Chapter 27: The Moderate (Tuesday: Requesting Follow Reads)

“Thank you so much, dear Nastasya.” After opening the door and taking the letter from the old maid, Mikhail glanced at it briefly, then smiled: “Looks like I’ll need to go out at noon—no need to save me lunch.”

“Alright, Mikhail.” After agreeing, Nastasya couldn’t help glancing into Mikhail’s tiny room, then asked: “Shall I tidy up your room for you? Have you written anything new? Look, you’ve been cooped up for days—you must’ve done something by now. You can’t spend every day sleeping like some nobleman!”

“Not just yet.” Mikhail’s lips twitched, then he naturally avoided the follow-up question. He put on his coat, adjusted his hat, smiled faintly under Nastasya’s gaze, and quickly slipped out the door.

Over these days, Mikhail had taken the opportunity to read his short story “The Trouble” aloud to anyone in the apartment willing to listen. As soon as he finished, the most excited listener was the petty merchant Versilov, who immediately slammed his fist on the table and stood up:

“Oh God! After hearing that, I instantly thought of the last time—I hired a young coachman. The lad looked utterly destitute, so when I paid him, I gave him dozens of kopecks extra—almost a whole ruble!”

“Dear Smirnov, did you hear that? Did you hear what I did? Could you do that? Come on! Your salary doesn’t even cover a decent drink or two!”

Faced with this, the petty official Smirnov, though skeptical, found himself momentarily speechless.

He could only mutter: “Look, look, look—someone does one good deed and thinks they’re a saint. I gave a child some food the other day, meager as it was—who’s to say it didn’t make him happy all night?…”

After reading these two stories, Mikhail’s standing in the apartment gradually shifted. First and foremost, Landlady Pavlovna’s attitude toward him improved noticeably.

Her demands for rent became less urgent; if Mikhail arrived late for meals, she’d save him a portion; and though tea was still rationed, he could now enjoy two or three cups, watched enviously by the other tenants.

Still, even so, he’d rather avoid spending time with her little tsar.

Mikhail said this:

“Oh, dear Pavlovna, do you know? Today’s youth all believe in free love! There’s an old saying in my hometown: a forcibly twisted melon won’t be sweet.”

“Free love? What nonsense! Your generation’s trends make no sense to me. But believe me, Mikhail—even a thousand years from now, nothing is more real than the ruble.”

A thousand years? I won’t say that—but within two hundred, I guarantee you’re right…

In any case, Mikhail managed to brush it off.

For Mikhail, emotions could wait—he’d focus on improving his own life first.

Beyond the landlady, the other tenants seemed to develop a mixture of respect and tenderness toward Mikhail; sometimes they willingly chatted with him, as if drawing some unknown comfort from him.

Mikhail was delighted by this.

After all, in conversation, he always heard gossip and rumors that broadened his horizons.

For instance, the gossip from petty official Smirnov—anyone who heard it once would gain fresh insight into “The Death of a Civil Servant” and “The Chameleon.”

As for the letter, its gist was that Belinsky wished to invite Mikhail to a gathering—to share a meal and strengthen their bond.

For a pauper, there was no better way to build connections than a shared meal.

As for where to eat, one must mention the intellectual’s favorite little salon of the era.

The term “salon,” and the activities associated with it, came from revolutionary France: a group of idle nobles gathering to drink, play cards, boast, occasionally discuss philosophy or art—and, of course, the most essential part: political ranting.

After all, who dares rant publicly?

Since public ranting was impossible, one could only do it in private, among fellow nobles who shared the same interests, discussing current affairs.

Such salons typically offered food and drink, and provided a chance to expand one’s network.

Moreover, intellectuals of the time tended to form small groups—based on shared hobbies, literary ideals, artistic principles, or political views.

For now, things were still relatively mild; the divisions hadn’t yet hardened. But as Russia’s situation worsened, internal rifts among intellectuals would erupt into fierce conflict.

For example, during what began as a pleasant dinner, one man might sigh: “Alas! Look how well the Westerners have done—thought, art, economy, state institutions—all superior!”

Another would instantly bristle: “Bullshit! We Russians have our own traditions and conditions! The Tsar may be flawed, but autocracy is our historical legacy—we must stick to it!”

“What? Nonsense!”

“You ignore our Russian traditions and dare speak of serving the nation? Fuck your mother!”

“You son of a—”

Ahem…

Of course, this is an abstracted portrayal—more details will come later.

Yet one must admit: shaped by history and geography, the Russian intellectual’s temperament leaned toward extremes. They seemed to lack patience—“either everything, or nothing.”

Their view of history brooked no reform: either overthrow it, or be overthrown by it.

In certain periods, this attitude accelerated social change—but it also planted hidden dangers.

Russia’s Golden Age writers, to varying degrees, embodied this tendency. Take our old Dostoevsky—he once was a radical revolutionary, then was sentenced to death, later commuted to exile. After years of that, he eventually turned to religious redemption.

Of course, this is a broad generalization; Dostoevsky’s actual thoughts were far more complex.

So the question arises: were there any moderate or centrist writers who wanted people to stop arguing, get along, and build a better home together?

Yes, brother—there were.

If luck holds, Mikhail will meet this person at the upcoming gathering.

He is the man known by nicknames like “Hamlet,” “Old Romantic,” “Judas,” and “Fool”—one of the three titans of Russia’s Golden Age of Literature, a fanatical admirer, a half-formed romanticist: our Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev!

Turgenev.

(End of Chapter)