thy of the gods." In 1857 he wrote
to Polonsky, "This man will go far, and leave deep traces behind him."

Nevertheless, somehow these two men never could "hit it off" together.
When one reads Turgenieff's letters to my father, one sees that from
the very beginning of their acquaintance misunderstandings were always
arising, which they perpetually endeavored to smooth down or to
forget, but which arose again after a time, sometimes in another form,
necessitating new explanations and reconciliations.

In 1856 Turgenieff wrote to my father:

Your letter took some time reaching me, dear Lyoff Nikolaievich. Let me
begin by saying that I am very grateful to you for sending it to me. I
shall never cease to love you and to value your friendship, although,
probably through my fault, each of us will long feel considerable
awkwardness in the presence of the other.... I think that you yourself
understand the reason of this awkwardness of which I speak. You are the
only man with whom I have ever had misunderstandings.

This arises from the very fact that I have never been willing to confine
myself to merely friendly relations with you. I have always wanted to go
further and deeper than that; but I set about it clumsily. I irritated
and upset you, and when I saw my mistake, I drew back too hastily,
perhaps; and it was this which caused this "gulf" between us.

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