“The words are not omitted,” he replied; “they are in the little book. Besides, we have the story in our minds as with programme music. The omission of the music from the dance is more serious. It may be that we shall have to call it a variety of drama, as you originally suggested.”
“Oh, but that,” I replied modestly, “was
only thrown out before I had the advantage of hearing your scheme of classification. May it not be that—”
“I have it,” he interrupted. “Of course, how stupid I have been! The procession does not move.”
“Does not move!” I echoed. “Why, it moved all through the town.”
“Yes, I know; but things like that often happen in classification,” he replied calmly. “Properly considered, each figure and each group illustrated a separate point in the story, and was rigid. They went past us, of course; and if they had gone on cars it would have been less puzzling; but these good people cannot afford cars and so the figures had to walk. It would have done as well if the public had walked past the figures, but that would have been difficult to manage. The only movement in the procession was in the story which we held in our minds, and of which we were reminded both by the title and by the little book which we held in our hands. The procession must be classified as literature illustrated by living statuary, or sculpture, which, of course, is a branch of painting.”
I regret that the French gentleman left
Calatafimi so early next morning that I had no opportunity of ascertaining whether he slept well after determining that processions do not proceed.