Chapter 52: I Love You, More Than Nature Itself

Led by a servant, Mikhail soon met the master of this mansion, a general of high rank named Danilevsky; his full name need not be mentioned, for even among Russians, this general's name could be called both foul and long.

And this general, already of no young age, upon seeing Mikhail and Turgenev, approached quite warmly to greet the two; he knew Belinsky and often wished to invite Belinsky to dine at his home, so naturally he also knew of Mikhail, the young writer recently highly praised by Belinsky.

After exchanging greetings with Turgenev, whom he had met before, he turned his gaze warmly toward Mikhail, patted his shoulder, and said in a friendly manner:

"I have long heard your name, young man; I never expected to finally meet you here today. You are even more handsome than I imagined; where is your home? Perhaps we have met somewhere before."

Good heavens, asking about family background right off the bat?

"My home is in a distant province; now I am studying at a university in St. Petersburg," Mikhail replied truthfully.

Oh? From out of town?

The warmth on the general's face diminished slightly.

Though he still wished to ask a bit more about the specifics, since this was their first meeting, the worldly-wise general naturally would not pry too deeply; thus, after nodding gently, he exchanged a few more pleasantries with the two, then led them toward the living room.

To be honest, it was fortunate that this general did not press further; otherwise, he would have discovered that Mikhail was not only an outsider from the provinces but also a commoner trainee from a poor family; knowing this, the warmth on his face would likely have diminished even more.

But now, upon arriving in the living room, several people were already seated there, seemingly essayists and critics, and among them sat what appeared to be the general's daughter.

She looked to be about seventeen years old, wearing a white gown adorned with vine and moss patterns for a ball, with shoulders like freshly fallen snow, a spirit as lively as a roe deer, and those pair of clear blue eyes.

Just as Turgenev had said, she was very beautiful.

"Nadya, Nadya," the general called to his daughter, "guess who I have brought? It is the author of those articles you have been mentioning to me so often lately."

Hearing her father's call, the young girl immediately jumped up from her chair, walked before Mikhail and Turgenev, and then looked at Mikhail with considerable curiosity.

"Let me introduce you; this is my daughter. Lately she has been very interested in your articles and has kept mentioning your novels to me; perhaps you two can exchange ideas."

After the general finished speaking, the young girl, whose expression was quite lively, politely nodded to Mikhail, while Mikhail smiled and bowed slightly in return.

Once the introductions were complete, the general said a word and went to receive other guests; and since there seemed to be acquaintances of Turgenev at this evening party, Turgenev, after saying a word to Mikhail, went to greet others.

As for Mikhail, he sat down for the time being, listening as the writers and critics before him discussed art in a proper manner, while chatting with the general's daughter and, incidentally, boasting a bit.

And as they spoke, naturally someone turned their gaze toward Mikhail, this hot new star recently in the St. Petersburg literary world, and then, shaking his head and swaying, said:

"Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, may I address you thus? Might I offer a few words of fairness? There are some things in your novels that I find excessively unrealistic, especially..."

Regarding such a gentleman, Mikhail merely smiled it away; aside from occasionally nodding in a perfunctory manner, he hardly listened to what the other was saying at all, and his eyes more often than not wandered uncontrollably toward the place where the food was.

For this evening party, Mikhail had hardly eaten lunch.

But now, it truly was not a good time to make a move; those gentlemen who loved to comment on art were one thing, but for some reason, Mikhail felt that the general's daughter kept glancing his way from time to time, making it difficult for Mikhail to do anything at that moment.

Hmm, although I, Mikhail, am not a noble lord, I am indeed a decent person.

Thus, sitting there for quite a while, occasionally a few well-dressed gentlemen or ladies, out of curiosity, would specifically walk up to Mikhail and chat with him for a few words.

Although they occasionally spoke a few lines of the Authentic method of French, the present-day Mikhail was no worse; they did so, so Mikhail, following local custom, also tossed in a couple of lines, followed by some rather insubstantial pleasantries.

Although he was a bit nervous, on the surface Mikhail appeared quite calm; no matter who came, he could chat a few words with them, and in the eyes of the crowd, Mikhail's social skills were undoubtedly adequate.

And there were still some others who, although also paying attention to Mikhail, did not approach to converse but instead watched from afar what Mikhail was saying, occasionally letting out a few laughs, with no one knowing exactly what was going on.

Throughout this process, Mikhail could still feel the gaze of the general's daughter, which caused him to be unable to do what he wanted to do for a long time.

Dragging on and on, from some unknown moment, Mikhail saw that Brother Turgenev had naturally begun to show off, reciting his own poetry with considerable emotion under the gaze of many.

It must be said, Brother Turgenev's poetry is well written; in his early days, he became famous in the Cultural Circle of St. Petersburg through poetry; take as an example a love poem my Brother Turgenev wrote to win the favor of a certain Young Lady: "To N. Kh."

"Above the sleeping earth,

The pale moon drifts among the clouds.

That miraculous moon,

Swings the waves from high above.

The sea of my soul,

Also takes you as its moon;

—It too, in joy and pain,

Swings for you."

Of course, my Brother Turgenev has skill; and in these times, even the famous love poem of the great Pushkin is like this: "I once loved you,

Love, perhaps,

Has not yet completely died within my soul;

May it no longer trouble you;

Nor do I wish to cause you further sorrow and sadness..."

Thus, after Turgenev finished reciting his sorrowful poem, someone in the hall immediately began to applaud.

By the way, in these times, writing poetry about nature and love is the most common and also easier to be accepted by the authorities; otherwise, passing censorship would be quite difficult.

And after Brother Turgenev finished showing off, he did not forget his good brother Mikhail; instead, taking advantage of the favorable atmosphere, he directly pulled Mikhail over, then made a solemn introduction, effectively allowing Mikhail to formally show his face before certain so-called upper-class people.

At the end of the introduction, Turgenev also chose to trust Mikhail's genius, so he said half seriously and half jokingly:

"This remarkable author told me the other day that he has also conducted some research into poetry; I would truly like to hear what it is like. Of course, if he is willing to recite his novels, I would be even more delighted."

I said I have a slight understanding, alright, a slight understanding, a slight understanding...

Since the atmosphere had been built up to this point, Mikhail could only offer a few humble words; then, under the gaze of many, he slowly began to recite in a tone that was somewhat light, somewhat romantic, and slightly bitter:

"I love you, more than nature itself,

For you are like nature itself.

I love you, more than freedom—

Without you, freedom—is merely a prison.

I love you, so carelessly,

As if loving the abyss, not the ruts."

So direct?

Turgenev, standing nearby, was slightly stunned.

And Mikhail continued:

"I love you, a bit more than possibility,

and a bit more than impossibility.

I love you tirelessly, infinitely,

even when drunk, even after being ravaged.

More than myself, to be precise,

even a bit more than pure you."

Perhaps because such light, romantic, and somewhat unusual poetry was rare in Russia nowadays, more people turned to look, and then listened with even greater focus:

"I love you, a bit more than Shakespeare,

a bit more than all the beauty in the mortal world,

even a bit more than the music of the world,

because you—you are books and music.

I love you, a bit more than honor,

a bit more than the radiance of the entire planet."

Throughout the recitation, Mikhail still felt a gaze circling around him. Although he had been avoiding that gaze, he could not let his eyes wander while reciting. Thus, when the emotional intensity of the poem reached its peak, as some people adjusted their positions, Mikhail's eyes inevitably collided with those clear blue eyes.

He recited the final stanza:

"I love you, just as I love Russia,

because the motherland—that is you.

Are you unfortunate? Are you begging for mercy?

Please do not provoke God with begging.

I love you, a bit more than happiness.

I love you, even a bit more than love."

These two chapters are quite long. I originally planned to split them, but for the sake of completeness, I'll leave them as they are.

To be honest, poetry is the thing that suffers the most loss during translation. Stripped of language, it often loses its vitality; therefore, truly feeling the beauty of many foreign poems is indeed not easy.

In short, just copy poetry occasionally. Unless it fits perfectly, keep it to a minimum. After all, if one cannot feel the charm of the work itself, no amount of praise will convince anyone.

I quite like this poem. I also feel it has no barrier to entry. Reading it a few times gives a feeling of the heart softening.

Also, to push for the New Book Rankings, the Monday chapter will likely be released at midnight. I beg all the patrons to follow and read on Monday, concentrate your monthly votes, and if you are willing to tip, please tip a bit.

There are quite a few big shots above me, plus this book's genre is a bit niche. I feel like I'm going to be suppressed by the big shots above (crying).

I still want to go further. If any patrons have monthly votes, please cast them for this book on Monday. I am truly very grateful.

I also beg you to follow and read more. Next week will be the most important week. Whether I can go further depends on next week.

I bow in gratitude to everyone.

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(End of this chapter)