“Do you mean that you don’t like the story?” he asked incredulously.
“I like the way you wrote it. But my opinion is of no value. Everybody says it is a great novel. Betsy told me that the whole country is madly discussing it. Everybody who can judge such things knows that it is a very wonderful book. So does it matter what I think——”
“It does, to me,” he said almost savagely. “Why don’t you like it, Eris?”
She was silent, and his tone changed: “Won’t you tell me why?” he pleaded.
Again the order reversed—the eternal cry of Eris on his lips, now,—he, her court of appeal, appealing to her,—in mortified quest of knowledge,—of truth, perhaps,—or, astonished, wounded in snobbery and pride, seeking some remedy for the surprising hurt—some shred of his former authority to guide her back into the attitude which now he realised had meant so much to unconscious snobbery and happy vanity.
And now Eris knew that their hour for understanding had arrived. She had much to say to him. Her clasped hands tightened nervously in her lap but the level eyes were steady.
She said, very slowly: “I have known unhappiness, Mr. Annan. And ugliness. And hardship. But I’d be ashamed to let my mind dwell upon these things.... Stories where life begins without hope and continues hopelessly, seem needless and more or less distorted. And rather cowardly.... One’s mind dwells most constantly on what one likes.... I do not like deformity. Also, it is not the rule; it is the exception.... So is ugliness. And evil. A little seasons art sufficiently.... Only beasts eat garlic wholesale.... Those who find perpetual interest in misshapen minds and bodies and souls are either physicians or are themselves in some manner misshapen.... Unhappiness, ugliness, squalor, misery, evil,—in the midst of these, or of the even more terrible isolation of the lonely mind,—always one can summon courage to dream nobly.... And what one dares dream one can become,—inwardly always,—often outwardly and actually.”
She lifted her deep, grey eyes to his reddened face.
“I do admire you, and your mind, and your skill in attainment. But I have not been able to comprehend the greatness of what you write, and what all acclaim.... I do not like it. I cannot.
“I could neither understand nor play such a character as the woman in your last book.... Nor could I ever believe in her.... Nor in the ugliness of her world—the world you write about, nor in the dreary, hopeless, malformed, starving minds you analyse.... My God, Mr. Annan—are there no wholesome brains in the world you write about?... I’m sorry.... You know that I am ignorant, not experienced, crude—trying to learn truths, striving to see and understand.... I have not travelled far on any road. But I shall never live long enough to travel the road you follow, nor shall I ever comprehend such vision, such intention, such art as you have mastered.... You are a master. I do believe that.... Always you have remained very wonderful to me.... Your mind.... Your wisdom.... You.”