I am a literary giant in Russia

Chapter 126: A Stunning Ending and the Use of White Space
As Turgenev, with a somewhat apprehensive heart, was about to step through that door, he didn't notice that before that, some young people who weren't familiar with him had already gathered together and were discussing things about him.

"Who is that person? I've never seen him before, but he's quite good-looking."

"I haven't met him, but there are just too many people who want to meet Mr. Hugo, so it's normal not to know him."

"Don't tell me it's some competitor again."

"I know that, so don't worry. This gentleman is a true Russian, but lately he's been very enthusiastic about Parisian social activities. I've seen him on many occasions, and I must say, he's a very likeable fellow. But he's just a Russian poet and writer; to achieve anything in Parisian cultural circles, I can only say that's almost impossible."

They certainly can't compete with us.

"I also met this gentleman once, and he gave me a brief introduction to Russian literature."

"Russian literature? Does Russia even have literature?"

"I heard there are several good writers mentioned, but there's one writer he mentioned a lot, though I've forgotten his name."

The discussion didn't last long. When they learned that the person was a Russian poet and writer, the crowd lost interest. After all, they weren't from the same country, so they couldn't compete with each other.

In this day and age, with the innovation of various technologies, even though it is not so inconvenient for countries to communicate, people will still focus most of their attention on their own affairs. Moreover, Russia is farther away than other European countries and is more barbaric than most European countries. Therefore, strictly speaking, the French are not very interested in Russian culture.

In short, since they are not potential competitors, there is no need to take them too seriously.

When the door finally opened, everyone filed in. Despite their excitement, most of them maintained a degree of restraint. In addition to these young people, there were also some gentlemen who already had a considerable reputation in the French literary world.

Turgenev followed the others up the stairs, briefly admiring the oil paintings on the wall. As the others grew quieter, Turgenev, with his tall stature, immediately spotted a similarly tall and well-dressed middle-aged man sitting thoughtfully in a chair.

He had a broad forehead, deep-set eyes, and a straight nose. These dignified features, combined with his well-groomed, thick beard, made him look even more imposing and gave him a scholarly air.

It must be said that if a great person is also accompanied by a great face, then perhaps without him saying anything, believers will naturally elevate him to a divine status.

Upon seeing the face of this great French writer, Turgenev couldn't help but wonder what Mikhail would look like in middle age.

To be honest, given Mikhail's somewhat cheerful personality, Turgenev couldn't quite imagine him being serious. However, if it were Mikhail, even if he did become an authority figure, he wouldn't seem unapproachable.

Just as Turgenev was lost in thought, the people who entered began to greet the great writer one by one. Turgenev was among them, but he did not cause any ripples. In fact, Turgenev was not quite sure whether the great writer had even glanced at him.

Given his current situation, and after reflecting on his own treatment within Russian literary circles, the young Turgenev was suddenly overcome with a sense of melancholy, reminiscent of the line from the poem: "At twenty-six, in the Paris Salon, standing like a lackey."
Fortunately, he had a good attitude and excellent social skills. Even though he couldn't directly approach the great writer because there were too many enthusiastic people surrounding him, he was quite good at chatting with the other people present.

Before long, Turgenev, who had excellent social skills, was already having pleasant conversations with several young people.

At this moment, the solemn literary giant did not seem to have truly entered the zone yet, so the atmosphere in the salon was relatively relaxed. Some people surrounded him, while others, not wanting to go over, started chatting amongst themselves.

During the conversation, Turgenev and the young man next to him inevitably talked about their identities and what they were doing. Some were showing off their status, while others were trying to show that they had already achieved a certain position in the literary world. They came here not only to meet the great writer that no one could ignore, but also to take a further step on the path of literature.

After Turgenev introduced himself, although the others didn't say much, they clearly didn't take the work he was about to present very seriously, until Turgenev said the following:

"I have brought a novel, written by our esteemed Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, who even wrote it in French."

"and many more."

A young man with a strange expression couldn't help but interrupt Turgenev's conversation: "You mean, a Russian wrote a novel in French and then wanted to get it into the French literary scene?"

As he said these words, the young man felt a little dizzy. No, is this right?

"Did he live in France for a long time?" someone chimed in. "Or is he French, but grew up in Russia?"

“No,” Turgenev replied with absolute certainty. “He is a true Russian. As for France, he has never been there, but he knows French literature quite well and speaks fluent French.”

A genuine Russian writing a genuine French novel?

Even if his French is good, can it compare to those who speak the native language?

Moreover, in the field of literature, the requirements for language are even more stringent. It is not enough to be proficient in a language; more importantly, one must grasp the beauty of the language. No matter how diligently a young person practices French, how could they possibly achieve this level of proficiency?

Thinking of this, the young men who were talking to Turgenev almost made sarcastic remarks, but considering that their conversation had been quite pleasant, they didn't speak their minds directly. However, after holding back for a while, they finally said some slightly sarcastic words and advised him not to overestimate his abilities.

Although Turgenev was somewhat used to this, he still felt a little uncomfortable. But since he dared to say some things, he must have been mentally prepared.

Although he did waver somewhat after arriving in Paris due to various opinions regarding Mikhail's novels, after several careful readings, Turgenev ultimately chose to believe in Mikhail and his own aesthetic judgment.

After chatting for a while, the slightly relaxed atmosphere became much more serious when the great writer began to speak. Even though what he said seemed quite ordinary, his powerful voice and the occasional pauses created a special speaking effect. In short, many people in the room listened very attentively as if they were listening to something very profound.

After the brief opening remarks, they began to talk about literature and politics as usual. It was clear that the French were quite bold in this regard; things that couldn't be mentioned in Russia were spoken of freely in France, as if they were fearless.

Unlike Russia, political issues are not taboo topics in France; on the contrary, they are topics that everyone is happy to discuss, and they always arrive at some conservative or even extremely radical conclusions.

From their conversation, Turgenev keenly sensed something unusual: a dangerous atmosphere seemed to be brewing in Paris, which could erupt at any moment due to some event.

However, this was just speculation. Moreover, Turgenev was never particularly interested in political issues, so he only listened passively. It wasn't until the appreciation of the work that Turgenev finally perked up and cleverly took a relatively close position. After all, no one knew if the reading would take too long and end early.

Fortunately, the people present were not unaware of the matter, so most of the works they brought were short stories or poems, and overall the progress was not slow.

Regarding these novels and poems, the great literary figure, like Zeus on Mount Olympus, did not speak lightly, but would occasionally whisper to those around him. Therefore, it was the other authoritative figures present who were responsible for offering their opinions. However, this was already enough to satisfy some of the young people present.

Turgenev didn't have high expectations. For him, being able to impress some people present and gain a chance to speak would already be considered a successful completion of his mission. What more could he ask for?

With this mindset, Turgenev quickly followed the others to a certain spot, gathered his emotions, and then began to read his manuscript aloud. Some people didn't care at all, while the young people who had just chatted with Turgenev were slightly mocking and thought they would probably hear some basic grammatical errors in such a novel.

Turgenev wasn't thinking much at the moment; he was only recalling Mikhail's expression and tone when reading his novel aloud, and then he slowly began to read:
"She was also a beautiful and charming girl, but it seems that due to a twist of fate, she was born into the family of a low-level clerk. She had no dowry assets, and no way to let a wealthy and respectable man know her, understand her, love her, and marry her; in the end, she could only marry a minor secretary in the Ministry of Education."

She couldn't afford to dress extravagantly, so she had to wear simple clothes, but she felt this was unacceptable, as if it lowered her status. Because for women, beauty, charm, and allure were their birthright; innate intelligence, graceful qualities, and gentle nature were their only qualifications.

She felt she was born to live a life of elegance and luxury, and therefore she was constantly tormented. The shabbyness of her dwelling, the dimness of the walls, the wear and tear of the furniture, and the coarseness of her clothing all troubled her. These things, perhaps unnoticed by other women of her social standing, caused her pain and sorrow.

In just a few words, this description evoked a familiar image in the minds of everyone present: a young and beautiful woman who seemed to yearn for a life beyond her current capabilities.

Undoubtedly, in Paris today, many temptations are within easy reach. Even a woman from an ordinary family can witness the various luxurious lifestyles of high society. After seeing this kind of life, some people inevitably feel resentful and even begin to yearn for such a life.

This woman named Mathilde, however, had a husband who seemed to be an easily satisfied man. He was also considerate of his wife's feelings, not only bringing her an invitation to a high-class ball, but also gritting his teeth and taking out the money he had originally intended to use to buy a hunting rifle when his wife didn't have a suitable dress to attend.

But after the dress issue was resolved, she became troubled by the jewelry issue:
She said, "What worries me is that I don't have a single pearl or gemstone, and I have nothing to wear. I feel so poor and I really don't want to attend this party."

He said, "Wear some flowers. It's very fashionable this season. You can buy two or three elegant roses for a few francs."

She still wouldn't have it. "No way... It would be so embarrassing to look poor among wealthy ladies."

Her husband exclaimed, “How foolish you are! Go to your friend Mrs. Forestier and borrow some jewelry from her. You are on good terms with her; she can easily do it.”

At this point, the future development of the story still seems unclear, but without a doubt, suspense has been created. Many people present have begun to wonder if the next development of the story will be that after the young and beautiful wife steals the spotlight at the ball, she abandons her husband and seeks a new love.

Such things seem to be quite common in Paris these days.

For a moment, the field seemed to quiet down.

Turgenev continued reading the novel, which he already knew by heart:

But then she suddenly cried out. The diamond necklace around her neck was gone. Her husband, who had already taken off half his clothes, asked, "What happened?"

She was terrified and turned to him, saying, "I...I...I've lost Mrs. Forestier's necklace."

He sat up in a panic, saying, "What!...What happened!...How could such a thing happen!"

The lady did borrow the necklace and certainly made a grand entrance at the ball, but in that blissful moment, the crucial piece of jewelry was lost and could never be found again.

Upon arriving here, even the great writer who had been discussing current affairs with others seemed to have stopped and turned his gaze to the somewhat unfamiliar young man before him, pondering the direction of the story to come.

Despite losing such an expensive necklace, this normally vain woman suddenly found a surge of strength. After scraping together a huge debt, she and her husband finally managed to buy a similar necklace and return it to her.

Even in this situation, her husband did not blame her, but instead worked together with her to pay off the debts. Thus:
She dressed like a poor woman, with a basket slung over her arm, going to fruit shops, grocery stores, and butcher shops, haggling over prices, enduring ridicule, saving her hard-earned money penny by penny. Every month she had to pay off old debts and borrow some new ones to postpone the repayment.

Every evening, her husband would write accounts for a merchant, often copying manuscripts that cost five copper coins per page late into the night. This continued for ten years. By the end of the tenth year, all the debts had been paid off, including the exorbitant interest and the compounded interest.

Mrs. Mathilde looks old now.

But sometimes, when her husband was at work, she would sit alone by the window and think back to that ball years ago, how beautiful and captivating she was that night! If she hadn't lost that necklace back then, what would her situation be like now?

Who knows? Who knows?
Life is so strange and unpredictable; the smallest thing can ruin you or make you!

The novel could have ended here.

There are already many implications here. The woman in the novel may have harmed herself because of vanity, or perhaps because of the unpredictability of life and fate, resulting in a very heavy consequence for her life. However, the author does not seem to criticize the woman unilaterally, but rather shows the strength she possesses from another perspective.

Even if you make mistakes, even if you are fooled by life and fate, you still have the determination and courage to make amends.

To everyone's surprise, the novel doesn't seem to end there. Instead, it describes how, after paying off her debts, Mathilde encounters the friend who lent her her jewelry, and the two chat for a while, during which the following conversation takes place:
Mrs. Forestier stopped and said, "You mean you bought me a diamond necklace as compensation?"

"Yes. Didn't you notice? They're practically identical."

Then she smiled with an innocent and smug expression.

Madame Forestier was deeply moved. She grasped Mathilde's hands and said, "Alas! My poor Mathilde! But my necklace is fake, worth at most a few hundred francs!..."

Upon hearing this ending, everyone was stunned, yet they waited patiently for a long time. Just as the gentleman who had been reciting the novel was about to return to his seat, Hugo, who hadn't said much until now, finally couldn't help but ask, "What happened next? What happened after that?"

"I don't know, esteemed Mr. Victor Hugo. But the novel does indeed end here."

Feeling the gazes of everyone on the field, Turgenev felt as if he had received a Mikhail experience card, and he felt honors pouring into him.

How does Mikhail manage to remain so humble in this situation?!
Having carefully experienced this feeling, Turgenev vowed to continue writing diligently, and also said: "The author of this novel, Mikhail Romanovich, said that this is enough, there is no need to write anything superfluous."

(End of this chapter)