"And he is called Zane Grey?"

"That was Mr. Dexter's joke. Zane Grey wrote what we call Westerns—cheap popular novelettes about bandits and cowboys."

"He is not a greater writer?"

"No, no. Far from it," Mr. Crabbin said. "In the strict sense I would not call him a writer at all." Martins told me that he felt the first stirrings of revolt at that statement. He had never regarded himself before as a writer, but Crabbin's self-confidence irritated him—even the way the light flashed back from Crabbin's spectacles seemed an added cause of vexation. Crabbin said, "He was just a popular entertainer."

"Why the hell not?" Martins said fiercely.

"Oh well, I merely meant..."

"What was Shakespeare?"

Somebody with great daring said, "A poet."

"Have you ever read Zane Grey?"

"No, I can't say ..."

"Then you don't know what you are talking about."

One of the young men tried to come to Crabbin's rescue. "And James Joyce, where would you put James Joyce, Mr. Dexter?"

"What do you mean put? I don't want to put anybody anywhere," Martins said. It had been a very full day: he had drunk too much with Cooler: he had fallen in love: a man had been murdered—and now he had the quite unjust feeling that he was being got at. Zane Grey was one of his heroes: he was damned if he was going to stand any nonsense.

"I mean would you put him among the really great?"

"If you want to know, I've never heard of him. What did he write?"

He didn't realise it (он не сознавал этого), but he was making an enormous impression (но он производил огромное впечатление). Only a great writer could have taken so arrogant, so original a line (только великий писатель мог взять такой высокомерный, такой оригинальный тон: «линию»): several people wrote Zane Grey's name on the backs of envelopes (несколько людей написали имя Зейна Грея на оборотах конвертов) and the Gräfin whispered hoarsely to Crabbin (а графия прошептала хрипло Крэббину), "How do you spell Zane (как пишется «Зейн»)?"

"To tell you the truth (сказать вам правду), I'm not quite sure (я не вполне уверен)." A number of names were simultaneously flung at Martins (некоторое число имен были одновременно брошены в Мартинса; to fling — швырять)—little sharp pointed names like Stein (маленькие, острые, отточенные имена, такие как Стайн), round pebbles like Woolf (круглые камешки, как Вулф). A young Austrian with an ardent intellectual black forelock called out "Daphne du Maurier," (молодой австриец с романтичной интеллектуальной черной прядью прокричал «Дафна дю Морье») and Mr. Crabbin winced and looked sideways at Martins (и мистер Крэббин вздрогнул и посмотрел искоса на Мартинса; to wince — вздрагивать, морщиться /напр., от боли/). He said in an undertone (он сказал вполголоса), "Be kind to them (будьте милостивы к ним)."

A gentle kind faced woman in a hand-knitted jumper said wistfully (тихая, с добрым лицом, женщина в рукодельном: «рукой связанном» джемпере сказала задумчиво; wistful — тоскующий; томящийся, горящий желанием; задумчивый /о взгляде, улыбке/), "Don't you agree, Mr. Dexter (не согласитесь ли вы, мистер Декстер), that no one, no one has written about feelings so poetically as Virginia Woolf (что никто, никто не написал о чувствах столь поэтично, как Вирджиния Вулф)? in prose I mean (в прозе, я имею в виду)."

Crabbin whispered (Крэббин прошептал), "You might say something about the stream of consciousness (вы могли бы сказать что-нибудь о потоке сознания).