“Talking of statues, what always strikes me is how very much one statue is like another statue.”
Harris said: “I cannot agree with you there—pictures, if you like. Some pictures are very like other pictures, but with a statue there is always something distinctive. Take that statue we saw early in the evening,” continued Harris, “before we went into the concert hall. It represented a man sitting on a horse. In Prague you will see other statues of men on horses, but nothing at all like that one.”
“Yes they are,” said George; “they are all alike. It’s always the same horse, and it’s always the same man. They are all exactly alike. It’s idiotic nonsense to say they are not.”
He appeared to be angry with Harris.
“What makes you think so?” I asked.
“What makes me think so?” retorted George, now turning upon me. “Why, look at that damned thing over there!”
I said: “What damned thing?”
“Why, that thing,” said George; “look at it! There is the same horse with half a tail, standing on its hind legs; the same man without his hat; the same—”
Harris said: “You are talking now about the statue we saw in the Ringplatz.”
“No, I’m not,” replied George; “I’m talking about the statue over there.”