"All these," said Tolstoy, meditatively, "in one country."
"Not only that," I said, "but no two alike, and most of them as widely different as if one wrote in French and the other in German."
"A wonderful country," murmured Tolstoy again. "I have often thought of going there, but now I am too old."
"There is no one in the world," I answered him, "in the realm of letters or social economics, whom the people of America would rather see than you."
He bowed gracefully, and only answered again:
"No, I am too old now. I wish I had gone there when I could. But tell me," he added, "have you no authors who write universally?"
"Universally," I repeated. "That is a large word. Yes, we have Mark Twain. He is our most eminent literary figure at present."
"Ah! Mark Twain," repeated Tolstoy. "I have heard of him."
"Have you indeed? I thought no one was known in Europe, except Fenimore Cooper. He is supposed to have written universally of America, because he never wrote anything but Indian stories! In France, they know of Poe, and like him because they tell me that he was like themselves."
"He was insane, was he not?" said Tolstoy, innocently.