Chapter 23: Ivan Shelegayevich Turgenev!

Mikhail had no idea what was happening outside; all he knew was that after reading the story “Wan Ka,” the small landowner Tussenbach, who had come to Shengbidebao to visit family, treated him with tenderness.

The two indeed talked for a while, and from Tussenbach, Mikhail learned that his visit home had not gone well—because of his young grandson.

Though no one wished for it, the accident had happened under Tussenbach’s care, so his daughter and son-in-law naturally harbored resentment, to the point where merely seeing him would bring back the memory and turn their faces pale.

Otherwise, Tussenbach would not have been holed up in this small apartment, hesitating daily whether to knock on their door again.

Such pain was bound to be unrelievable; after all, though no one was to blame, the event had simply occurred. Yet talking with this old man for a while might still ease him, preventing him from bottling it all up inside.

In the end, the old man, his eyes red, could not help gripping Mikhail’s hand and saying: “Mikhail, listening to your stories, I truly feel better. I keep hearing people say you’re struggling—young men like you deserve a better future.”

“If you have any trouble, please tell me, won’t you? I’d be glad to help in any way I can.”

Mikhail: “………”

So I’m famously poor…

But to be fair, it seems that in any era, living off one’s parents is still the fastest way to make money.

Especially during periods of relative asset stability, elderly people often have more money than most can believe.

Of course, if some elders are unlucky enough to hit a specific era’s so-called boom, their lifetime savings vanish in an instant.

“No, dear Tussenbach. I can support myself now.” Though still poor and drowning in debt, Mikhail gripped the old man’s weathered hand and smiled back:

“But you—you must eat less. How can you ruin your health over a little thing?”

“No, Mikhail. Pavlovna has the audacity to make up such lies just to placate me.” Tussenbach, stubborn as ever, glared at Pavlovna standing silently beside him and pressed on: “Then I’ll make her lies come true! But let her and her hometown’s nonsense go to hell!”

“You see, Mikhail, old people always think others are deceiving them,” Pavlovna said, shaking her head, not angry at this still-wealthy old man.

“That’s why young people should talk more with other young people, dear Mikhail. Do you remember my daughter Svetlana? You haven’t sat down properly for tea and a chat in ages—I think you two should find time to talk.”

Mikhail: “?”

Mikhail did recall Pavlovna’s daughter Svetlana—and remembered her vividly, for in some ways she was a perfect copy of Pavlovna.

A truly rare specimen of a man.

When Mikhail first arrived in Shengbidebao a year ago, Pavlovna, seeing him as a promising university student, had already considered matchmaking him with her daughter.

But as Mikhail’s circumstances grew worse, she never mentioned it again.

Now, bringing it up again—whether because she thought his story was truly excellent, or because she saw new potential in him—Pavlovna gazed warmly at Mikhail and said:

“You know, dear Mikhail, I have only this one daughter. Everything I do is for her! Without a good dowry, how can she ever stand firm in her husband’s home?! I’ve worked myself to the bone for her these past years!”

Mikhail: “?”

Bribery, is it?

Fine, fine.

To be honest, Pavlovna’s reputation for stinginess and wealth was legendary in this neighborhood, and her household truly was as she described.

As for Pavlovna’s husband, it was said he drank too much one winter night, and when people found him the next day, his body was already stone-cold—truly one of the classic Slavic deaths.

The gluttons sleep forever in winter nights from alcohol; the brave and idealists sleep eternally in Siberia, full of hope for the future, silent and still.

Then again, though Mikhail now knew that steel wool symbolized wealth and endurance, he thought of Pavlovna’s little tsar—his temperament, his cruelty—and for the first time, he felt genuinely proud of his own backbone.

A true iron man, unyielding to wealth, unmoved by poverty, unbroken by force.

Honestly, facing Pavlovna’s little tsar was worse than fighting the real Tsar Nicholas I with sword and shield.

Fuck!

What am I thinking?!

Quickly suppressing that dangerous thought, Mikhail gave Pavlovna a vague smile and replied vaguely:

“Maybe later, Pavlovna! A respected gentleman is about to introduce me into his circle—I simply can’t spare the time right now.”

It wasn’t a lie—Belinsky would likely contact Mikhail soon.

“Oh God, and then what? You can’t keep being busy with this forever, can you?”

Mikhail: “.”

Dear Pavlovna, it’s just one story—it really doesn’t warrant this!

While Mikhail struggled to handle Pavlovna, in another bright, spacious room, a young man with bright eyes was reading “Wan Ka.” When he reached the end, his lips trembled; it took him a long while to calm his emotions.

Once his feelings steadied slightly, the young man suddenly remembered something and hurried to find his mother, Varvara Petrovna Lutovinova.

The young man’s name was Ivan Shelegayevich Turgenev.

(End of Chapter)