But
with whatever sense of disappointment, of doubt as to his own deeds for
truer freedom and for better conditions I believe his sympathy was still
with those who had some heart for hoping and striving. I am sure that
though he did not agree with me in some of my own later notions for the
redemption of the race, he did not like me the less but rather the more
because (to my own great surprise I confess) I had now and then the
courage of my convictions, both literary and social.
He was probably most at odds with me in regard to my theories of fiction,
though he persisted in declaring his pleasure in my own fiction. He was
in fact, by nature and tradition, thoroughly romantic, and he could not
or would not suffer realism in any but a friend. He steadfastly refused
even to read the Russian masters, to his immense loss, as I tried to
persuade him, and even among the modern Spaniards, for whom he might have
had a sort of personal kindness from his love of Cervantes, he chose one
for his praise the least worthy, of it, and bore me down with his heavier
metal in argument when I opposed to Alarcon's factitiousness the
delightful genuineness of Valdes.
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