Chapter 39

During the time he waited for his novel to pass censorship, Mikhail’s only outdoor activity besides daily study and writing was attending parties and salons to eat and drink excessively; since Mikhail had no interest in socializing, his primary venue remained the Panayevs’ home.

But as he gradually grew closer to others, Mikhail began to receive more invitations to other salons and gatherings, the first and foremost being from my friend Turgenev:

“Hey, Mikhail! A young man like you can’t stay cooped up at home forever—you should go out more, meet more people, interact with those lovely young ladies! With your looks and talent, they’ll fall for you the moment they get to know you!”

“And do you know how many people in St. Petersburg’s cultural circle are talking about you right now? Half of St. Petersburg is buzzing! Everyone wants to meet you, hear how you write your novels, even hear you read them aloud!”

Mikhail: “?”

How did I not know so many people wanted to meet me?

Then again, if I just stayed home all day, no one would ever get the chance to invite me.

Mikhail: “!!!”

Damn it!

How many meals have I missed?!

Thinking of what the rich people ate every day versus what he himself ate daily, Mikhail couldn’t help slapping his thigh in regret.

Fortunately, though my friend Turgenev liked to show off and talked too much, he was genuinely decent; upon realizing Mikhail truly had no idea, Turgenev immediately slapped his own thigh:

“Mikhail, next time there’s a gathering or salon, I’ll just take you along! Those gentlemen and ladies will be delighted to see you. And I recall you’ve never had a love affair—that’s unacceptable, dear Mikhail! How can a man live without love?

I know you’re young and inexperienced, unsure how to deal with women—but no matter. Next time you come with me, just watch me and learn. If you can pick up even two or three percent of my skill, it’ll be more than enough for you, Mikhail!”

Mikhail: “.”

Still boasting—you’re not nearly that good if you’ve been rejected for years.

But then again, that’s not the real issue; the more important question Mikhail had to ask himself.

So, during another meal at the Panayevs’—I mean, another discussion of art and philosophy—Mikhail couldn’t help blurting out:

“Do these gentlemen serve food at their salons?”

“Serve food?” After meeting several times, Turgenev had grown accustomed to Mikhail’s strange but understandable expressions, so he simply nodded: “Of course. Truly refined nobles never let their guests leave hungry. But the point of such gatherings isn’t the food—it’s mingling with worthy gentlemen, listening to their life and artistic insights, feeling the pulse of thought and wisdom!”

Of course, truly cultivated nobles never let their guests leave with empty stomachs. But the focus of such gatherings has never been that—it’s about associating with worthy gentlemen, listening to their life and artistic insights, and feeling the flicker of thought and wisdom!

I only saw beef, cod, roasted partridge, puff pastry, and white bread dancing before my eyes.

But of course, he couldn’t say that aloud—if these well-fed noble lords thought he lacked taste and stopped inviting him, that would be a terrible loss.

So Mikhail accepted Turgenev’s invitation while letting the subject drop.

This gathering, however, seemed to be different—perhaps because he’d grown so familiar with Mikhail, the usually cheerful young man Turgenev was unusually serious. After a moment of thought, he turned to Mikhail, who was quietly devouring his food, and asked:

And this gathering, perhaps because he had grown much closer to Mikhail, the usually cheerful young man Turgenev was unusually serious; after a moment of contemplation, he turned to Mikhail, who was quietly finishing his food, and asked:

“Dear Mikhail, might I ask you for advice on writing?”

Huh?

Who are you?

And who are you asking?

And then, whom will you turn to for advice?

Surprised, Mikhail had unconsciously stopped eating. After a moment of stunned silence, he finally closed his slightly open mouth and nodded: “Ask what you want—I’ll answer what I can.”

“After reading your work, Belinsky often told me about the literary philosophy and methods he admired. Though we have great examples like Alexander (Pushkin) and Gogol, I’ve still struggled to grasp what he meant by ‘populism’ and ‘realism.’

You know, it’s vastly different from the prevailing artistic trends in Russia.

But when I read your two stories, it was as if the Muse herself glanced at me—all my confusion vanished at once! I never had the chance to tell you how moved I was by your work—now I can finally tell you everything!”

Mikhail had been listening intently, but as Turgenev’s flattery showed no sign of ending, he could only smile and nod, then gently interjected: “So what exactly do you want to ask, Ivan? Just say it.”

“Then I’ll be straightforward.” When Turgenev calmed down, his face grew serious, tinged with sorrow: “After reading your work, I wanted to learn from your perspective, to observe the people of St. Petersburg we’ve always ignored. But I realized I know so little about them that I can’t even describe them properly.

I tried to observe them closely, but whenever I appeared near them, they grew uncomfortable and couldn’t even continue their work. Can I really write nothing for them? I often think about this.”

“Ivan, writing always begins with what you know best. You can’t expect to portray people you know nothing about and achieve your goal quickly.”

Shaking his head, Mikhail looked at the visibly discouraged Turgenev and continued: “But think—though you’re distant from some people in today’s St. Petersburg, aren’t there still people close to you? Those who pass by you every day, who run past you without a second glance?”

“Ivan, when you first begin writing, you must start with the people and things you know best. It’s nearly impossible to achieve what you want in a short time when writing about those you know nothing about.”

Shaking his head, Mikhail looked at Turgenev, who seemed somewhat discouraged, and continued:

But think—some people in today’s Saint Petersburg are far from you, but are you truly without anyone you know? Those closest to you, the ones who pass and race by you again and again.

You mean

(End of Chapter)