The Subject I Know Least About/A Certain Man
THE SUBJECT I KNOW LEAST ABOUT
I.— A CERTAIN MAN.
By Barry Pain
IT is almost too obvious to be worth recording, but the subject of which you know nothing is not, of course, the subject of which you know least.
The subject of which you know least is the subject of which you are most mistaken in believing that you have knowledge. Suppose that A has no cigars and no delusions, and that B has a box of the "Reina Putrida," at thirteen to the shilling, and intends to smoke them. Then B is more really without cigars than A is—at any rate in the judgment of the thinking smoker. If you know absolutely nothing of hydrostatics, and have your own opinion of what the Government ought to do, the probability is that you know much less of what the Government ought to do than you know of hydrostatics. If you do not see and believe this, either go over it again slowly or smoke a "Reina Putrida" at the retail price quoted, or take any other way of ending the discussion and allowing me to get to the main point.
The main point, the subject of which I know least, happens in my case to be one of no interest to anyone and very little to other people. This is appropriate, When I speak of the subject of which I know least I probably do the least harm if that happens to be a subject of which no one is anxious to hear anything. Yes, there are ways of securing privacy for yourself even in the crowded pages of a popular magazine. I proceed without fear to say that the subject of which I know least is a man—a man of about the same age as myself.
I do not say that I know nothing about him. I could give his postal address. At one time I thought that I knew his name, but then an American paper told me that this was a nom de guerre, and gave me much other information about him that was news to me. What I do say is that there is nothing in the world about which I have more illusions, consequently there is nothing in the world of which I really know less. This is the more surprising because we nave been together all our lives; he has shared my bad luck and my good, my sorrows and my joys. Our profession is the same, our tastes are identical; and yet it would be a mistake to say that we were friends. He has published much work—bad, hurried work—of which I entirely disapprove. In a thousand ways he has done me harm. He has been guilty of the most culpable and unbusiness-like neglect where my interests were concerned. When a man treats you like that it is certainly better not to continue to know him. But then I do not really know this man, indeed I am quite ignorant of him. I sometimes doubt whether, after his behaviour, I should continue to be quite ignorant of him.
There are subjects on which I have permanently wrong beliefs. But as to this man my beliefs, though all wrong, are not permanent. I have—very occasionally—thought that he should have gone into business as a poet. I have sometimes felt sure that with a little more ability he might have done creditably as a bricklayer's labourer.
But though I do not know him at all, I am interested in him. There is no one, in fact, in whom I am more interested. I could go on talking about him for pages and pages, had not the Editor (with that supernatural prescience so common among editors) set me a limit. As it is I will say no more of the man but that an aged Greek proverb recommends me to know him thoroughly, and I wish I did.