Chapter 8: Russia

Regarding Vissarion Grigoryevich Belinsky, officially speaking, he was the pioneer of the civilian intellectual who completely replaced the aristocracy and the pioneer of Russian social democracy.

Abstractly speaking, Belinsky was the man who truly ushered in Russia’s literary “Great Key Politics” era.

After him, if as an intellectual you dare not key politics, what kind of intellectual are you even?

He profoundly shaped the literary climate of Russia and exerted an immense influence on countless individuals, earning him the undisputed title of Russia’s literary white moonlight.

We’ll speak more of that later; for now, even though he was already acquainted with Belinsky, Nikolayev still approached the meeting with the reverence of a pilgrim.

For Nikolayev, Belinsky was unquestionably his idol—and the literary idol of many young people today.

After all, under Tsar Nicholas I’s repressive policies, society was a stagnant, dark pool, and literature became the sole medium for slightly free discussion of social issues.

Literary criticism, especially politically charged literary criticism, was undoubtedly the most potent form for expressing philosophical and political ideas.

Belinsky used literary criticism to passionately debate every social and ideological issue, wielding his unwavering courage and fervent determination to smash all barriers in a forceful critique of Russia’s drowsy, complacent reality.

Through literary criticism, he attacked the Tsar’s rule and the backward serfdom system, mocked literary cliques, court writers, bureaucrats, and the narrow-minded poets who sang of fleeting beauty; this fresh perspective on the world and life, combined with his unique expression, acted like a sobering agent, jolting Russia’s drowsy intellectual sphere awake.

From the 25th of each month, the youth of St. Petersburg and Moscow eagerly awaited his articles; students repeatedly rushed into cafés to ask if “The Fatherland Notes” had arrived, and the moment the magazine appeared, they scrambled to read it.

Upon finding his article, they would “read it through in one breath, filled with passionate sympathy, laughing as they read, arguing as they read…”

Nikolayev had once been one of those students; now, through his own efforts, he had successfully met his idol and was jointly advancing the birth of Russia’s new literary movement.

Merely thinking of this sent waves of excitement through Nikolayev—and the two manuscripts in his hands clearly signaled that the leader of this new literary tide had already emerged!

As he pondered these thoughts, Nikolayev entered Belinsky’s apartment; after the maid announced him, he soon saw Belinsky, deep in thought at a desk piled high with books and papers.

Though revered as a critic in today’s Russian literary scene, Belinsky had always been financially strained.

His fees were not insignificant, but far from generous; moreover, he rarely accepted aid from his noble friends, so even now his residence remained humble—noticeably better than Mikhail’s room, yet not by much.

Due to his frail health and years of relentless overwork, the man before him was thin and haggard, even unkempt; yet his eyes burned with unusual brightness, brimming with passion and an indescribable drive.

“Dear Vissarion Grigoryevich, perhaps you should rest. Did you stay up all night again? Why haven’t you changed your clothes?” Seeing Belinsky’s state, Nikolayev’s earlier excitement cooled instantly, and he offered a worried suggestion:

“You can’t keep this schedule.”

“But our cause has only just begun to advance—there’s still much to do; a little less sleep isn’t important.” He waved his hand, and those eyes glowing with intensity suddenly fixed on what Nikolayev held:

“What have you brought me? The maid said it was something urgent.”

“A new Gogol,” Nikolayev said, taking a deep breath and finally letting his emotion break free: “Unfortunately, I spoke with him only briefly and can’t clearly judge his current leanings—but his work speaks for itself. This is a masterpiece deeply rooted in the flesh and blood of the Russian people, and it will surely become a landmark work for our next endeavor!”

“What? Really?” Belinsky, looking worn, froze for a moment, then suddenly rose; his gaunt face lit up as if illuminated. He hurried forward, saying quickly:

“Give them to me, Nikolay! You know, literary criticism must rest on truly outstanding works—otherwise I can’t convince myself, nor my readers, let alone those stubborn old fools!”

“Take them! I’m certain you’ll be astonished.”

After handing the manuscripts to the visibly excited Belinsky, Nikolayev did not move; instead, he sat quietly in a corner, waiting for Belinsky’s reaction after reading the two stories.

Soon the maid brought tea, and Belinsky began reading the first of the two stories with intense focus: “Sorrow.”

“To whom shall I tell my grief?

Dusk was dark. Large, wet snowflakes drifted lazily around the newly lit streetlamps, settling on rooftops, horsebacks, shoulders, hats, forming a soft, thin layer. The driver Yona Potapov was covered in snow, white as a ghost.

He sat motionless on his driver’s seat, hunched forward to the absolute limit a living man could bend. Even if a snowdrift collapsed upon him, he would still think it unnecessary to shake off the snow…

His small horse was white too, and motionless as well.”

In just a few strokes, the image of a solitary winter coachman was sketched, instantly recalling to Belinsky the gaunt coachmen he had seen in St. Petersburg winters.

So what was this story about?

A coachman waiting for passengers, suffering through a winter night?

That wouldn’t be particularly new—after all, Pushkin and Gogol had already given brilliant portrayals of such scenes.

Perhaps he could write it well enough, but not enough to merit Nikolayev’s lofty praise.

Though he thought this, Belinsky, who never rushed to final judgment, continued reading.

(End of chapter)