It is no good being angry with
him, because he evidently does really try; but there is something
about the mere odour of a church that he simply cannot withstand.
Not knowing, then, that this weakness of his for churches was so
strong, I made no objection to the proposed visit to Cologne
Cathedral, and, accordingly, towards it we wended our way. B. has
seen it before, and knows all about it. He tells me it was begun
about the middle of the thirteenth century, and was only completed
ten years ago. It seems to me that there must have been gross delay
on the part of the builder. Why, a plumber would be ashamed to take
as long as that over a job!
B. also asserts that the two towers are the highest church towers in
the world. I dispute this, and deprecate the towers generally. B.
warmly defends them. He says they are higher than any building in
Europe, except the Eiffel Tower.
"Oh, dear no!" I say, "there are many buildings higher than they in
Europe - to say nothing of Asia and America."
I have no authority for making this assertion. As a matter of fact,
I know nothing whatever about the matter. I merely say it to
irritate B. He appears to take a sort of personal interest in the
building, and enlarges upon its beauties and advantages with as much
fervour as if he were an auctioneer trying to sell the place.
He retorts that the towers are 512 feet high.
I say:
"Nonsense! Somebody has imposed upon you, because they see you are
a foreigner."
He becomes quite angry at this, and says he can show me the figures
in the guide-book.
"The guide-book!" I reply, scornfully. "You'll believe a newspaper
next!"
B. asks me, indignantly, what height I should say they are, then. I
examine them critically for a few minutes, and then give it as my
opinion that they do not exceed 510 feet at the very outside. B.
seems annoyed with me, and we enter the church in silence.
There is little to be said about a cathedral. Except to the
professional sightseer, one is very much like another. Their beauty
to me lies, not in the paintings and sculpture they give houseroom
to, nor in the bones and bric-a-brac piled up in their cellars, but
in themselves - their echoing vastness, their deep silence.
Above the little homes of men, above the noisy teeming streets, they
rise like some soft strain of perfect music, cleaving its way amid
the jangle of discordant notes. Here, where the voices of the world
sound faint; here, where the city's glamour comes not in, it is good
to rest for a while - if only the pestering guides would leave one
alone - and think.
