will die. And Garibaldi is afraid, immensely afraid. And Surplice goes in order to be surprised, surprised
by the amazing gentleness and delicacy of God—Who put him, Surplice,
upon his knees in La Ferté Macé, knowing that Surplice would appreciate
His so doing.
He is utterly ignorant. He thinks America is out a particular window on your left as you enter The Enormous Room. He cannot understand the submarine. He does now know that there is a war. On being informed upon these subjects he is unutterably surprised, he is inexpressibly astonished. He derives huge pleasure from this astonishment. His filthy rather proudly noble face radiates the pleasure he receives upon being informed that people are killing people for nobody knows what reason, that boats go under water and fire six-foot long bullets at ships, that America is not really outside this window close to which we are talking, that America is, in fact, over the sea. The sea: is that water?—"c'est de l'eau, monsieur?" Ah: a great quantity of water; enormous amounts of water, water and then water; water and water and water and water and water. "Ah! You cannot see the other side of this water, monsieur? Wonderful, monsieur!"—He meditates it, smiling quietly; its wonder, how wonderful it is, no other side, and yet—the sea. In which fish swim. Wonderful.
He is utterly curious. He is utterly hungry. We have bought cheese with The Zulu's money. Surplice comes up, bows timidly and ingratiatingly with the demeanour of a million-times whipped but somewhat proud dog. He smiles. He says nothing, being terribly embarrassed. To help his embarrassment, we pretend we do not see him. That makes things better:
"Fromage, monsieur?"
"Oui, c'est du frommage."
"Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h...."
his astonishment is supreme. C'est du frommage. He ponders this. After a little
"Monsieur, c'est bon, monsieur?"
