When I awoke I found that we had indeed come to Perdóndaris, that famous
city. For there it stood upon the left of us, a city fair and notable,
and all the more pleasant for our eyes to see after the jungle that was
so long with us. And we were anchored by the market-place, and the
captain’s merchandise was all displayed, and a merchant of Perdóndaris
stood looking at it. And the captain had his scimitar in his hand, and
was beating with it in anger upon the deck, and the splinters were
flying up from the white planks; for the merchant had offered him a
price for his merchandise that the captain declared to be an insult to
himself and his country’s gods, whom he now said to be great and
terrible gods, whose curses were to be dreaded. But the merchant waved
his hands, which were of great fatness, showing the pink palms, and
swore that of himself he thought not at all, but only of the poor folk
in the huts beyond the city to whom he wished to sell the merchandise
for as low a price as possible, leaving no remuneration for himself. For
the merchandise was mostly the thick toomarund carpets that in the
winter keep the wind from the floor, and tollub which the people smoke
in pipes. Therefore the merchant said if he offered a piffek more the
poor folk must go without their toomarunds when the winter came, and
without their tollub in the evenings, or else he and his aged father
must starve together. Thereat the captain lifted his scimitar to his own
throat, saying that he was now a ruined man, and that nothing remained
to him but death. And while he was carefully lifting his beard with his
left hand, the merchant eyed the merchandise again, and said that rather
than see so worthy a captain die, a man for whom he had conceived an
especial love when first he saw the manner in which he handled his ship,
he and his aged father should starve together and therefore he offered
fifteen piffeks more.
When he said this the captain prostrated himself and prayed to his gods
that they might yet sweeten this merchant’s bitter heart—to his little
lesser gods, to the gods that bless Belzoond.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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