Chapter 32: The Body Is the Capital of Exile

As for now, there was no doubt that Belinsky exerted a spiritual restraint over the people in his circle, and Turgenev even more so; seeing Belinsky speak, Turgenev immediately shrank back and waited for him to continue.

“From start to finish, I have held one conviction: I do not believe any human relationship can exist between slave and master! Your so-called reminder may help some gentlemen, but for far more people long accustomed to it, they already regard this as perfectly natural!”

Belinsky’s tone grew urgent:

“But is this truly the case? I listened carefully to this story—even to the act of infanticide—and yet I still felt sympathy for the girl. Yet no one could save her, not even herself. Even if nothing changed in the outside world, she would be crushed by her own guilt!”

I know you all think infanticide is an unspeakable crime, but who is truly responsible for all this? Imagine when she wakes again from sleep—she will be tried as a true demon!

Yet her real enemy has never been this innocent child; she is merely a thirteen-year-old girl. Can she challenge or seek revenge against her master, or against our heavy, cruel society and laws?

In this story, I see endurance, suffering, and the inevitable corruption and distortion of a human being under unbearable pressure—but believe me, however ignorant the Russian people may be, they understand clearly: to end their suffering, they will one day have to smash something!

This weak, exhausted, nearly driven-mad girl could only reach out toward an innocent infant—but I believe more and more people will soon know exactly whose throat to reach for!

One must admit that though Belinsky was usually frail, constantly coughing, and even somewhat shy, when he truly entered a certain state, his words carried the same power as his writings.

After he finished speaking, some in the room dared not even meet his gaze.

As for Mikhail—

Mikhail: “???”

Hey Belinsky, you said that beautifully—but please, don’t write it in the magazine!

If there’s one absolute red line in this era, it’s unquestionably serfdom.

Touching this is sometimes even worse than publicly shouting: “Tsar Nicholas, I fuck your mother!”

The reason is simple: serfdom truly is one of the foundations upon which the Russian imperial court maintained its rule; tampering with it is like tampering with your own head.

Belinsky’s stance on serfdom had always been unmistakable: he disbelieved in the so-called humanitarianism of landlords and saw no possibility of reconciliation—only abolition was the path forward.

Thus, in his final years, Belinsky walked almost on the edge of imprisonment. Once, he met Skobelev, commander of the Peter and Paul Fortress, who joked with him: “When will you come to us? We’ve already prepared a comfortable cell, reserved just for you.” He escaped only because Belinsky died suddenly.

After his death, the gendarme chief Dubelt regretfully said: “What a pity! We should have sent him to the fortress.”

Still, even if Belinsky had written this, it would never have passed the censors.

When Mikhail saw Belinsky’s pale face, gasping for breath, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth with a trembling hand, he hurried forward, patted Belinsky’s back, and sighed:

“Dear Vissarion, sit down, have some tea and something to eat—you’re about to faint.”

“It’s all because of your story, Mikhail,” Belinsky said, breathing heavily as he found a place to sit.

“I am certain your story will have a far greater impact than my criticisms and political essays. My writings might move some gentlemen—but what you write, even a serf will feel in his bones.”

That’s what a writer is—only a writer can truly do this. I heard from Nikolai that you read your story aloud to your landlord and tenants in your building? And that it had quite an effect?

That’s right. If one day all Russian peasants hear your stories, perhaps something truly will change!”

Oh my god, what if I accidentally kill myself at home one day?

Or get picked on by some officer and forced into a duel, repeating the old tragedy of Pushkin and his fan and imitator Lermontov?

Though he thought this, Mikhail said nothing—only waited until Belinsky’s emotions calmed and he returned to his usual self.

To be frank, due to his frail constitution and years of exhausting labor under harsh conditions, Belinsky’s health had deteriorated badly—otherwise he wouldn’t have died so young.

Of course, Mikhail’s own health wasn’t much better; to survive better in the days ahead, he had already resolved to start serious exercise once he could eat his fill.

Getting back on track, though Belinsky’s words sounded outright treasonous, the gentlemen who regularly gathered here were long accustomed to his “neurotic” mental state and his sharp, biting manner of speaking.

Thus, after a brief silence, they no longer wished to delve deeper into the topic, but turned instead to other matters and other conversations.

Some spoke of the novel’s novel artistic conception; others checked on Belinsky’s condition. Among them, Turgenev was the most remorseful:

“Dear Vissarion, perhaps I spoke thoughtlessly—how else could you have become so agitated?”

“No, it’s not your fault—I simply believe this story holds deeper meaning worth exploring.” Belinsky, having recovered, shook his head and smiled. Just as he was about to say more, he suddenly looked in one direction and said:

“But Ivan, could you please pass me the pastries over there? I’m starving.”

(End of chapter)