I shook my head.
“Keep books?”
“I have an idea that I could write books,” said I; “but, as to keeping them—” and here again I shook my head.
The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. “The books in these cases,” said he, “contain the masterpieces of Haik learning.”
“No,” said I, “all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible.”
“You have never read Z---?”
“No,” said I, “I have never read Z---.”
“I have a plan,” said the Armenian; “I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z--- in an English dress; you shall translate Z---. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z---. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers—his philosophy—”
“I will have nothing to do with him,” said I.
“Wherefore?” said the Armenian.