But high spirits and tenderness alike vanished completely, and what had passed between us, gave me nothing to build on for the future – it was as though I had dreamed it all.
Sometimes I would scrutinise his clever handsome bright face ... my heart would throb, and my whole being yearn to him ... he would seem to feel what was going on within me, would give me a passing pat on the cheek, and go away, or take up some work, or suddenly freeze all over as only he knew how to freeze, and I shrank into myself at once, and turned cold too.
His rare fits of friendliness to me were never called forth by my silent, but intelligible entreaties: they always occurred unexpectedly.
Thinking over my father's character later, I have come to the conclusion that he had no thoughts to spare for me and for family life; his heart was in other things, and found complete satisfaction elsewhere.
'Take for yourself what you can, and don't be ruled by others; to belong to oneself – the whole savour of life lies in that,' he said to me one day.
Another time, I, as a young democrat, fell to airing my views on liberty (he was 'kind,' as I used to call it, that day; and at such times I could talk to him as I liked).
'Liberty,' he repeated; 'and do you know what can give a man liberty?'
'What?'
'Will, his own will, and it gives power, which is better than liberty. Know how to will, and you will be free, and will lead.'
'My father, before all, and above all, desired to live, and lived... Perhaps he had a presentiment that he would not have long to enjoy the 'savour' of life: he died at forty-two.