definite facts reminded me that the article had to come from you, for the
reason that it could not come from any one else without a specific
invitation from you or from me. I mean, it could not except as an
intrusion, a transgression of the law which forbids strangers to mix into
a private dispute between friends, unasked.
Those simple and definite facts were these: I had published an article in
this magazine, with you for my subject; just you yourself; I stuck
strictly to that one subject, and did not interlard any other. No one,
of course, could call me to account but you alone, or your authorized
representative. I asked some questions–asked them of myself.
I answered them myself. My article was thirteen pages long, and all
devoted to you; devoted to you, and divided up in this way: one page of
guesses as to what subjects you would instruct us in, as teacher; one
page of doubts as to the effectiveness of your method of examining us and
our ways; two or three pages of criticism of your method, and of certain
results which it furnished you; two or three pages of attempts to show
the justness of these same criticisms; half a dozen pages made up of
slight fault-findings with certain minor details of your literary
workmanship, of extracts from your ‘Outre-Mer’ and comments upon them;
then I closed with an anecdote. I repeat–for certain reasons–that I
closed with an anecdote.
When I was asked by this magazine if I wished to “answer” a “reply” to
that article of mine, I said “yes,” and waited in Paris for the proof-
sheets of the “reply” to come. I already knew, by the cablegram, that
the “reply” would not be signed by you, but upon reflection I knew it
would be dictated by you, because no volunteer would feel himself at
liberty to assume your championship in a private dispute, unasked, in
view of the fact that you are quite well able to take care of your
matters of that sort yourself and are not in need of any one’s help.
No, a volunteer could not make such a venture. It would be too immodest.
Also too gratuitously generous. And a shade too self-sufficient. No,
he could not venture it. It would look too much like anxiety to get in
at a feast where no plate had been provided for him. In fact he could
not get in at all, except by the back way, and with a false key; that is
to say, a pretext–a pretext invented for the occasion by putting into my
mouth words which I did not use, and by wresting sayings of mine from
their plain and true meaning. Would he resort to methods like those to
get in? No; there are no people of that kind. So then I knew for a
certainty that you dictated the Reply yourself. I knew you did it to
save yourself manual labor.
And you had the right, as I have already said and I am content–perfectly
content.
Yet it would have been little trouble to you, and a great kindness to me,
if you had written your Reply all out with your own capable hand.
Because then it would have replied–and that is really what a Reply is
for. Broadly speaking, its function is to refute–as you will easily
concede. That leaves something for the other person to take hold of:
he has a chance to reply to the Reply, he has a chance to refute the
refutation. This would have happened if you had written it out instead
of dictating. Dictating is nearly sure to unconcentrate the dictator’s
mind, when he is out of practice, confuse him, and betray him into using
one set of literary rules when he ought to use a quite different set.
Often it betrays him into employing the RULES FOR CONVERSATION BETWEEN A
SHOUTER AND A DEAF PERSON–as in the present case–when he ought to
employ the RULES FOR CONDUCTING DISCUSSION WITH A FAULT-FINDER. The
great foundation-rule and basic principle of discussion with a fault-
finder is relevancy and concentration upon the subject; whereas the great
foundation-rule and basic principle governing conversation between a