Гектор Манро - The Complete Short Stories of Saki

‘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.’

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 palms 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 talk 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.’

Saki is the pen name of H. H. Munro, born in 1870 in Burma and educated in England. He began his writing career as a journalist and foreign correspondent but later turned to writing fiction◦– predominantly short stories for which he is best-remembered◦– as well as one history book. He was forty-three when the First World War started. Although he was beyond the age of conscription, and although he was offered an officer’s commission, Saki joined the army as an ordinary trooper. He was killed in 1916 in France by a German sniper.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.