[Bar of music]
So my little human race, both you that have read this book and you
that have not, good-bye in charity. I loved you all as I wrote. Did
you all love me as much as I have loved you, by the black stone of
Rennes I should be rich by now. Indeed, indeed, I have loved you all!
You, the workers, all puffed up and dyspeptic and ready for the
asylums; and you, the good-for-nothing lazy drones; you, the strong
silent men, who have heads quite empty, like gourds; and you also, the
frivolous, useless men that chatter and gabble to no purpose all day
long. Even you, that, having begun to read this book, could get no
further than page 47, and especially you who have read it manfully in
spite of the flesh, I love you all, and give you here and now my
final, complete, full, absolving, and comfortable benediction.
To tell the truth, I have noticed one little fault about you. I will
not call it fatuous, inane, and exasperating vanity or self-
absorption; I will put it in the form of a parable. Sit you round
attentively and listen, dispersing yourselves all in order, and do not
crowd or jostle.
Once, before we humans became the good and self-respecting people we
are, the Padre Eterno was sitting in heaven with St Michael beside
him, and He watched the abyss from His great throne, and saw shining
in the void one far point of light amid some seventeen million others,
and He said:
'What is that?'
And St Michael answered:
'That is the Earth,' for he felt some pride in it.
'The Earth?' said the Padre Eterno, a little puzzled... 'The Earth?
...?... I do not remember very exactly...'
'Why,' answered St Michael, with as much reverence as his annoyance
could command, 'surely you must recollect the Earth and all the pother
there was in heaven when it was first suggested to create it, and all
about Lucifer--'
'Ah!' said the Padre Eterno, thinking twice, 'yes. It is attached to
Sirius, and--'
'No, no,' said St Michael, quite visibly put out. 'It is the Earth.
The Earth which has that changing moon and the thing called the sea.'
'Of course, of course,' answered the Padre Eterno quickly, 'I said
Sirius by a slip of the tongue. Dear me! So that is the Earth! Well,
well! It is years ago now... Michael, what are those little things
swarming up and down all over it?'
'Those,' said St Michael, 'are Men.'
'Men?' said the Padre Eterno, 'Men... I know the word as well as any
one, but somehow the connexion escapes me. Men...' and He mused.
St Michael, with perfect self-restraint, said a few things a trifle
staccato, defining Man, his dual destiny, his hope of heaven, and all
the great business in which he himself had fought hard. But from a
fine military tradition, he said nothing of his actions, nor even of
his shrine in Normandy, of which he is naturally extremely proud: and
well he may be. What a hill!
'I really beg your pardon,' said the Padre Eterno, when he saw the
importance attached to these little creatures. 'I am sure they are
worthy of the very fullest attention, and' (he added, for he was sorry
to have offended) 'how sensible they seem, Michael! There they go,
buying and selling, and sailing, driving, and wiving, and riding, and
dancing, and singing, and the rest of it; indeed, they are most
practical, business-like, and satisfactory little beings. But I notice
one odd thing. Here and there are some not doing as the rest, or
attending to their business, but throwing themselves into all manner
of attitudes, making the most extraordinary sounds, and clothing
themselves in the quaintest of garments. What is the meaning of that?'
'Sire!' cried St Michael, in a voice that shook the architraves of
heaven, 'they are worshipping You!'
'Oh! they are worshipping _me!_ Well, that is the most sensible thing
I have heard of them yet, and I altogether commend them. _Continuez,'_
said the Padre Eterno, _'continuez!'_
And since then all has been well with the world; at least where _Us
continuent._
And so, carissimi, multitudes, all of you good-bye; the day has long
dawned on the Via Cassia, this dense mist has risen, the city is
before me, and I am on the threshold of a great experience; I would
rather be alone. Good-bye my readers; good-bye the world.
At the foot of the hill I prepared to enter the city, and I lifted up
my heart.
There was an open space; a tramway: a tram upon it about to be drawn
by two lean and tired horses whom in the heat many flies disturbed.
There was dust on everything around.
A bridge was immediately in front. It was adorned with statues in soft
stone, half-eaten away, but still gesticulating in corruption, after
the manner of the seventeenth century. Beneath the bridge there
tumbled and swelled and ran fast a great confusion of yellow water: it
was the Tiber. Far on the right were white barracks of huge and of
hideous appearance; over these the Dome of St Peter's rose and looked
like something newly built. It was of a delicate blue, but made a
metallic contrast against the sky.
Then (along a road perfectly straight and bounded by factories, mean
houses and distempered walls: a road littered with many scraps of
paper, bones, dirt, and refuse) I went on for several hundred yards,
having the old wall of Rome before me all this time, till I came right
under it at last; and with the hesitation that befits all great
actions I entered, putting the right foot first lest I should bring
further misfortune upon that capital of all our fortunes.
And so the journey ended.
It was the Gate of the Poplar--not of the People. (Ho, Pedant! Did you
think I missed you, hiding and lurking there?) Many churches were to
hand; I took the most immediate, which stood just within the wall and
was called Our Lady of the People--(not 'of the Poplar'. Another fall
for the learned! Professor, things go ill with you to-day!). Inside
were many fine pictures, not in the niminy-piminy manner, but strong,
full-coloured, and just.
To my chagrin, Mass was ending. I approached a priest and said to him:
_'Pater, quando vel a quella hora e la prossimma Missa?'_
_'Ad nonas,'_ said he.
_'Pol! Hercle!'_ (thought I), 'I have yet twenty minutes to wait!
Well, as a pilgrimage cannot be said to be over till the first Mass is
heard in Rome, I have twenty minutes to add to my book.'
So, passing an Egyptian obelisk which the great Augustus had nobly
dedicated to the Sun, I entered....
LECTOR. But do you intend to tell us nothing of Rome?
AUCTOR. Nothing, dear Lector.
LECTOR. Tell me at least one thing; did you see the Coliseum?
AUCTOR.... I entered a cafe at the right hand of a very long,
straight street, called for bread, coffee, and brandy, and
contemplating my books and worshipping my staff that had been friends
of mine so long, and friends like all true friends inanimate, I spent
the few minutes remaining to my happy, common, unshriven, exterior,
and natural life, in writing down this