Chapter 83: On Love

Regarding love, people from different countries always have different understandings, and sometimes, the concept of love in certain places may seem utterly baffling to those from elsewhere.

Marquez’s “Love in the Time of Cholera” is a fairly typical example; if you distill it simply, it’s about a wealthy young lady and a poor boy who couldn’t be together in their youth, after which the wealthy girl married a doctor, and many years later, when the doctor died, the wealthy girl and the poor boy became an old couple.

Then, after years of struggle, the poor boy actually became rich—but during this process, he slept with countless women and kept many mistresses; after the doctor’s death, he reappeared before the wealthy girl and declared his unwavering love.

In the end, they did indeed come together, and on a boat, they shared a clumsy act of love.

It sounds abstract, but it undoubtedly reflects, to some extent, the unique conception of love in Latin America.

By the way, any masterpiece viewed only through its plot summary is inevitably abstract, because such works often describe unique or even extreme experiences, and it is precisely within this uniqueness and extremity that the deeper complexities of human nature across East and West emerge.

As for the book “Love in the Time of Cholera,” Mikhail still remembers its opening vividly:

“The inevitable smell of bitter almonds always reminded him of fate after love had been thwarted.”

As for Russia, to be honest, it often feels even more abstract—perhaps because extreme emotional experiences arise from extreme environments; in the works of many Russian writers, love is always swift and hopeless.

Like the selfless love in Dostoevsky’s “Poor Folk” and “White Nights,” the unwavering devotion of the female protagonist in “Crime and Punishment,” or as in Pasternak’s letter to Tsvetaeva:

“You are my absolute, you are from head to toe a fiery, embodied idea, just as I am—you are an unbelievable reward for my birth, my wandering, my faith in God, and my humiliation.”

Saying all this is essentially Mikhail’s speculation about the General’s daughter’s behavior; otherwise, how could someone who had merely met once and exchanged a few letters suddenly offer sponsorship and active assistance?

Of course, there might be other reasons; though somewhat surprising, given the situation, Mikhail thought of the two or three thousand rubles he might save, and naturally agreed—but since it was a salon and gathering, he might as well bring along Turgenev and Dostoevsky, since they both enjoyed such occasions.

But their motives were far from as pure as Mikhail’s: one wanted to boast and network with powerful people, the other wanted to show off and network with powerful people—these two fellows.

Moreover, Mikhail has now been gradually repaying his debts; Turgenev’s clothing costs have been settled in another way, but Mikhail still carefully kept that well-tailored suit, waiting to wear it again at similar events.

So after sending the reply, Mikhail quickly notified Turgenev and Dostoevsky of the time and place mentioned in the letter.

Turgenev agreed very readily—he’s usually reliable—but he’s often careless, and even things he’s been repeatedly told about he forgets; it’s best to arrest him on the spot and watch him do the work.

Belinsky is currently doing exactly that; regarding the new magazine, Belinsky claims to care even more than Mikhail and his group: he’s rushing to handle the manuscripts he has and pressing his friends to submit new pieces.

This is clear from his letter to Herzen in Moscow:

"Our takeover of the 'Modern Person' magazine is about to launch; Dostoevsky has promised a novella, Turgenev a novella and a long poem. I hope to get a poem from Maikov. Now I’m coming to you: submit a novella, or I’ll kill you!"

Due to the urgency, Turgenev has been nagged until his head aches, so he’s had to speed up his progress.

As for Dostoevsky, who’s currently in the spotlight, though he’s very interested in salons and gatherings, before agreeing, he asked cautiously: “So, Mikhail, there won’t be any card games, will there? You know I’ve never had much interest in gambling.”

The reason, of course, is that Mikhail wants to prevent Dostoevsky from showing off too much and drawing dislike, and also to help him quit gambling; so lately, whenever there’s a gathering, Mikhail always drags Dostoevsky into a few rounds.

As for the results…

As Dostoevsky wrote in his letter:

“Good God! Why does Mikhail always play cards? And can anyone actually beat him? In my view, even the devil couldn’t! He seems to remember every card—he knows your hand better than you do!”

We played for small stakes, just as a pastime, but as we played, I realized we had become Mikhail’s entertainment!

Why does such a saintly man love cards so much? I never want to play with him again, brother—I’m telling you honestly, now when I see this game, my head hurts; I won’t play anymore…

No, I won’t play with him anymore.”

Of course, Mikhail didn’t know about this letter; so when he heard Dostoevsky say such things, he smiled with satisfaction: good, good, my training—no, my desensitization plan—is finally having some effect.

In his delight, Mikhail shook his head and said:

“Don’t worry, there won’t be any card games. We’re going there to exchange ideas on literature and art.”

“Good.”

Hearing this, the young Dostoevsky remained somewhat skeptical, but ultimately agreed.

Soon, when the time came, Mikhail and his group set off toward the destination, each with their own motives.

Meanwhile, as Mikhail’s group walked along, on the other side, just as before, the young girl Nadya, dressed in a white gown adorned with vine and moss patterns, was now spraying herself with a delicate French-imported perfume.

Her companion Polina stood beside her, repeatedly asking the same question:

“Dear Nadya, will the poet really come today? I adore his poetry—I wonder if I’ll have the chance to hear him recite it himself. Will he really come?”

Listening to her friend’s endless inquiries, Nadya, somewhat nervous, felt a subtle emotion within.

To avoid unnecessary complications, the salon she invited Mikhail to was merely an ordinary one; in such settings, a brief conversation between them was perfectly normal.

But due to the circle she moved in, the aristocratic youths at her salons were numerous; some of their status were such that even her General father would set aside his usual sternness and kindly inquire after their recent affairs.

Originally, the salon was held merely out of literary interest, but when others learned she might invite Mikhail, their reactions became enthusiastic—they asked her repeatedly:

“Will he really come? I’ve never seen him at such gatherings before.”

“His poetry is so moving, his novels too—I’ve always felt deep sympathy for his characters.”

“Is it really him? That noble poet who rarely shows his face?”

Because their ideas were somewhat aligned, Nadya’s friends held similar views of Mikhail’s novels; the more they paid attention, the stronger their curiosity about him became.

But until now, even the most famous salons in St. Petersburg, hosted by the most renowned figures, had rarely seen this gentleman—yet now he was willing to come to their salon upon her invitation?

This gave the aristocratic young men and women at the salon a certain sense of honor.

They clustered around Nadya for a long time, asking many questions.

But most of their questions were about Mikhail’s poetry, novels, and his upcoming creative plans; for Nadya, she preferred to talk about Mikhail’s personality and his daily habits.

The former was the occasion, but that was love for literature—it shouldn’t be transferred to the person; the latter was the real reason Nadya enjoyed corresponding with him and felt happy.

Nadya had met more than enough writers and poets who spoke only of lofty ideals, philosophy, or art.

Just as Nadya was answering her friend’s questions, a group quietly entered the salon; when others noticed and turned to look, they didn’t need introductions—they immediately fixed their gaze on the quiet young man with dark eyes, and unconsciously whispered his name in their minds.

“Mikhail.”

Nadya called out, then hurried forward, lifting her skirt, and before Mikhail, she looked him straight in the eye and greeted: “It’s been so long—how are you?”

“I’m well.”

Feeling the young girl’s open and joyful gaze, Mikhail, as Xiao Chunan, nearly broke composure and almost stepped back—but finally, he smiled and greeted:

“And you?”

“I’m well too, though there are some things worth telling you—I forgot to write them in my letters.”

She smiled brightly, and didn’t forget Turgenev and Dostoevsky beside her; after greeting them and introducing Mikhail to the others, she found a chance to speak privately with Mikhail.

Watching this scene, Turgenev, whose illness had not yet flared up, sighed to Dostoevsky: “Ah! I once was like Mikhail! But now I’m not far off either.”

Dostoevsky, who still held a very favorable impression of Turgenev, replied: “I’ve recently encountered something similar, but nothing as composed as dear Mikhail—just as Belinsky said, Mikhail has many qualities worth learning from.”

(End of Chapter)