Chapter 31: The Iron Key Will Not Retreat

When Mikhail finished reading this new novella and noticed that the faces of the gentlemen present seemed unusually grave, he realized he had perhaps overestimated their tolerance.

I still need to stay in tune with this era…

Fortunately, only a small circle knows about it so far; to avoid being labeled an extreme radical, Mikhail added:

“As for the ending of this novella, I’m still undecided. My original idea was to leave it open-ended—ending right at ‘Valka crept quietly to the cradle, bent down, and leaned close to the doll.’ That would work fine too.”

That’s perfectly acceptable, since this was indeed the first version by the literary giant who claimed, “Medicine is my lawful wife, literature my mistress.”

In today’s climate, it’s slightly safer to use this version.

Upon hearing Mikhail’s words, the gentlemen whose expressions had grown tense seemed to relax a little, and began discussing among themselves:

“Good God! Infanticide! How could this girl harbor such a cruel thought?!”

“Another innovative style—last time it was epistolary, now it’s the interweaving of hallucination and reality.”

“Though slightly problematic, I must admit this piece is still excellent—no less impressive than the previous two.”

“Visarion is right—this young man is indeed a genius, but perhaps he should try a different direction? I think he ought to channel his talent into better areas.”

“I think the open-ended ending is better; the first ending is too crude, too cruel, too horrifying! How could a perfectly decent girl kill an innocent infant merely because she was tired? She shouldn’t have done it.”

………

After listening to this round of opinions, most of the gentlemen present seemed to favor the open-ended conclusion. Just as Mikhail was about to speak, Turgenev suddenly stood up and declared loudly:

“Gentlemen, I believe the first ending is the best!”

Mikhail: “?”

Old Tu, is this even your business to jump in on?

Are you not as gentle as the records I’ve read suggest?

As all eyes turned toward him, the tall Turgenev waved his arms and continued:

“Truly respectable gentlemen would never treat a servant girl this way—so for them, this novella will only reinforce their judgment and deepen their compassion for these miserable people!

And for those cruel, base gentlemen, this ending will serve as a powerful reminder—they will finally realize how gravely wrong their actions are.”

Mikhail: “?”

Attacking reactionary nobles without condemning the entire aristocratic class, right?

Perfect. Perfect…

In today’s climate, Turgenev’s interpretation isn’t bad at all—after all, it’s obvious which is more dangerous: attacking everyone or attacking only some.

Thus, upon hearing Turgenev’s explanation, Mikhail naturally nodded and smiled at the old man.

Hmm, I appreciate your restraint!

Turgenev clearly noticed Mikhail’s expression and gesture, and his already agitated emotions surged even higher.

First, because he had received the author’s own approval of this outstanding novella; second, because he now had fresh material to boast about for days.

Oh, you know that hot new author Mikhail? Yes! I know him! I held him when he was a child!

He just wrote a new novella—I gave him advice! Yes, yes, you’ll see it in a couple days.

As Turgenev, brimming with pride, was lost in his fantasy, someone beside him suddenly spoke: “No, Ivan, you’re wrong.”

Several gentlemen had just nodded in agreement—who dares to embarrass him like this?!

When the future literary leader Turgenev turned to see that the speaker was Belinsky, the tall young man immediately deflated.

Here, one must mention the relationship between Belinsky and Turgenev: in short, Belinsky was Turgenev’s guide on his literary path.

Before meeting Belinsky, Turgenev’s literary endeavors were marked by chance and a certain lack of depth. It was Belinsky who showed him a new way to view the writer’s vocation.

Though Belinsky did not live to see Turgenev’s literary peak, his friendship played a decisive role during Turgenev’s growth as an artist—during his transition from poetry to “A Hunter’s Sketches” and to the novel, in establishing literature’s popular character and realism, and in shaping his spiritual and emotional transformation.

Even in Turgenev’s old age, nearly forty years after Belinsky’s death, he left this final wish:

“Bury me beside Belinsky!”

Yet Belinsky’s immense influence on Turgenev had a dark side: he pinned Turgenev firmly to the cause of political commentary, making it nearly impossible for him to escape.

Let’s be honest—gentle souls are ill-suited for political commentary. First, they endure immense pressure from all sides; if their minds are even slightly delicate or sensitive, they risk collapsing entirely. Gogol is a perfect example.

Anyone who has read Turgenev’s “A Hunter’s Sketches” and other major works can sense how extraordinarily delicate his inner world is—he captures the subtlest details and most beautiful scenes.

Second, as the times and social tensions intensified, taking sides became inevitable.

If you don’t stand with me, then sorry—you’re not my comrade or friend.

Yet Turgenev refused to fully align with either side: he opposed serfdom and feudal remnants, yet sought to avoid violence and bloodshed; he recognized the power and suffering of the people but drew no revolutionary conclusions; he sympathized with and supported revolution, yet also saw the Russian liberal nobility’s inability to advance society, and felt profound pity for these “superfluous men.”

Even in aesthetics, Turgenev rejected “art for art’s sake,” upheld realism, yet denied Chernyshevsky’s materialist essay “The Aesthetic Relation of Art to Reality,” arguing that art is not merely a mechanical reflection of reality.

As a result, Turgenev was disliked by nearly every faction—even after becoming literary leader, both old and young circles constantly attacked him face-to-face, shouting: “Turgenev! Fuck your mother!”

Turgenev, a man so proud of his image, suffered deeply from these insults and harsh critiques.

Logically, by this point, Turgenev might have followed Gogol’s path: either pick a side, or quit literature entirely, retreat to the mountains, and return to his peaceful, idyllic hunting life.

But Turgenev, stubbornly, refused to abandon his political stance—not for money, not for fame, steadfastly holding to his convictions and expression.

In a certain sense, he truly was a man of integrity.

(End of chapter)