" ... And yet he knew me well, he
knew my attitude toward the Jews,--how about those who know only that
I am a "Russian"?
I remember having spent one night in talking with a very gifted
writer, a Jew, who was my casual and most welcome guest. I was trying
to convince him that he, a great master of the word, ought to write,
but he repeated obstinately that although he loves the Russian
language with all his artist's heart, he cannot write in it, in the
language which has the word _zhid_.[1] Of course, logic was on my
side, but on his side there was some dark _truth_--truth is not always
lucid--and I felt, that my ardent arguments began, little by little,
to sound like false and cheap babbling. So that I have not succeeded
in convincing him, and when we parted I had not the courage to kiss
him: how many _unexpected_ meanings could be disclosed in this plain,
everyday token of friendship and affection?
Things are altogether bad when even a kiss becomes suspicious and can
be susceptible of "interpretation," as a complicated act of intricate
and enigmatic relations! That is exactly what happened.
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