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.
AUCTOR. How then would you write such a book if you had the writing of
it?
LECTOR. I would not introduce myself at all; I would not tell stories
at random, nor go in for long descriptions of emotions, which I am
sure other men have felt as well as I. I would be careful to visit
those things my readers had already heard of (AUCTOR. The pictures!
the remarkable pictures! All that is meant by culture! The brown
photographs! Oh! Lector, indeed I have done you a wrong!), and I would
certainly not have the bad taste to say anything upon religion. Above
all, I would be terse.
AUCTOR. I see. You would not pile words one on the other, qualifying,
exaggerating, conditioning, superlativing, diminishing, connecting,
amplifying, condensing, mouthing, and glorifying the mere sound: you
would be terse. You should be known for your self-restraint. There
should be no verbosity in your style (God forbid!), still less
pomposity, animosity, curiosity, or ferocity; you would have it neat,
exact, and scholarly, and, above all, chiselled to the nail. A fig
(say you), the pip of a fig, for the rambling style. You would be led
into no hilarity, charity, vulgarity, or barbarity. Eh! my jolly
Lector? You would simply say what you had to say?
LECTOR. Precisely; I would say a plain thing in a plain way.
AUCTOR. So you think one can say a plain thing in a plain way? You
think that words mean nothing more than themselves, and that you can
talk without ellipsis, and that customary phrases have not their
connotations? You think that, do you? Listen then to the tale of Mr
Benjamin Franklin Hard, a kindly merchant of Cincinnati, O., who had
no particular religion, but who had accumulated a fortune of six
hundred thousand dollars, and who had a horror of breaking the
Sabbath. He was not 'a kind husband and a good father,' for he was
unmarried; nor had he any children. But he was all that those words
connote.
This man Hard at the age of fifty-four retired from business, and
determined to treat himself to a visit to Europe. He had not been in
Europe five weeks before he ran bang up against the Catholic Church.
He was never more surprised in his life. I do not mean that I have
exactly weighed all his surprises all his life through. I mean that he
was very much surprised indeed - and that is all that these words
connote.
He studied the Catholic Church with extreme interest. He watched High
Mass at several places (hoping it might be different). He thought it
was what it was not, and then, contrariwise, he thought it was not
what it was. He talked to poor Catholics, rich Catholics, middle-class
Catholics, and elusive, wellborn, penniless, neatly dressed,
successful Catholics; also to pompous, vain Catholics; humble,
uncertain Catholics; sneaking, pad-footed Catholics; healthy, howling,
combative Catholics; doubtful, shoulder-shrugging, but devout
Catholics; fixed, crabbed, and dangerous Catholics; easy, jovial, and
shone-upon-by-the-heavenly-light Catholics; subtle Catholics; strange
Catholics, and _(quod tibi manifeste absurdum videtur)_ intellectual,
_pince-nez,_ jejune, twisted, analytical, yellow, cranky, and
introspective Catholics: in fine, he talked to all Catholics. And
when I say 'all Catholics' I do not mean that he talked to every
individual Catholic, but that he got a good, integrative grip of the
Church militant, which is all that the words connote.
Well, this man Hard got to know, among others, a certain good priest
that loved a good bottle of wine, a fine deep dish of_ poulet a la
casserole, _and a kind of egg done with cream in a little platter; and
eating such things, this priest said to him one day: 'Mr Hard, what
you want is to read some books on Catholicism.' And Hard, who was on
the point of being received into the Church as the final solution of
human difficulties, thought it would be a very good thing to instruct
his mind before baptism.
