“He isn’t a bit original,” said Miriam surprised by her unpremeditated conclusion, “when you read him you feel as if you were following your own thoughts.”
“That is so; he is not himself philosophe ; I would call him rather, poète ; a most remarkable quality of English, great dignity and with at the same time a most perfect simplicity.”
“He understands everything; since I have had that book I have not wanted to read anything else … except Maeterlinck,” she murmured in afterthought, “and in a way he is the same.”
“I do not know this writer,” said Mr. Shatov, “and what you say is perhaps not quite good. But in a manner I can have some sympa-thaytic apprysiacion with this remark. I have read yesterday the whole day; on different omnibuses. Ah. It was for me most -wonderful.”
“Well, I always feel, all the time, all day, that if people would only read Emerson they would understand, and not be like they are, and that the only way to make them understand what one means would be reading pieces of Emerson.”
“That is true; why should you not do it?”
“Quotations are feeble; you always regret making them.”
“No; I do not agree,” said Mr. Shatov devoutly smiling, “you are wrong.”
“Oh, but think of the awful people who quote Shakespeare.”
“Ach-ma. People are, in general, silly. But I must tell you you should not cease to read until you shall have read at least some Russian writers. If you possess sensibility for language you shall find that Russian is most -beautiful; it is perhaps the most beautiful European language; it is, indubitably, the most rich.”