This is a matter of such moment
that I am astonished people hear of it so little. Whatever is buried
right into our blood from immemorial habit that we must be certain to
do if we are to be fairly happy (of course no grown man or woman can
really be very happy for long - but I mean reasonably happy), and, what
is more important, decent and secure of our souls. Thus one should
from time to time hunt animals, or at the very least shoot at a mark;
one should always drink some kind of fermented liquor with one's
food - and especially deeply upon great feast-days; one should go on
the water from time to time; and one should dance on occasions; and
one should sing in chorus. For all these things man has done since God
put him into a garden and his eyes first became troubled with a soul.
Similarly some teacher or ranter or other, whose name I forget, said
lately one very wise thing at least, which was that every man should
do a little work with his hands.
Oh! what good philosophy this is, and how much better it would be if
rich people, instead of raining the influence of their rank and
spending their money on leagues for this or that exceptional thing,
were to spend it in converting the middle-class to ordinary living and
to the tradition of the race. Indeed, if I had power for some thirty
years I would see to it that people should be allowed to follow their
inbred instincts in these matters, and should hunt, drink, sing,
dance, sail, and dig; and those that would not should be compelled by
force.
Now in the morning Mass you do all that the race needs to do and has
done for all these ages where religion was concerned; there you have
the sacred and separate Enclosure, the Altar, the Priest in his
Vestments, the set ritual, the ancient and hierarchic tongue, and all
that your nature cries out for in the matter of worship.
From these considerations it is easy to understand how put out I was
to find Mass over on this first morning of my pilgrimage. And I went
along the burning road in a very ill-humour till I saw upon my right,
beyond a low wall and in a kind of park, a house that seemed built on
some artificial raised ground surrounded by a wall, but this may have
been an illusion, the house being really only very tall. At any rate I
drew it, and in the village just beyond it I learnt something curious
about the man that owned it.
For I had gone into a house to take a third meal of bread and wine and
to replenish my bottle when the old woman of the house, who was a
kindly person, told me she had just then no wine. 'But,' said she, 'Mr
So and So that lives in the big house sells it to any one who cares to
buy even in the smallest quantities, and you will see his shed
standing by the side of the road.'
Everything happened just as she had said. I came to the big shed by
the park wall, and there was a kind of counter made of boards, and
several big tuns and two men: one in an apron serving, and the other
in a little box or compartment writing. I was somewhat timid to ask
for so little as a quart, but the apron man in the most businesslike
way filled my bottle at a tap and asked for fourpence. He was willing
to talk, and told me many things: of good years in wine, of the nature
of their trade, of the influence of the moon on brewing, of the
importance of spigots, and what not; but when I tried to get out of
him whether the owner were an eccentric private gentleman or a
merchant that had the sense to earn little pennies as well as large
ones, I could not make him understand my meaning; for his idea of rank
was utterly different from mine and took no account of idleness and
luxury and daftness, but was based entirely upon money and clothes.
Moreover we were both of us Republicans, so the matter was of no great
moment. Courteously saluting ourselves we parted, he remaining to sell
wine and I hobbling to Rome, now a little painfully and my sack the
heavier by a quart of wine, which, as you probably know, weighs almost
exactly two pounds and a half.
It was by this time close upon eleven, and I had long reached the
stage when some kinds of men begin talking of Dogged Determination,
Bull-dog pluck, the stubborn spirit of the Island race and so forth,
but when those who can boast a little of the sacred French blood are
in a mood of set despair (both kinds march on, and the mobility of
either infantry is much the same), I say I had long got to this point
of exhaustion when it occurred to me that I should need an excellent
and thorough meal at midday. But on looking at my map I found that
there was nothing nearer than this town of Charmes that was marked on
the milestones, and that was the first place I should come to in the
department of the Vosges.
It would take much too long to describe the dodges that weary men and
stiff have recourse to when they are at the close of a difficult task:
how they divide it up in lengths in their minds, how they count
numbers, how they begin to solve problems in mental arithmetic:
