But this awkwardness is a mere physical impression, nothing
more; and if when we meet again, you see the old "mischievous look
in my eyes," believe me, the reason of it will not be that I am a
bad man. I assure you that there is no need to look for any other
explanation. Perhaps I may add, also, that I am much older than
you, and I have traveled a different road. . . . Outside of our
special, so-called "literary" interests, I am convinced, we have
few points of contact. Your whole being stretches out hands toward
the future; mine is built up in the past. For me to follow you is
impossible. For you to follow me is equally out of the question.
You are too far removed from me, and besides, you stand too firmly
on your own legs to become any one's disciple. I can assure you
that I never attributed any malice to you, never suspected you of
any literary envy. I have often thought, if you will excuse the
expression, that you were wanting in common sense, but never in
goodness. You are too penetrating not to know that if either of us
has cause to envy the other, it is certainly not you that has cause
to envy me.
The following year he wrote a letter to my father which, it
seems to me, is a key to the understanding of Turgenieff's
attitude toward him:
You write that you are very glad you did not follow my advice
and become a pure man of letters.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70