay and waited for the help that would now bring release and succour to both parties. And each prayed a private prayer that his men might be the first to arrive, so that he might be the first to show honourable attention to the enemy that had become a friend.

Presently, as the wind dropped for a moment, Ulrich broke silence.

‘Let’s shout for help,’ he said; ‘in this lull our voices may carry a little way.’

‘They won’t carry far through the trees and undergrowth,’ said Georg, ‘but we can try. Together, then.’

The two raised their voices in a prolonged hunting call.

‘Together again,’ said Ulrich a few minutes later, after listening in vain for an answering halloo.

‘I heard something that time, I think,’ said Ulrich.

‘I heard nothing but the pestilential wind,’ said Georg hoarsely.

There was silence again for some minutes, and then Ulrich gave a joyful cry.

‘I can see figures coming through the wood. They are following in the way I came down the hillside.’

Both men raised their voices in as loud a shout as they could muster.

‘They hear us! They’ve stopped. Now they see us. They’re running down the hill towards us,’ cried Ulrich.

‘How many of them are there?’ asked Georg.

‘I can’t see distinctly,’ said Ulrich; ‘nine or ten.’

‘Then they are yours,’ said Georg; ‘I had only seven out with me.’

‘They are making all the speed they can, brave lads,’ said Ulrich gladly.

‘Are they your men?’ asked Georg. ‘Are they your men?’ he repeated impatiently as Ulrich did not answer.

‘No,’ said Ulrich with a laugh, the idiotic chattering laugh of a man unstrung with hideous fear.

‘Who are they?’ asked Georg quickly, straining his eyes to see what the other would gladly not have seen.

‘ Wolves .’

‘The outlook is not encouraging for us smaller businesses,’ said Mr Scarrick to the artist and his sister, who had taken rooms over his suburban grocery store. ‘These big concerns are offering all sorts of attractions to the shopping public which we couldn’t afford to imitate, even on a small scale◦– reading-rooms and play-rooms and gramophones and Heaven knows what. People don’t care to buy half a pound of sugar nowadays unless they can listen to Harry Lauder and have the latest Australian cricket scores ticked off before their eyes. With the big Christmas stock we’ve got in we ought to keep half a dozen assistants hard at work, but as it is my nephew Jimmy and myself can pretty well attend to it ourselves. It’s a nice stock of goods, too, if I could only run it off in a few weeks’ time, but there’s no chance of that◦– not unless the London line was to get snowed up for a fortnight before Christmas. I did have a sort of idea of engaging Miss Luffcombe to give recitations during afternoons; she made a great hit at the Post Office entertainment with her rendering of “Little Beatrice’s Resolve.”’

‘Anything less likely to make your shop a fashionable shopping centre I can’t imagine,’ said the artist, with a very genuine shudder; ‘if I were trying to decide between the merits of Carlsbad plums and confected figs as a winter dessert it would infuriate me to have my train of thought entangled with little Beatrice’s resolve to be an Angel of Light or a girl scout. No,’ he continued, ‘the desire to get something thrown in for nothing is a ruling passion with the feminine shopper, but you can’t afford to pander effectively to it. Why not appeal to another instinct, which dominates not only the woman shopper but the male shopper◦– in fact, the entire human race?’

‘What is that instinct, sir?’ said the grocer.

Mrs Greyes and Miss Fritten had missed the 2.18 to Town, and as there was not another train till 3.12 they thought that they might as well make their grocery purchases at Scarrick’s. It would not be sensational, they agreed, but it would still be shopping.

For some minutes they had the shop almost to themselves, as far as customers were concerned, but while they were debating the respective virtues and blemishes of two competing brands of anchovy paste they were startled by an order, given across the counter, for six pomegranates and a packet of quail seed. Neither commodity was in general demand in that neighbourhood. Equally unusual was the style and appearance of the customer; about sixteen years old, with dark olive skin, large dusky eyes, and thick, low-growing, blue-black hair, he might have made his living as an artist’s model. As a matter of fact he did. The bowl of beaten brass that he produced for the reception of his purchases was distinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketing basket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen. He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be forthcoming.

‘The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday,’ he said; ‘keep what is over of the money for our future purchases.’