Chapter 59: Reply

After returning from Krayevsky, Mikhail slightly revised his manuscript, checked it repeatedly, confirmed there were no major issues, and sent “I Love You a Little More Than Nature” along with his new novel via a messenger.

Having finished this task, Mikhail returned to his desk and stared at the general’s daughter’s letter, scratching his head, unsure how to respond.

In fact, although he had given the general’s daughter his address, Mikhail never truly expected her to write back—after all, the place he lived was one of St. Petersburg’s most notorious poor districts, a slum where merely seeing the address would let her guess his social standing.

Even if she had few aristocratic airs, the gap was still too great; Mikhail had assumed her interest would vanish upon seeing his address, yet here her letter had arrived anyway.

After receiving the letter, Mikhail did not rush to read its contents but spent a long time examining the paper’s texture and scent.

In today’s Russia, though industrialization had made some progress, the overall pace remained slow, and the paper industry was no exception—output was limited and quality uneven.

Thus, nobles used imported fine paper, often with embossed patterns or fragrances, to signify status.

Mikhail, a poor wretch, naturally used coarse, brittle paper; even this cost him a considerable sum, and writing on it required the lightest touch, or the pen would tear through.

As for using it in the latrine? Don’t ask, brother.

Returning to the matter, Mikhail was thoroughly baffled—how could he reply without buying better paper? That meant yet another expense.

Sighing, Mikhail finally opened the girl’s letter:

“Dear Mr. Mikhail Romanovich:

Greetings. I’ve spent many days organizing my scattered thoughts, and here they are—if anything is amiss, I hope you won’t laugh at me…”

After these polite remarks, the girl shared her thoughts on Mikhail’s earlier novels; to his surprise, her perspective closely mirrored that of an ordinary reader, free of the pretentious nonsense that usually made him shake his head.

Though he had already sensed the girl was kind during their last conversation, seeing it again now brought him genuine comfort.

In this age, good nobles were as rare as good officials—ninety-nine percent were nonexistent—and Mikhail was glad to correspond with someone like her.

Though the nobles Mikhail knew now all seemed decent, that was only because the circle he’d joined happened to be so; widen the map, fire a cannon, and nine out of ten would be just as bad.

After sharing her thoughts on his novels, the girl also told Mikhail a couple of recent amusing incidents.

One was that a noble young master’s stomach growled loudly while reciting poetry in public, leaving him utterly humiliated in high society.

Another was that a certain gentleman had seized a timely opportunity—he recorded Mikhail’s poem at the gathering, returned home, and recited it to his wife without mentioning Mikhail’s name.

Deeply moved, she spent a wonderful night with her husband.

But when she later learned from others that the poem was Mikhail’s, she immediately regretted it: “Oh God! I only did it because of the poem!”

Mikhail: “???

Fuck you, what do you take our poets’ poems for?

Of course, since she was still a young girl, though she felt Mikhail, as the subject, should know, she was too shy to say it plainly, so she used vague language to describe the incident.

But this didn’t prevent Mikhail from seeing the truth.

Having finished writing, the letter ended here; though she hadn’t written any polite phrase like “I look forward to your reply,” just as Mikhail was about to rejoice at saving on paper costs, he found something else inside the envelope: several sheets of blank fine paper.

It seemed to say nothing, yet somehow said everything.

Mikhail stared at the blank sheets for a long time, hesitated again and again, then finally picked up his pen to write a reply.

The day after Mikhail finished his reply, his new novel finally sat on the solemn desk of Mr. Krayevsky; for Mikhail’s submission, he was excited by the prospect of a rapid surge in magazine subscriptions, yet resolved to read the novel with the harshest possible scrutiny.

He would suppress the payment, and also make sure this young man didn’t take his novels too seriously.

Of course, after criticizing it, Krayevsky would surely offer warm encouragement to the young man.

With this mindset, Krayevsky began reading.

Eager to criticize the novel, Krayevsky even forgot to check its title and went straight to the text:

“Officer Ochumelov, wearing a brand-new military overcoat and clutching a small bag, walked across the marketplace square. A red-haired policeman strode behind him, carrying a sieve full of confiscated currants. The square was utterly silent, not a soul in sight…”

A patrolman—St. Petersburg saw plenty of these now; some served the Tsar directly on heavy-handed missions, others maintained daily public order. Krayevsky, though he disliked trouble, had dealt with such men before.

Undoubtedly, this novel would add a new character to contemporary Russian literature.

Though astonished by the young man’s creativity, Krayevsky still held to his intent to criticize—but he continued reading:

“You bit someone? You damned thing?” Ochumelov suddenly heard shouting. “Guys, don’t let it get away! It’s biting now? That won’t do! Catch it! Oh! Oh!”

(End of Chapter)