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.
