Chapter 53: Pride and Prejudice (Requesting Monthly Tickets!)

Without exaggeration, poetry is both the mother body from which literature was born and the highest crystallization of literary spirit; nearly all of humanity’s earliest written literature appeared in poetic form.

Poetry is also undoubtedly the original form of linguistic art, and it plays a tremendous role in establishing national language and national spirit—just as our great Pushkin gradually forged the norms of the Russian language through poetry, revealing its beauty to countless others, thereby becoming the eternal sun of Russian literary history.

Interestingly, Pushkin learned French before Russian, and throughout his life, French remained his language of social interaction, a reflection of the fashion among Russian nobility at the time.

Due to cultural inferiority, many Russian nobles revered French and mocked those who spoke only Russian as country bumpkins; once Russian culture gradually improved, a wave of Slavophile patriots emerged to condemn this habit of speaking French, then began to belittle the culture and language of France and other nations.

One can only say such things are nothing new, and many similar episodes will appear in the coming eras.

It’s so clichéd it’s disappointing.

By the way, there are many jokes about language; a classic one is from the sixteenth century, when Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire quipped: “I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to my horse.”

In short, even if later generations have degraded poetry into something increasingly foul, in this era, poetry remains the crown of literature, and a poet often receives more praise than a novelist.

This poem, “I Love You More Than Nature,” is from the Soviet era; its language is unquestionably superb, fully exploiting the unique strengths of the Russian language, and its light, bright, yet slightly bitter tone brings a refreshing sensation to an era still steeped in Romantic elegies.

Some think more deeply—like Turgenev, standing beside Mikhail, who, after listening, first stared blankly, then examined Mikhail’s entire body with astonished eyes, as if trying to peel open his skin to see what lay inside.

After staring for a long time, Turgenev finally struggled to speak: “Mikhail, are you the Muse’s lover? Otherwise, why would she favor you so? This is the best poem I’ve heard this year—even the poems written by the great poets of St. Petersburg this year may not surpass yours.”

“Not bad, not bad.” Mikhail waved his hand modestly, then smiled faintly.

In Turgenev’s eyes, this air of effortless grace was simply stunning.

Turgenev: “.”

Perhaps in this regard, I should learn from dear Mikhail.

Many others present may not have thought as deeply as Turgenev, but for them, the poem’s content alone was enough to offer an uncommon experience and move them deeply.

Thus, after Mikhail finished reciting, the room fell into a brief silence; nearly everyone stared at the young poet, as if waiting for him to say something.

But Mikhail said nothing—only smiled faintly, then bowed slightly to all present; when he straightened up again, a louder round of applause erupted:

“Chapeau! What a beautiful poem!”

“A handsome young man and his even more beautiful poem—who is he? I’ve never seen him at any gathering before.”

“I haven’t heard such a poem in ages. Good Lord, some poets’ verses put me to sleep—nothing is more hypnotic than their poetry, though it does tend to bring nightmares.”

“Well written, but I think it’s a bit too direct, and it elevates his beloved too high—who could rival Shakespeare? How can one compare love for one’s homeland with that?”

“I”

Some may truly have liked the poem, but others probably clapped loudly just because everyone else was—afraid of appearing uncultured if they didn’t clap louder than the rest.

But no matter the reason, Mikhail was undeniably the center of attention at this evening’s gathering; soon, one gentleman and lady after another gathered around him, eager to speak with him.

Some were genuinely interested in art, and Mikhail could offer them decent replies; occasionally, he slipped in a perfectly natural French phrase, causing the St. Petersburg gentlemen to nod repeatedly and acknowledge Mikhail as a true artist.

But Budebushuo , the authentic St. Petersburg gentlemen were still quite pragmatic; most were more interested in Mikhail’s family background. Mikhail saw no need to conceal anything and answered honestly.

After his reply, the crowd of gentlemen and ladies surrounding him thinned considerably; yet even so, dealing with the remaining few left Mikhail thoroughly exhausted.

When he finally had a moment to catch his breath, Mikhail no longer cared about that faint, lingering gaze—he hurriedly searched for tea and snacks or anything edible; if he didn’t eat something soon, his stomach would growl loudly, and that would truly be a disgrace at the party.

After a quick scan, Mikhail—who had already identified his target earlier—quickly walked toward the place he desired.

Seeing Mikhail’s actions, a certain young lady who had been observing him since the beginning furrowed her brow in confusion.

As the daughter of a general with considerable influence in St. Petersburg, countless suitors flocked around her; over time, she had grown accustomed to it, and many of those who courted her, she couldn’t even remember by face.

But today, her deliberate attention toward one man was so obvious that everyone near her noticed; yet the young man, seemingly new to high society, remained unmoved—aside from chatting with those who approached him, he never initiated conversation, and his eyes kept drifting toward a direction that puzzled her.

Though this young lady was not one to make the first move, and she responded to all suitors out of upbringing and social etiquette, the memory of his poem and his deep black eyes made her heart beat just a little faster.

After hesitating a moment longer, she finally made up her mind, politely excused herself from those beside her, rose, lifted her skirt slightly, and fluttered away like a bird.

As for Mikhail, he was now lost in his own world.

Good, good, this looks delicious.

This one looks tasty too.

Hmm, that one looks quite good as well.

This one, the most ornate, smells delicious.

Would it be impolite if I ate all of it?

Just as Mikhail was pondering these questions, a slender, pale finger suddenly appeared on his shoulder and lightly touched him, like a dragonfly skimming water.

Mikhail’s body stiffened slightly; he quickly swallowed what was in his mouth, adjusted himself, then turned his head.

(End of Chapter)