I did not know the name of any place
between. Two or three groups of houses I passed, and sometimes church
towers glimmered through the rain. I passed a larger and wider road
than the rest, but obviously not my road; I pressed on and passed
another; and by this time, having ploughed up Lombardy for some four
hours, I was utterly lost. I no longer felt the north, and, for all I
knew, I might be going backwards. The only certain thing was that I
was somewhere in the belt between the highroad and the Lambro, and
that was little enough to know at the close of such a day. Grown
desperate, I clamoured within my mind for a miracle; and it was not
long before I saw a little bent man sitting on a crazy cart and going
ahead of me at a pace much slower than a walk - the pace of a horse
crawling. I caught him up, and, doubting much whether he would
understand a word, I said to him repeatedly -
_'La granda via? La via a Piacenza?'_
He shook his head as though to indicate that this filthy lane was not
the road. Just as I had despaired of learning anything, he pointed
with his arm away to the right, perpendicularly to the road we were
on, and nodded. He moved his hand up and down. I had been going north!
On getting this sign I did not wait for a cross road, but jumped the
little ditch and pushed through long grass, across further ditches,
along the side of patches of growing corn, heedless of the huge weight
on my boots and of the oozing ground, till I saw against the rainy sky
a line of telegraph poles. For the first time since they were made the
sight of them gave a man joy. There was a long stagnant pond full of
reeds between me and the railroad; but, as I outflanked it, I came
upon a road that crossed the railway at a level and led me into the
great Piacenzan way. Almost immediately appeared a village. It was a
hole called Secugnano, and there I entered a house where a bush
hanging above the door promised entertainment, and an old hobbling
woman gave me food and drink and a bed. The night had fallen, and upon
the roof above me I could hear the steady rain.
The next morning - Heaven preserve the world from evil! - it was still
raining.
LECTOR. It does not seem to me that this part of your book is very
entertaining.
AUCTOR. I know that; but what am I to do?
LECTOR. Why, what was the next point in the pilgrimage that was even
tolerably noteworthy?
AUCTOR. I suppose the Bridge of Boats.
LECTOR. And how far on was that?
AUCTOR. About fourteen miles, more or less ... I passed through a town
with a name as long as my arm, and I suppose the Bridge of Boats must
have been nine miles on after that.
LECTOR. And it rained all the time, and there was mud?
AUCTOR. Precisely.
LECTOR. Well, then, let us skip it and tell stories.
AUCTOR. With all my heart. And since you are such a good judge of
literary poignancy, do you begin.
LECTOR. I will, and I draw my inspiration from your style.
Once upon a time there was a man who was born in Croydon, and whose
name was Charles Amieson Blake. He went to Rugby at twelve and left it
at seventeen. He fell in love twice and then went to Cambridge till he
was twenty-three. Having left Cambridge he fell in love more mildly,
and was put by his father into a government office, where he began at
_180_ pounds a year. At thirty-five he was earning 500 pounds a year,
and perquisites made 750 pounds a year. He met a pleasant lady and
fell in love quite a little compared with the other times. She had 250
pounds a year. That made _1000_ pounds a year. They married and had
three children - Richard, Amy, and Cornelia. He rose to a high
government position, was knighted, retired at sixty-three, and died at
sixty-seven. He is buried at Kensal Green...
AUCTOR. Thank you, Lector, that is a very good story. It is simple and
full of plain human touches. You know how to deal with the facts of
everyday life ... It requires a master-hand. Tell me, Lector, had this
man any adventures?
LECTOR. None that I know of.
AUCTOR. Had he opinions?
LECTOR. Yes. I forgot to tell you he was a Unionist. He spoke two
foreign languages badly. He often went abroad to Assisi, Florence, and
Boulogne... He left 7,623 pounds 6s. 8d., and a house and garden at
Sutton. His wife lives there still.
AUCTOR. Oh!
LECTOR. It is the human story ... the daily task!
AUCTOR. Very true, my dear Lector ... the common lot... Now let me
tell my story. It is about the Hole that could not be Filled Up.
LECTOR. Oh no! Auctor, no! That is the oldest story in the -
AUCTOR. Patience, dear Lector, patience! I will tell it well. Besides
which I promise you it shall never be told again. I will copyright it.
Well, once there was a Learned Man who had a bargain with the Devil
that he should warn the Devil's emissaries of all the good deeds done
around him so that they could be upset, and he in turn was to have all
those pleasant things of this life which the Devil's allies usually
get, to wit a Comfortable Home, Self-Respect, good health, 'enough
money for one's rank', and generally what is called 'a happy useful
life' - _till_ midnight of All-Hallowe'en in the last year of the
nineteenth century.
