Diary of a Pilgrimage | Page 9

thoughtful Society had taken care to
be ready for me with all kinds of refreshment (her sandwiches might be
a little fresher, but maybe she thinks new bread injurious for me).
When I am tired of travelling and want to rest, I find Society waiting
for me with dinner and a comfortable bed, with hot and cold water to
wash in and towels to wipe upon. Wherever I go, whatever I need,
Society, like the enslaved genii of some Eastern tale, is ready and
anxious to help me, to serve me, to do my bidding, to give me
enjoyment and pleasure. Society will take me to Ober-Ammergau, will
provide for all my wants on the way, and, when I am there, will show
me the Passion Play, which she has arranged and rehearsed and will
play for my instruction; will bring me back any way I like to come,
explaining, by means of her guide-books and histories, everything upon
the way that she thinks can interest me; will, while I am absent, carry
my messages to those I have left behind me in England, and will bring
me theirs in return; will look after me and take care of me and protect
me like a mother--as no mother ever could.
All that she asks in return is, that I shall do the work she has given me
to do. As a man works, so Society deals by him.
To me Society says: "You sit at your desk and write, that is all I want
you to do. You are not good for much, but you can spin out yards of
what you and your friends, I suppose, call literature; and some people
seem to enjoy reading it. Very well: you sit there and write this
literature, or whatever it is, and keep your mind fixed on that. I will see
to everything else for you. I will provide you with writing materials,
and books of wit and humour, and paste and scissors, and everything
else that may be necessary to you in your trade; and I will feed you and
clothe you and lodge you, and I will take you about to places that you

wish to go to; and I will see that you have plenty of tobacco and all
other things practicable that you may desire--provided that you work
well. The more work you do, and the better work you do, the better I
shall look after you. You write--that is all I want you to do."
"But," I say to Society, "I don't like work; I don't want to work. Why
should I be a slave and work?"
"All right," answers Society, "don't work. I'm not forcing you. All I say
is, that if you don't work for me, I shall not work for you. No work
from you, no dinner from me--no holidays, no tobacco."
And I decide to be a slave, and work.
Society has no notion of paying all men equally. Her great object is to
encourage brain. The man who merely works by his muscles she
regards as very little superior to the horse or the ox, and provides for
him just a little better. But the moment he begins to use his head, and
from the labourer rises to the artisan, she begins to raise his wages.
Of course hers is a very imperfect method of encouraging thought. She
is of the world, and takes a worldly standard of cleverness. To the
shallow, showy writer, I fear, she generally pays far more than to the
deep and brilliant thinker; and clever roguery seems often more to her
liking than honest worth. But her scheme is a right and sound one; her
aims and intentions are clear; her methods, on the whole, work fairly
well; and every year she grows in judgment.
One day she will arrive at perfect wisdom, and will pay each man
according to his deserts.
But do not be alarmed. This will not happen in our time.
Turning round, while still musing about Society, I ran against B.
(literally). He thought I was a clumsy ass at first, and said so; but, on
recognising me, apologised for his mistake. He had been there for some
time also, waiting for me. I told him that I had secured two corner seats
in a smoking-carriage, and he replied that he had done so too. By a
curious coincidence, we had both fixed upon the same carriage. I had
taken the corner seats near the platform, and he had booked the two
opposite corners. Four other passengers sat huddled up in the middle.
We kept the seats near the door, and gave the other two away. One
should always practise generosity.
There was a very talkative man in our carriage. I never came