Chapter 29: The Essence of the Gathering

After some thought, Mikhail agreed to Belinsky’s proposal, even though the novel he was to read might not be well received by the gentlemen at this gathering—though truth be told, the previous two novels had already been somewhat unfriendly to them, just not as sharply so.

In Mikhail’s view, this novel wasn’t particularly harsh, but to these gentlemen, it might well feel like a horror story.

Leaving that aside for now, under Belinsky’s guidance, Mikhail and the others soon arrived at a villa in Pavlovsk, near St. Petersburg—a beautiful villa twenty to thirty times the size of Mikhail’s pitiful little room.

As soon as they arrived, two young servants stepped forward; before they even entered, Mikhail heard from afar a continuous din of voices and chatter, as if a heated debate were underway, yet occasionally interrupted by bursts of music.

Upon entering, Mikhail’s first sight was several elegant oil paintings on the walls, richly pigmented scenes of natural beauty and dignified ladies, one of whom now stood before a painting, lost in thought.

Next came a large leather sofa studded with brass nails, several matching armchairs, and a cheerful young man engaged in conversation with a plump, ruddy-faced elder beside him.

Beside them, a large brass-inlaid table with ornate carvings was surrounded by people; on it lay a deck of cards, some documents, and an antique yellow English grand piano, where a strikingly beautiful woman was adjusting the keys.

At the sound of the door opening, everyone present paused their activities and turned their gazes toward the four newcomers—more precisely, toward Mikhail.

The other three were already familiar to those gathered, but this young stranger was unknown to all; coupled with the rumors they’d heard from Belinsky days ago, someone approached Mikhail even before he introduced himself.

“Belinsky, you’ve brought us a handsome young man,” said the middle-aged man who stepped forward—he was slightly short, impeccably dressed, with a thick beard, and he smiled warmly at Mikhail:

“You’re Mikhail, aren’t you? I’ve read your works—both of them. Though they don’t align with today’s Russian literary trends, I truly saw something new in your novels. By the way, I’m Ivan Ivanovich Panayev.”

“Respected Ivan Ivanovich, I am…”

As Mikhail began introducing himself to each person present, he couldn’t help stealing a glance at Nekrasov—whose dark, bushy brows were fixed intently on the woman across the room.

Notably, when Dostoevsky later visited Panayev’s home, he became deeply infatuated with Panayev’s wife, Adofya, for months, even writing about it in a letter.

This Panayev fellow was truly legendary in his capacity as a green king…

As Nekrasov, looking slightly guilty, withdrew his gaze from that spot, he quickly observed Mikhail’s demeanor.

Though Nekrasov was a nobleman’s son, his years of abject poverty had left him awkward upon first arriving at Panayev’s—he lacked, as those who met him then said, any sense of elegance or refined taste.

After all, attendees of salons and gatherings in this era were mostly nobles, and to demonstrate their uniqueness and refinement, many overdid it, appearing artificial and hollow.

Yet many of them thoroughly enjoyed it.

To Nekrasov’s eyes, though Mikhail’s attire was unremarkable, his attitude was extraordinary.

Even before these authorities in every field, Mikhail showed no trace of flattery or nervousness—only calm greetings, and occasionally a thoughtful question.

Most young men, when facing so-called authorities, inevitably betray admiration or fervor; Nekrasov himself was no exception, nor was Turgenev beside him—but in Mikhail, not a single hint of such behavior could be found.

Especially since Mikhail seemed acutely aware of each person’s standing and influence in St. Petersburg’s cultural circles.

Precisely because of this seemingly detached demeanor, no one pulled Mikhail into conversation after his greetings—and he didn’t seem to mind. When Nekrasov finally snapped out of his thoughts, Mikhail had already moved to the area with the samovar and pastries.

Nekrasov: “?”

You’re stealing my spot?

Watching Mikhail silently stuff his mouth with various delicacies, Nekrasov didn’t dare delay—he rose and hurried over.

From past experience, Panayev’s pastries were always the same—once gone, they were gone, and one had to wait for the main meal.

Honestly, Nekrasov had expected Mikhail, as a newcomer, to be as nervous and restrained as he himself once had been—but Mikhail had instantly grasped the true essence of these gatherings for men like them.

To be fair, these snacks were among the best things Mikhail had eaten in recent memory—his meager funds were either invested or inexplicably given away, leaving him to survive on his apartment’s table.

While Mikhail quietly replenished his energy on one side, Belinsky was passionately introducing Mikhail—the genius who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Belinsky would unhesitatingly champion any young writer whose talent he deemed promising, expecting nothing in return.

Just as Belinsky became lost in his praise, he suddenly remembered Mikhail—and the new work he’d mentioned—and turned to find him.

Seeing the two figures standing by that familiar spot, Belinsky felt a slight spasm in his stomach—as if it were sending him a message.

Belinsky, who had skipped breakfast: “.”

Did you think I gave up my breakfast this morning just to please my wife?

Today’s youth…

(End of chapter)