Chapter 52: I Love You More Than Nature

Under the servant’s guidance, Mikhail soon met the estate’s owner, General Danilevsky, a man of high rank—his full name, needless to say, was so long and cumbersome that even among Russians it was considered unbearable.

The aging general, upon seeing Mikhail and Turgenev, walked over warmly to greet them both; he knew Belinsky well and often invited him to dinner, so naturally he was familiar with Mikhail, the young writer Belinsky had recently championed.

After exchanging pleasantries with Turgenev, whom he had met before, he turned kindly to Mikhail, patted his shoulder, and said with friendliness:

“I’ve heard your name long before, young man—I never imagined I’d meet you here today. You’re even more handsome than I imagined. Where’s your home? We might have crossed paths somewhere.”

Holy hell, straight to family background?

“My family is from the provinces; now I’m studying at a university in St. Petersburg,” Mikhail replied honestly.

Oh? From the provinces?

The general’s warmth slightly dimmed.

Though he wished to ask a few more specific questions, he was too seasoned to pry at a first meeting, so he merely nodded gently, exchanged a couple more pleasantries, then led them toward the parlor.

Honestly, it was lucky the general didn’t press further—if he had, he’d have discovered Mikhail wasn’t just some provincial outsider, but a penniless commoner training as a student; knowing that, his friendliness would’ve vanished entirely.

But now, upon reaching the parlor, several people were already seated—minor essayists and critics—and among them sat what appeared to be the general’s daughter.

She looked about seventeen, dressed in a white ball gown adorned with vine and moss patterns, shoulders like freshly fallen snow, eyes as lively as a deer’s, and clear blue irises.

As Turgenev had said, she was exceedingly beautiful.

“Nastya, Nastya,” the general called to his daughter, “Guess who I’ve brought? The very author of those articles you’ve been nagging me about.”

At her father’s call, the girl leapt up from her chair and walked over to Mikhail and Turgenev, casting a curious glance at Mikhail.

“Let me introduce you—this is my daughter. She’s been deeply interested in your writings and has mentioned your novels to me often. Perhaps you two can talk.”

After the general finished speaking, the lively-faced girl bowed politely to Mikhail, and Mikhail smiled and gave a slight bow in return.

Once introductions were done, the general excused himself to attend other guests; Turgenev, it seemed, had acquaintances here too, so after a word to Mikhail, he went off to greet them.

Mikhail, meanwhile, sat down, listened to the writers and critics discussing art with solemn airs, exchanged a few words with the general’s daughter, and indulged in a bit of idle boasting.

As the conversation flowed, someone inevitably turned to Mikhail—the recent sensation in St. Petersburg’s literary scene—and shook his head thoughtfully:

“Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, may I address you thus? May I speak plainly? I find certain elements in your novels painfully unrealistic, especially—”

To such men, Mikhail merely smiled, nodding occasionally in polite distraction, barely listening to their words—his eyes, instead, kept drifting involuntarily toward the dining area.

Mikhail hadn’t eaten much for lunch, all for this evening.

But now, it wasn’t easy to act—those art-commenting gentlemen were one thing, yet for some reason, Mikhail felt the general’s daughter kept glancing his way, making him hesitate to do anything.

Hmm, though I, Mikhail, am no nobleman, I am still a man of dignity.

He sat there for a long while, occasionally approached by a few well-dressed gentlemen or ladies, curious and eager to chat with him.

Though they often slipped into fluent French, Mikhail was no longer unskilled—he responded in kind with a few phrases, exchanging hollow pleasantries.

Though slightly nervous, Mikhail appeared calm on the surface, conversing easily with anyone who approached; in everyone’s eyes, his social grace was unquestionably adequate.

Some others, though watching Mikhail closely, didn’t approach—only observed from afar, occasionally chuckling, as if puzzled by something.

Throughout this, Mikhail still felt the general’s daughter’s gaze lingering around him, preventing him from doing what he truly wanted.

As time dragged on, Mikhail noticed Turgenev had naturally begun to show off, reciting his poetry with deep emotion before a crowd.

To be fair, Turgenev wrote good poetry—he first rose to fame in St. Petersburg’s cultural circles through verse. Take, for example, one love poem he wrote to win a lady’s favor: “To N. H.”

“Above the sleeping earth,

Pale clouds drift with the moon.

That wondrous moon,

Swings the sea from high above.

My soul’s sea,

Also holds you as its moon—

—It, too, in joy and pain,

Swings for you.”

Turgenev’s skill was undeniable; and in this age, even Pushkin’s famous love poem sounded like this: “I loved you once,

Love, perhaps

Has not yet wholly vanished from my soul,

May it never trouble you again;

I wish no longer to sadden you.”

When Turgenev finished his melancholy poem, applause broke out.

By the way, poems on nature and love were most common in this era—and easiest to pass censorship; otherwise, they’d never survive review.

After his performance, Turgenev didn’t forget his good friend Mikhail—he seized the moment, pulled Mikhail forward, and gave him a formal introduction, officially introducing him to these so-called upper-class figures.

At the end, Turgenev chose to believe in Mikhail’s genius, and half-seriously, half-jokingly said:

“This remarkable author recently told me he’s studied poetry too—I’d truly like to hear what he’s got. Of course, if he’s willing to recite his fiction, I’d be even happier.”

I only know a little, okay? Just a little.

Since the atmosphere had been built up, Mikhail could only modestly demur, then, under many eyes, began to recite in a tone both light, romantic, and faintly bitter:

“I love you more than nature,

For you are nature itself.

I love you more than freedom—

Without you, freedom is merely prison.

I love you so carelessly,

As one loves the abyss, not the rut.”

So direct?

Turgenev beside him blinked in surprise.

But Mikhail continued:

“I love you more than possibility,

And more than impossibility.

I love you tirelessly, endlessly,

Even drunk, even broken.

More than self—indeed,

Even more than pure you.”

Perhaps because such light, romantic, and unusual poetry was rare in Russia today, more people turned to listen, their attention sharpening:

“I love you more than Shakespeare,

More than all earthly beauty,

Even more than the world’s music,

For you— are book and music.

I love you more than honor,

More than the radiance of the entire planet.”

Throughout the recitation, Mikhail still felt a gaze circling him; though he avoided it, he couldn’t shift his eyes during the poem. When emotion peaked and some guests shifted positions, his gaze inevitably met those clear blue eyes.

He delivered the final stanza:

“I love you as I love Russia,

For homeland—you are.

Are you suffering? Do you beg for pity?

Do not provoke God with begging.

I love you more than happiness.

I love you more than love itself.”

These two chapters turned out longer than expected—I’d planned to split them, but for completeness, I’ll leave them as is.

Honestly, poetry suffers the most in translation—without its original language, much of its life fades; truly feeling the beauty of foreign poetry is never easy.

So poetry should be quoted sparingly—only when perfectly suited; otherwise, less is better. After all, if you can’t feel the work’s true charm, no amount of praise will convince anyone.

I personally love this one—it has no barriers. Read it a few times and you’ll feel your heart soften.

Also, to boost the new book’s ranking, Monday’s chapter will likely drop at midnight—please, dear patrons, follow and read on Monday, and consider casting a batch of monthly votes; if you’re willing to tip, please do.

There are too many top-tier authors above me, and this book’s niche subject feels like it’s being crushed under their weight (sob).

I still want to go further—dear patrons with monthly votes, please cast them for this book on Monday. Thank you so much.

Please also follow closely—next week is crucial. Whether we go further depends entirely on next week.

Thank you all.

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(End of Chapter)