Chapter 55: There Is Always a Moon That Belongs Solely to You

After Mikhail gave that answer, the young lady paused slightly, but quickly recovered. After all, though young, she held a position at court—Nadezhda was no fool. After a moment’s thought, she saw not only Mikhail’s humility but also understood his concerns.

Though those novels stirred sympathy in Nadezhda’s eyes and served as a good reminder for some, many others likely felt otherwise.

Some, having immersed themselves too long in fantasy worlds, found even gentle voices abrasive, let alone anything else.

Realizing this, the girl assured Mikhail: “I was too hasty in my thinking. Don’t worry—I won’t do that again. And if one day I hear others speak ill of your novels, I’ll speak up for you. I understand fully: you wrote those novels because you have a noble heart.”

“Otherwise, in today’s Russia, how many would dare voice such things?”

Hearing Nadezhda’s words, Mikhail immediately felt even more fondness for the girl.

Good, good, good—I’ve got someone in the court now?

Otherwise, Mikhail really considered writing a story titled: “Your Excellency! I am a very good citizen!” to counterbalance his previous reputation.

Cough, cough.

One point must be mentioned: for a long time, history was predominantly men’s history. But with the passage of time, especially after the Enlightenment, many well-educated, affluent women in Europe increasingly became vital forces driving social progress.

This was most evident in our revolutionary homeland, France.

As Mona Ozouf wrote in *Women’s Discourse*: “Whether in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, all foreign travelers to France were astonished by the role played by French women. In an age when women were largely isolated, French women appeared far more frequently across social spheres than their counterparts elsewhere in Europe, wielding extraordinary social authority and status.”

Russian women, of course, did not wield such influence—but once a person received a good education and fully absorbed the era’s loudest cries of “liberty, equality, fraternity,” a person of conscience could hardly remain indifferent.

Of course, there were still staunch feudal warriors—like Turgenev’s mother…

Now it seemed the general’s daughter belonged to the former group.

After swiftly saying these words, Nadezhda and Mikhail were soon guided by servants to their seats for dinner.

Though Mikhail had just become the center of attention and could have seized the moment to perform further, he considered his circumstances and deliberately chose a secluded spot, then began eating without drawing notice.

Mikhail’s movements were refined enough that onlookers saw nothing unusual at first glance—but if watched closely, one would notice he never paused…

To Turgenev, Mikhail’s calm composure clearly meant he treated what had just happened as insignificant.

You were like that just now, and now you’re still so indifferent? Mikhail, you bastard…

Seeing Mikhail’s demeanor, Turgenev lost much of his urge to boast. Instead, he tried to imitate Mikhail’s stoicism, occasionally flashing a refined smile.

But compared to Turgenev, Nadezhda observed far more carefully. After watching for some time, she reached this conclusion: hmm, he has an excellent appetite.

Upon realizing this, the girl nodded unconsciously.

This was certainly a good thing. A good appetite meant a healthy body; a healthy body could better withstand Russia’s harsh climate and recurring illnesses.

In this era, even noble children had a shockingly high mortality rate.

Indeed, perhaps because he had eaten so much, Mikhail’s health had improved considerably. His once sunken cheeks had filled out, and he now wrote with renewed vigor.

This was certainly a good thing. Throughout history, those who accomplished great things were almost always energetic. Ordinary people, if subjected to the same workload, would likely drop dead.

After finishing dinner, guests at the soirée began to depart one by one. Mikhail was much the same—if he returned too late, he’d find no carriage on the streets.

But before he left, besides the general’s daughter wanting to speak with him again, several well-dressed gentlemen, seeing Mikhail depart, finally dropped their reserve and hurried over with servants holding paper and ink.

“Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, could you recite your poem once more? We wish to transcribe it and share it with more people. Would you permit this?”

“Of course.” Mikhail nodded in agreement and recited the poem again.

The servants with paper and ink took notes; many guests, drawn by interest, gathered around Mikhail to hear the poem once more.

The girl whose hair seemed woven from sunlight stared unblinkingly at Mikhail as he recited.

When he finished, she awoke from her reverie, stepped forward lightly, and prepared to see Mikhail off.

Because of Mikhail, the area around the general’s parlor had grown crowded, so Nadezhda struggled to reach him. She smiled and nodded to him—he understood her intent.

Together, they stepped out of the crowd, crossed the opulent, heavy corridor, and walked toward the gate symbolizing the night’s end.

Turgenev did not accompany Mikhail—first, their paths diverged; second, Turgenev considered himself a man of tact, and knew better than to intrude at such a moment.

When Mikhail stepped out of the general’s mansion, the world fell silent. The glittering people and objects before him dissolved into the quiet night of St. Petersburg, and Mikhail’s heart instantly opened.

“You don’t like these soirées?” the girl beside him asked.

“I don’t dislike them,” Mikhail shook his head. “But I prefer being with people I know.”

“Will you come to such soirées again?”

“Of course.”

Mikhail, who was slightly bloated and nearly burping, forced himself to hold it in and smiled as he nodded.

“Then I look forward to our next meeting.” After bowing slightly to Mikhail, the young lady waited a moment. Seeing he offered only a nod and smile, the noblewoman seriously considered for a while, then finally spoke just before he sought a carriage:

“May I write to you? I have many thoughts about your novels I wish to share. Since we have no time now, may we continue our conversation in letters?”

“It would be my honor.”

After politely accepting, Mikhail walked toward the carriage. The noblewoman did not leave. She watched as he, with a slightly heavy step, climbed into the carriage, gave her a courteous nod, and slowly vanished into the night.

Tonight’s moon seemed somehow special, she thought.

(End of chapter)