Chapter 76: The Wretched and Poetry

As the final days passed, the young man Andrei still had not received a definite reply from the editorial office of "Motherland Chronicle," but fortunately, the publication date of "St. Petersburg Collection" arrived as scheduled.

Thus, on the morning of its release, despite his relatively stable financial situation, Andrei left home early, braving the cold morning wind of St. Petersburg to reach the bookstore he had long yearned for.

Although he had anticipated the long queues on release day, the sheer crowd at the bookstore entrance still took him by surprise.

It was clear some had not slept at all—likely having attended balls or banquets late into the night, then simply stayed awake, arriving still reeking of alcohol.

Such a scene was rare even during the release of the latest issue of "Motherland Chronicle"; those who came to buy the volume each had their own motives, for the collection featured many renowned writers and poets.

Yet Andrei was certain most of them would fix their gaze on one particular author’s work.

Beyond these buyers, some police officers tasked with maintaining order—or pursuing other agendas—were already strolling nearby, yawning.

Lately, several officers had suffered terribly, constantly being called “Ochumelov” by young people. If ordinary folks said it, these officers would have made them feel the full force of Russian law enforcement.

But most of those who said it came from families with some influence—making the situation excruciating.

While this behavior had its justification—some officers truly were like that—Andrei believed "The Chameleon" targeted all people with such vulgar tendencies, not merely the police.

With this thought in mind, as daylight grew brighter and the atmosphere more electric, Andrei, somewhat accustomed to such scenes, fought through the crowd and finally secured a thick volume.

It was not cheap—three rubles per copy—and rumors spoke of even more expensive collector’s editions, but Andrei cared little; securing it at this price already satisfied him.

Though expensive, considering the volume’s thickness, the Yunji of renowned authors within, and the fact that every piece was entirely new to him, it suddenly seemed worth every ruble.

After obtaining the thick volume, Andrei hurried to find a suitable spot and swiftly flipped through the table of contents; when he finally saw the familiar name, his heart leapt—then froze at the title: "The Wretched."

Stunned for a moment, though the title struck him like an assault, he kept reading:

"Recently, I summoned my children’s governess, Yuliya Vasilievna, to my study to settle accounts."

"Please sit, Yuliya Vasilievna!" I said to her. "Let us settle up. You surely need money, but you’re too proper to ask… Very well, Miss, I previously agreed on a monthly salary of thirty rubles…"

"Forty…"

"No, thirty… I have it written down… I’ve always paid governesses thirty rubles… Very well, Miss, you’ve been here two months…"

"Two months and five days…"

"No, exactly two months… I have it written down. So I owe you sixty rubles… deduct nine Sundays… you never taught Kolya on Sundays, only rested… plus three holidays…"

At this point, Andrei understood: this was an employer exploiting a young woman, who, faced with the employer’s dishonesty, merely:

"Blushed, tugged at the frayed edges of her dress, yet… said nothing."

"Add three holidays—so deduct twelve rubles… Kolya was sick for four days, no lessons… you only taught Valya… you had toothache for three days, my wife allowed you to rest in the afternoon… twelve plus seven equals nineteen. After deductions, you have… hmm, forty-one rubles. Correct?"

Even so, the exploitation was not over:

"On New Year’s Eve, you broke a teacup and a saucer. Deduct two rubles… the cup was precious, an heirloom, but… never mind, God bless you! Who can avoid losses entirely?"

"Later, Miss, because of your negligence, Kolya climbed a tree and tore his coat—deduct ten rubles… a maid, due to your negligence, stole Valya’s leather shoes. You must watch over everything. You are paid—so deduct five more rubles… On January tenth, you took ten rubles from me…"

"I didn’t take it!" Yuliya Vasilievna whispered.

"But I have it written down!"

"Oh, then… very well."

"Forty-one minus twenty-six—leaves fourteen…"

"I only took it once…" she said in a trembling voice. "I took three rubles from your wife… I’ve taken nothing else…"

"Is that so? Look, I didn’t record that! Fourteen minus three—leaves eleven… Very well, here’s your money, darling! Here: three rubles, three rubles, three rubles, one ruble, one ruble. Take it, Miss!"

Faced with this cruel, unbearable deduction—even Andrei clenched his fists in rage—what was the young woman’s reaction?

She merely:

"Took the money, her fingers trembling as she stuffed the bills into her pocket."

"Merci," she whispered.

Why did she still thank him after all this?!

Before Andrei, burning with anger, could speak, the story delivered a shocking twist: the exploiter himself now felt the same rage as Andrei:

"I leapt up and began pacing the room, furious beyond measure."

"Why did you say 'Merci'?" I asked.

"You paid me…"

"But I cheated you! Damn it, I stole from you! I embezzled your money! Why still say 'Merci'?"

Andrei stared again and again at this dialogue—how were these words exactly what he himself wanted to say?!

In response to the employer’s question, the woman said:

"Elsewhere, they don’t pay me at all…"

"Not pay you? No surprise! Just now, I was joking—I gave you a cruel lesson… Here, your full eighty rubles! All in an envelope! But can a person be this weak? Why didn’t you protest? Why say nothing? In this world, shouldn’t one fight back? Can a person be this wretched?"

She smiled bitterly, but I saw clearly in her expression: "Yes, one can."

I begged her forgiveness, gave her all eighty rubles, astonishing her. She timidly whispered "Merci" and left… I watched her back and thought: in this world, being strong is so easy!

Seeing this astonishing ending, Andrei, who had been seething with anger, now stood silent as if struck by a sledgehammer. When the dizziness passed, his face flushed again involuntarily.

Though he might never face the young woman’s plight, had he never encountered such things himself? At Krayevsky’s, among those gentlemen, hadn’t he been just as wretched—daring not utter a single extra word, only listening?

Thinking of this, Andrei longed to seize the author of this story, grip his hand tightly, and ask him: "What else can one do?"

But perhaps no question was needed—he had already written down exactly what he wanted to say, and how one ought to respond.

While the young man Andrei was alternately stirred and sunk by this story, in another part of St. Petersburg, a young woman who had deliberately risen early now gazed sleepily out the window at the dim morning, suppressing her drowsiness as she waited for her servant to return with the book she longed to read.

In this still-dark morning, her thoughts drifted as she soon recalled her recent correspondence with the writer and poet.

Perhaps such a thing would never have happened, but perhaps that night had been too dazzling, or the moon too extraordinary, or perhaps he had left an unusually deep impression—whatever the reason, correspondence had begun.

At first, she thought it wouldn’t last long, yet for some reason, everything he said held a strange allure for her—especially his cheerful outlook on life, hidden beneath humorous, casual narration, and his irresistible compassion for others, which gave her a profoundly different feeling.

Precisely because of this unspoken fondness, she had proactively inquired about him from others, and after learning what she could, she wished to help him during his hardship.

Unfortunately, her father was still in his prime; she would need years before inheriting a substantial fortune, so she could not yet afford to give much.

Yet if he asked, she would surely give more—yet he not only refused to ask, but even declined at first; fortunately, he eventually accepted.

From others, the young woman had learned Mikhail’s situation: his living conditions were poor, and to improve them, he not only worked desperately on manuscripts but had also made a reckless gamble—risking all his possessions and massive debt to publish a collection.

Though she had never experienced debt, she understood Mikhail’s circumstances and the risks he faced; precisely because of this inexplicable concern for him, she had suddenly done something seemingly absurd.

Yet when Nadya inquired among cultural circles, most regarded this promising new star’s investment as bizarre, almost insane—how could he act so recklessly?

But from her correspondence with Mikhail, Nadya sensed nothing amiss; instead, she unconsciously caught his infectious optimism.

So was he well—or not? What did he think of his own actions?

These questions still lingered in her mind, yet before asking, she desperately wanted to see the new poem he had promised her.

Though his poetry was excellent, Mikhail rarely wrote; besides that one poem, she could find no other—unthinkable among Petersburg poets.

But now, at last, she would see more.

The young woman remained lost in thought for a long while; when she finally returned to herself, daylight had brightened, and her servant had returned with the thick volume.

Clearly, acquiring the collection had been arduous—the servant looked exhausted, as if he had fought a brutal battle.

Was it this hard to buy? she wondered—did that mean his investment had succeeded?

Would repaying his debts no longer be a problem?

Thinking of this, her spirits lifted instantly; she carried the thick volume outside into the bright light, seeking the perfect spot to read.

Once ready, she moved without hesitation, straight to her goal—resisting even the urge to read the stories first, she turned directly to the poetry.

And so Mikhail’s new poem appeared before her:

"I came into this world to see the sun,

And the blue fields.

I came into this world to see the sun,

And the rolling hills.

I came into this world to see the sea,

And the valleys blooming with flowers."

These few lines instantly plunged her into a sense of grandeur and splendor, within which faintly lingered the shadow of a person:

"I conquered the cold, silent glaciers,

I forged my own ideal.

I am filled with revelation at every moment,

I sing at every moment.

My ideal is born of suffering,

Therefore loved by all.

Who can rival my song?

No one, no one rivals it.

I came into this world to see the sun,

And when the light fades,

I shall still sing… I shall sing of the sun

Until my final hour!"

Ten thousand words offered, please vote for monthly tickets—double votes at month’s start, thank you all!

Special thanks to "Fengyu Men," "Mao Tan," "Xifang Ba Yi," "Montpellier Ren," "Iakos," and "Shiqi de Daoxiaomian" for their support—thank you so much!

Tired, will fight again after sleeping (collapsed)

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(End of Chapter)