Chapter 23: Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev!

What was going on outside, Mikhail had no idea. Suffice it to say that after he finished reading the short story "Vanka," the attitude of the small landowner Tusenbakh, who had come to St. Petersburg to visit his family, toward Mikhail could only be described as tender.

And the two really did chat for a while. From Tusenbakh's mouth, Mikhail also learned that this family visit had not gone very smoothly for the other man, the reason being his little grandson.

Although no one had wanted this to happen, that little fellow had ultimately had his accident on Tusenbakh's watch. So Tusenbakh's daughter and son-in-law inevitably bore a grudge — to the point where the mere sight of him would bring back that old memory and turn their faces white.

Were it not for that, Tusenbakh naturally would not have had to hole up in this little flat, hesitating every day over whether to pay another visit.

This kind of pain was bound to be impossible to work out. After all, even though no one was at fault, things had simply happened that way. Still, chatting with the old gentleman for a while might perhaps make him feel a bit better, so he would not have to bottle it all up inside.

And by the end of their talk, the old man with reddened eyes could not help but grip Mikhail's hand and say: "Mikhail, listening to your stories and talking with you — I truly feel so much better. I keep hearing people say you're in a difficult spot; a young man like you ought to have a far better future.

If you have any trouble, please tell me, will you? I would like to do my part for you."

Mikhail: "………"

So I'm that famous for being broke…...

Still, to be fair, it seems that in any era, living off one's parents is in fact the fastest way to get money.

Especially in a period of relatively stable assets, the money in an old person's hands is often so plentiful it leaves many people finding it hard to believe.

Of course, some old people are unlucky enough to hit a certain period of so-called "upward mobility," and a lifetime's savings can vanish in an instant.

"No need, dear Tusenbakh. I can support myself right now." Though he was still very poor and saddled with a pile of debts, facing this sincere old man, Mikhail gave the other's aged hand a squeeze in return, then replied with a smile:

"But you — I've noticed it for a while now. You really ought to eat a little less; how can you ruin your health over a bit of food?"

"No, Mikhail. Pavlowna, just to fob me off, actually made up that kind of nonsense." Casting a glance at Pavlowna, who stood by unmoved, the somewhat stubborn Tusenbakh went on, as if in defiance: "Then I'll make her nonsense come true! But let her and the nonsense from her hometown go to the devil!"

"Look, look, Mikhail — old people are always like that, always thinking others are trying to cheat them." Pavlowna did not get angry with the still fairly well-off old man Tusenbakh; she merely shook her head and said:

"So young people ought to talk more with young people. Dear Mikhail, do you still remember my daughter Svetlana? It's been ages since you two properly sat down together for tea and a chat. I think perhaps you could find some time to have a proper talk."

Mikhail: "?"

As for Pavlowna's daughter Svetlana, Mikhail did have an impression of her — and a fairly vivid one at that, since in a certain sense she was simply cut from the same mold as Pavlowna.

Another rare and fine fellow.

Speaking of which, a year ago when Mikhail had just arrived in St. Petersburg, Pavlowna, considering that Mikhail was a university student with a boundless future, had already had the idea of matching him up with her daughter.

Only later, as Mikhail's circumstances grew increasingly dire, Pavlowna had never brought the matter up again.

Now that she brought it up once more, it was unclear whether it was because she felt Mikhail's story was truly excellent, or because she saw some new possibility in him. In any case, Pavlowna said to Mikhail with tender warmth:

"You know, dear Mikhail, she is my only daughter — everything I'm doing now is for her sake! Without a good dowry, how could she ever hold her own in her husband's household?! I cannot even say how much I've been running around for her all these years!"

Mikhail: "?"

So it's a bribe, is it?

Very well, very well.

But to be honest, the landlord Pavlowna's stinginess and wealth were famous throughout their neighborhood, and her family's situation really was just as she described.

As for Pavlowna's husband, the story goes that on one winter night he had drunk far too much, so that by the time people found him the next day, Pavlowna's husband's body had long since gone stiff as a board. Honestly, that really is one of the classic Slavic ways for a man to die.

The greedy drinker, because of the alcohol, sleeps forever on a winter night; the brave and the idealist, full of faith and hope for the future, slumber forever in Siberia, never to be heard from again.

Now, getting back to the point — although Mikhail now knew full well that the language of steel wool is wealth and forbearance, when he thought about what the little Tsar of Pavlowna's household was actually like, and how foul a temper he had, Mikhail truly felt for the first time that he was quite a man of backbone.

A genuine iron man through and through — absolutely one whom wealth cannot corrupt, poverty cannot sway, nor power can subdue.

To speak plainly, compared to dealing with the little Tsar of Pavlowna's household, Mikhail would much rather go at it hammer and tongs with the real Tsar, Nicholas I.

Damn!

What am I thinking?!

Hastily suppressing the dangerous thought within, Mikhail gave Pavlowna an evasive smile and replied just as evasively:

"We'll see, we'll see, Pavlowna! Recently a respected gentleman is preparing to introduce me into his circle; I really can't spare any time at the moment—"

That was no lie — Belinsky would probably be contacting Mikhail soon enough.

"Oh God, and after that? You can't possibly be busy with that forever, can you?"

Mikhail: "."

Dear Pavlowna, it's only a short story — it really doesn't warrant all this!

While Mikhail was doing his best to handle Pavlowna, in another spacious, bright room, a young man with bright eyes was likewise reading the short story "Vanka." Upon reaching the end, this young man's lips trembled, and it took him quite a while before he finally steadied his emotions.

And once his mood had eased just a little, the young man, as if suddenly thinking of something, hurriedly rose to seek out his mother, Varvara Petrovna Lutovinova.

As for this young man, his name was Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev.

(End of chapter)