"I would rather be the other," said Orsino with a laugh.
"In all cases in life it is better to be the other person," observed Spicca, thoughtfully, though the remark lacked precision.
"You mean the patient and not the agent, I suppose?"
"No. I mean the spectator. The spectator is a well fed, indifferent personage who laughs at the play and goes home to supper—perdition upon him and his kind! He is the abomination of desolation in a front stall, looking on while better men cut one another's throats. He is a fat man with a pink complexion and small eyes, and when he has watched other people's troubles long enough, he retires to his comfortable vault in the family chapel in the Campo Varano, which is decorated with coloured tiles, embellished with a modern altar piece and adorned with a bust of himself by a good sculptor. Even in death, he is still the spectator, grinning through the window of his sanctuary at the rows of nameless graves outside. He is happy and self-satisfied still—even in marble. It is worth living to be such a man."
"It is not an exciting life," remarked Orsino.
"No. That is the beauty of it. Look at me. I have never succeeded in imitating that well-to-do, thoroughly worthy villain. I began too late. Take warning, Orsino. You are young. Grow fat and look on—then you will die happy. All the philosophy of life is there. Farinaceous food, money and a wife. That is the recipe. Since you have money you can purchase the gruel and the affections. Waste no time in making the investment."
"I never heard you advocate marriage before. You seem to have changed your mind, of late."
"Not in the least. I distinguish between being married and taking a wife, that is all."
"Rather a fine distinction."
"The only difference between a prisoner and his gaoler is that they are on opposite sides of the same wall. Take some more wine. We will drink to the man on the outside."