Chapter 104: Rumors and Nadya

When Belinsky’s gaze lingered long on the paper Mikhail had handed him, Nekrasov and Panaev grew increasingly eager to see its text, but after a long while, Belinsky still did not let go—he seemed even more agitated.

Seeing this, Nekrasov and Panaev exchanged a glance, each reading the same thought in the other’s eyes: Mikhail must have pulled out one of his long-hidden, unpublished poems.

As poets themselves, Nekrasov and Panaev knew how hard it was to write a good poem on the spot—even if inspiration and passion erupted simultaneously, such moments usually produced only the embryo of a true masterpiece, requiring careful revision and reflection once calm returned.

So at first, they were genuinely shocked, but after thinking it over, they still believed Mikhail had simply memorized and recopied a poem he’d written earlier, using it as leverage to persuade Belinsky to seek treatment.

Now, it was even clearer: given Belinsky’s sharp critical eye and refined taste as a renowned critic, he could not possibly have been so moved by an ordinary poem.

Yet even if the poem had been written long ago, to leave someone stunned—it was truly rare.

How much more was Mikhail hiding?

And why did every poem he produced turn out superb? Had he never written a bad one?

What poet hadn’t written bad poems?

Thinking of this, Nekrasov and Panaev, both poets, exchanged another glance, a bitter ache rising in their hearts.

Especially Nekrasov—he had published his first poetry collection at seventeen, hoping it would turn his fortunes, but it drew no attention from St. Petersburg’s cultural circles, and was savaged by several small newspapers until he felt like his own mother had disowned him.

Fortunately, Belinsky, out of curiosity, took notice, read Nekrasov’s collection, sat silent for half a day, then wrote a scathing review calling it outright “romantic doggerel.”

The reason it was fortunate was that Nekrasov, after reading Belinsky’s critique, felt every word was justified—he called it being scolded into clarity—and thus naturally gravitated toward Belinsky, setting the stage for everything that followed.

But now, seeing he was about to become rich, Nekrasov had already begun retrieving his own collection, preparing to destroy it all at once.

Now that he was a boss, Old Nekrasov wanted to be a respectable man.

Yet even as they felt that bitterness, Nekrasov and Panaev privately speculated about Mikhail’s poetic output: such low volume yet such high quality—there could be only one explanation! Mikhail had written many bad poems, but was too embarrassed to show them, so he’d hidden them all away!

They speculated, but every time Nekrasov visited Mikhail’s home, he carefully inspected everything—and still found not a single discarded draft. To protect his reputation, had Mikhail gone this far? You bastard, Mikhail.

As Nekrasov’s mind raced through these thoughts, Belinsky finally trembled as he handed over the seemingly fresh manuscript. Though Nekrasov had expected much, the poem’s opening still startled him:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Just these three lines pulled the reader into a stirring call—to fight against time’s passage, illness, even death, or perhaps something more.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”—could this not also extend to today’s social reality?

The first line speaks of old age or the spiritually decayed; the next lines build progressively, showing how the wise, the good, the wild, and the grave should respond to fading light, while images like “lightning,” “bay,” “sun,” and “meteor” intensify this emotion.

Thus, the poem ascends from concrete sensory experience to a universal, eternal grandeur, gaining broader significance!

After reading it twice, heart pounding, Nekrasov could hardly contain himself; after hastily securing Mikhail’s permission, he began reciting the poem aloud with passion.

Yet even as he recited, still stirred by emotion, Nekrasov suddenly noticed a problem: this poem seemed to have issues with rhyme!

If this were a novice, Nekrasov would have assumed a basic mistake—but this was Mikhail who wrote it!

His previous two poems possessed nearly flawless rhythm—how could such a man commit such a crude error?

But if this poem had been hastily written, then everything made sense!

Could it be that Mikhail really—

Mikhail, sensing Nekrasov’s feverish stare: “???”

You’ve looked at me like this before, but this time it’s downright terrifying.

No way, no way—you really think I wrote this on the spot? I’m just blowing smoke!

In truth, Mikhail had spent considerable time on this poem—the main difficulty lay in translating English into Russian while preserving meter.

He translated it himself first; the result was decent, but a few syllables fell slightly short, and due to other obligations, he hadn’t yet had time to consult anyone.

But why was Nekrasov reacting like this?

Realizing this, Mikhail spoke up: “I didn’t write it on the spot—I’ve been brewing it for a long time.”

Nekrasov, faced with Mikhail’s rambling explanation, neither nodded nor shook his head—only gave him another long, deep look.

Mikhail: “???”

As Mikhail remained baffled, Belinsky finally emerged from the trembling awe the poem had induced. He felt he had grasped the emotion Mikhail wished to convey, and said, half-sighing, half-excited:

“You know, Mikhail, it’s hard to make a frail patient admit he has a problem—especially when I still have so much left undone!

I want our journal’s voice to reach more people, to continue the work I haven’t finished—I’ve long planned to write a major work analyzing the current state and future direction of Russian literature and society! But my body constantly reminds me: Do I even have time to fulfill these plans?

Perhaps that’s why I fear doctors, why I dread hearing they’ll tell me I can no longer work like this! And just as your poem urges, how can illness and death be overcome by submission or escape?

I will face my condition—rage, confront, solve—and then work even better! And I believe your poem means more than this.”

Mikhail: “.”

Is recuperation merely to burn brighter?

And the rest of his analysis sounded oddly off.

Though events had surpassed his expectations, seeing Belinsky agree to treatment, Nekrasov and Panaev looked both delighted and excited; Mikhail thought for a moment, then smiled warmly.

In any case, the outcome was good.

But in the coming days…

Because poetry spread quickly and St. Petersburg’s circle was small, the next day Mikhail heard someone say to him:

“Respected Mikhail, I heard you wrote another great poem!”

Having grown somewhat used to such remarks, Mikhail simply smiled and modestly waved his hand.

By the fourth day, Mikhail heard someone say:

“I heard you wrote a brilliant poem in just one day to persuade Belinsky to take better care of his health—what a noble act!”

Mikhail: “?”

One day? That timeline shrank too fast.

Whatever—it’s how rumors go; they always twist in transmission.

By the sixth day, Mikhail encountered an enthusiastic young man in his office, who shouted:

“Respected Mr. Mikhail! I heard you wrote a great poem in under a minute, without even moving! Is this true? No! I shouldn’t ask that! How could I doubt you?!”

Mikhail: “???”

No, no, no—you should doubt me more.

Mikhail carefully explained to the young man that the rumors were false, implausible, and impossible to believe—he had not written it in moments, and asked the youth to help correct the record.

After his explanation, Mikhail assumed the matter was settled—until Nekrasov showed up shortly after, blurting out: “Mikhail, I read those articles in the St. Petersburg papers—they claim you’re trying to create a savage, chaotic poetic form that destroys traditional meter! This poem is a test! I say it’s nonsense—it’s just unfinished!”

Mikhail: “?”

That’s a black take.

But to be fair, Mikhail had become a semi-celebrity in St. Petersburg’s cultural scene; many were watching him, and such rare opportunities were not easily missed.

But since “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” was genuinely excellent—even good enough to make some overlook its meter—they didn’t directly attack him with: “Can’t even rhyme properly? What kind of poet are you?”

The attack wasn’t effective, and with other rumors adding fuel, some thinkers decided to switch tactics: they attacked on the grounds of “destroying tradition.”

Of course, the noise wasn’t loud—this poem largely followed meter, with clear rhythm and cadence—but for some magazines, any chance to ride the wave was worth it: don’t you see how much their sales jumped after publishing such articles?!

As Nekrasov grew slightly angry, Mikhail was about to agree—then suddenly paused, and asked casually: “So, Nikolai, what do you think of poetry without meter? Could good work still emerge? Could free verse even exist?”

In both East and West, early poetry was mostly metrical; in Europe, free verse only began to emerge in the nineteenth century, with true examples appearing only after Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” in 1855 and later works by French poets like Rimbaud.

So when Mikhail uttered this now, Nekrasov froze.

If someone else had said this, Nekrasov might have dismissed it as nonsense—but this came from Mikhail. He had to take it seriously.

Hadn’t Mikhail once mentioned something called symbolism? Was this another hint?

As Nekrasov began brainstorming, Mikhail, who’d only spoken offhandedly, hadn’t thought much—until he recalled recent rumors, and his lips twitched.

I hope these rumors stop soon—damn it, is the person in these rumors even human?

While Mikhail’s poetry and the rumors about it spread, a girl who always unconsciously followed Mikhail’s news heard this from a friend.

Upon hearing the details, the young girl involuntarily opened her mouth wide, listening as her friend described Mikhail writing the poem with such precision it was as if he’d stood right beside him watching.

But Nadya didn’t overthink it—she just listened, stunned, to the story of Mikhail, and when it ended, she remained silent for a long while, a flush of excitement rising on her pale cheeks.

“Incredible. When I see him in a few days, I must ask him myself!”

As she said this, her cheeks seemed to flush even deeper.

Mikhail had been too busy to attend any gatherings, but no matter how occupied, he always had time—so a few days ago, remembering he’d repeatedly canceled on her, he readily accepted her invitation.

But before coming, Mikhail still needed to check the latest issue of the journal.

Then this young girl would soon see the next installment of the novel.

What would it be like?

I can’t wait.

(End of Chapter)