Some country
friend of his who had taken a lift; and I, for my part, had made more
or less certain that he was a good fellow who would do me no harm. I
was right, and he was wrong. I knew not what offering to make him to
compensate him for this trouble which his heavy oxen had taken. After
some thought I brought a cigar out of my pocket, which he smoked with
extreme pleasure. The oxen meanwhile had been urged up the slow hill,
and it was in this way that we reached the famous town of
Acquapendente. But why it should be called famous is more than I can
understand. It may be that in one of those narrow streets there is a
picture or a church, or one of those things which so attract
unbelieving men. To the pilgrim it is simply a group of houses. Into
one of these I went, and, upon my soul, I have nothing to say of it
except that they furnished me with food.
I do not pretend to have counted the flies, though they were numerous;
and, even had I done so, what interest would the number have, save to
the statisticians? Now as these are patient men and foolish, I
heartily recommend them to go and count the flies for themselves.
Leaving this meal then, this town and this people (which were all of a
humdrum sort), and going out by the gate, the left side of which is
made up of a church, I went a little way on the short road to San
Lorenzo, but I had no intention of going far, for (as you know by this
time) the night had become my day and the day my night.
I found a stream running very sluggish between tall trees, and this
sight sufficiently reminded me of my own country to permit repose.
Lying down there I slept till the end of the day, or rather to that
same time of evening which had now become my usual waking hour ... And
now tell me, Lector, shall I leave out altogether, or shall I give you
some description of, the next few miles to San Lorenzo?
LECTOR. Why, if I were you I would put the matter shortly and simply,
for it is the business of one describing a pilgrimage or any other
matter not to puff himself up with vain conceit, nor to be always
picking about for picturesque situations, but to set down plainly and
shortly what he has seen and heard, describing the whole matter.
AUCTOR. But remember, Lector, that the artist is known not only by
what he puts in but by what he leaves out.
LECTOR. That is all very well for the artist, but you have no business
to meddle with such people.
