“Well. What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing; he made a great opportunity. He didn’t like the stories.”
“Remarkable!”
“I did it all the wrong way. When I accepted their invitation I wrote that I was bringing down some translations of the loveliest short stories I had ever read.” I was suddenly proud, in Lyons, of remembering “short stories” and excited about having something written to show him at last. The sentence felt like an entry into their set.
“If he did not agree with this I pity him.”
“I don’t know how it would have been if I had said nothing at all.” He might have said look here this is good stuff. You must do something with this.
“I tell you again this man is superficial.”
“He said the sentiment was gross and that they were feeble in construction.” Waiting, in the window seat, with the large fresh light from the sea pouring in from behind across the soft clear buffs and greens of the room; weaving for Alma, with the wonder of keeping him arrested, alone in his study, with his eyes on her written sentences, a view of the London life as eventful, enviable leisure; the door opening at last, the swift compact entry of the little figure with the sheaf of manuscript, the sudden lifting jubilance of the light; the eager yielding to the temptation to enhance the achievement by a disclaiming explanation of the difficult circumstances, the silencing minatory finger—wait, wait, you’re taking it the wrong way—and at last the high-pitched, colourless, thinking voice in brief comprehensive judgment; the shattering of the bright scene, the end of the triumphant visit, with a day still to pass, going about branded as an admirer of poor stuff.
“That is no opinion. It is simply a literary finessing. I will tell you more. This judgment indicates an immense blindness. There is in Andrayeff a directness and simplicity of feeling towards life that is entirely lacking in this man.”
“Mm. Perhaps the Russians are more simple; less” ... civilised.