He was violently conscious then of Seymour’s chin that turned, slowly, irresistibly as the prow of a ship is turned, towards him—a very remarkable chin for its size and strength, jutting up and out, surprising, too, after the chubby amiability of the rest of his face. At the same moment it seemed to Mark that all the other chins in the room turned towards him with stern emphasis.
A sharp little dialogue followed then: Seymour was eager, cheerful and good-humoured—patronising, too, perhaps, if one is sensitive to such things.
“Quite so. Of course—of course. But you will admit, won’t you, that style matters, that the way a thing’s done, the way things are arranged, you know, count?”
“I don’t know anything about writing novels—I only know about reading them. The literary, polished novel is one sort of thing, I suppose. But there is also the novel with plenty of real people and real things in it. If a novel’s too literary a plain man like myself doesn’t find it real at all. I prefer something careless and casual like life itself, with plenty of people whom you get to know....” Seymour bent towards him, his chubby face like a very full bud ready to burst with the eagerness of his amiable superiority.
“But you can’t say that your Russians are real people—come now. Take Dostoevsky—take him for a minute. Look at them. Look at ‘Les Frères Karamazoff’. All as mad as hatters—all of ’em—and no method at all—just chucked on anyhow. After all, Literature is something.”
“Yes, that’s just what I complain of,” said Mark, feeling as though he were inside a ring of eager onlookers who were all cheering his opponent. “You fellows all think literature’s the only thing. It’s entirely unimportant beside real life. If your book is like real life, why then it’s interesting. If it’s like literature it’s no good at all except to a critic or two.”
“And I suppose,” cried Seymour, scornfully, his chin rising higher and higher, “that you’d say Dostoevsky’s like real life?”
“It is,” said Mark, quietly, “if you know Russia.”
“Well, I’ve never been there,” Seymour admitted. “But I’ve got a friend who has. He says that Russian fiction’s nothing like the real thing at all. That Russia’s just like anywhere else.”
“Nonsense”—and Mark’s voice was shaking—“Your friend ... rot—” He recovered himself. “That’s utterly untrue,” he said.