“Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an
answer,” smiled Cronshaw.
He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened
the door of the cafe, and, with a blast of cold air,
entered. They were Levantines, itinerant vendors
of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle.
It was Sunday evening, and the cafe was very full.
They passed among the tables, and in that atmosphere
heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with
humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery.
They were clad in European, shabby clothes, their
thin great-coats were threadbare, but each wore a
tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold.
One was of middle age, with a black beard, but the
other was a youth of eighteen, with a face deeply
scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They
passed by Cronshaw and Philip.
“Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet,”
said Cronshaw impressively.
The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel
used to blows. With a sidelong glance at the
door and a quick surreptitious movement he showed
a pornographic picture.
“Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria,
or is it from far Bagdad that you bring your goods,
O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth, do I see in
him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told
stories to her lord?”
The pedlar’s smile grew more ingratiating, though
he understood no word of what Cronshaw said, and like
a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box.
“Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms,”
quoth Cronshaw. “For I would point a moral
and adorn a tale.”
The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow,
vulgar, hideous, and grotesque.
“Thirty-five francs,” he said.
“O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers
of Samarkand, and those colours were never made in
the vats of Bokhara.”
“Twenty-five francs,” smiled the pedlar
obsequiously.
“Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture,
even Birmingham the place of my birth.”
“Fifteen francs,” cringed the bearded
man.
“Get thee gone, fellow,” said Cronshaw.
“May wild asses defile the grave of thy maternal
grandmother.”
Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine
passed with his wares to another table. Cronshaw
turned to Philip.
“Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum?
There you will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite
hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy of which
delights and amazes the eye. In them you will
see the mystery and the sensual beauty of the East,
the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of Omar; but presently
you will see more. You were asking just now what
was the meaning of life. Go and look at those
Persian carpets, and one of these days the answer
will come to you.”
“You are cryptic,” said Philip.
“I am drunk,” answered Cronshaw.
