I was very much cooled by reading this letter. I saw that I had wounded
Goldschmidt's vanity deeply by not going to him immediately upon receipt
of his communication; but my chief impression was one of surprise that
Goldschmidt should reveal himself such a poor psychologist in my case.
How could he believe that I would allow myself to be terrified by rough
treatment or won by tactless reprimands? How could he think that I
regarded the task he wished to allot me as such an honour that for that
reason I had not refused it? Could not Goldschmidt understand that it
was solely the appeal to my better feelings from an opponent, struck by
an untoward fate, that had determined my attitude?
Simultaneously, though at first very faintly, a suspicion crossed my
mind. Was it possible that the whole touching story which had been
confided to me was a hoax calculated to disarm my antagonism, arouse my
sympathy and secure Goldschmidt a trumpeting herald? Was it possible
that the mysterious information about the flight to London was only an
untruth, the sole purpose of which was to get me into Goldschmidt's
service?
I dismissed the thought at once as too improbable, but it recurred, for
I had learnt from experience that even distinguished authors sometimes
did not shrink from very daring means of securing the services of a
critic.
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