He did not say, “Do me an essay of fifteen hundred words by next week.” That might have been easy; writing—possibly even good writing—is comparatively easy; because the writer is alone while he writes and is not present while his work is read, and he can therefore withhold what seems difficult to express and he deceives without appearing deceitful; moreover, he writes at his ease, or should do, what is probably read in haste. But in conversation with an aged blue-eyed man, in a majestic blue gaberdine, who has an evening’s leisure and desires the truth, asking simply: “Tell me about London,” the difficulties in the way of a simple man are enormous. I said something about a book called The Soul of London; but he could not read. He wished again to be informed what the soul of a city was. Again I failed him.
“But you have actually lived in London,” he repeated, encouraging me.
“Yes.” He seemed to be proud, as who should say, “I sit with one who has lived in the most famous city in the world.”
I remembered that there are said to be five millions of human beings in London, and that its streets on end would reach to the moon.
Also I thought of the old song and the verse:—
“There be kings and queens in London town
A-sitting all of a row.”
In despair I actually ventured to tell him that there were five million people there. But he seemed to be poor at arithmetic and he was frank.
“I beg you,” he said, “to speak simply and not all at once to a poor, remote old man. The evening is young yet,” he continued without heat and as if he were making all clear.