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The Dawn
Mikhailovich woke up heavy-headed and half-dreaming, light assaulting his eyelids. After some minutes of torment, he finally opened opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Someone had left the curtains open. A stream of light broke through and hit the bed squarely on his face, rousing him from slumber. And now he was half-awake and suffering a headache, irreconcilability torn from the comfort of dreams.
He traced the faded cracks of plaster on the ceiling for some time, his eyes following the little white hills and rivulets. His sleepy headache persisted. He squeezed part of the blanket in his fist.
Who left the curtain open?
It was probably Olga. How many times had he told that girl not to leave the curtains open? He didn't care if it "freshened the room", her job was to clean and make food. Nothing more, nothing less. And now his sleep was disrupted and he would likely be hounded by the sleep-starved headache all day. How was he to get anything done today? How was he to read, to write? These things could only be done in the best state of mind, and God knew that he had spent pitifully little time doing anything productive over the past few days already...
No, it must have been weeks? The days flew by rather fast in the summer flat, and he came to the city first in—
He heard a knock on the door. Olga came in and placed a tray on the table. She looked at him with a tender frown. "I've brought you your noon tea, Mikhailovich," she said softly.
"Noon?" He said, rubbing his face with a pillow.
"Yes, you told me to make sure you were awake at this time."
Mikhailovich grumbled. "Did you open the curtains?"
"Oh, dear," she said. "They're hardly open at all."
He could feel the light bathe the room. Removing the pillow, he stared in muted anger as she opened up the curtains fully. He wanted to snap out, to berate her, but he just didn't have the will to do it.
She clasped her hands and looked at him with her signature, old, tender frown. He almost felt it condescending—was it of pity, of compassion? No, she was just doing her job. "Your father has sent your monthly allowance from the estate. Did you reply to his letter last week?"
A pang of anxiety shot through him. "Last week?" He could've sworn that he received it just a few days ago, but he avoided thinking of it. He never knew just how to reply, even to his father. "Yes, of course, I'll get to it right away."
"Of course. What would you like to eat?"
He asked her to make some buttered toast with caviar. After she left downstairs, he stopped to think, staring at the ceiling once more. He had a lot to do today. Things that he was supposed to do a week ago. But the days kept slipping through his fingers, and so did the time to be engaged in intellectual pursuits.
Today he resolved to catch the day in his grip, and spend some time writing. First, he needed to finish that reply to his father. Dear father, he imagined the letter would start... something something, I have unfortunately not had the time to visit Fedya. I have spent my time studying matters of philosophy—no, no, that didn't sound right. And it should be longer. Letters couldn't be too short. And should he really write 'dear father'? It sounded too cold. But anything else sounded too formal. It would work itself out when he actually wrote it, he resolved. He hadn't even had breakfast yet.
He finally rose from his bed and stretched when Olga brought the sandwiches. Actually, they weren't sandwiches because there was no bread on the top, just butter and caviar.
He stretched and smoothed out the comfy green robe that he wore all night. And the day before. And maybe the day before that; he didn't remember when Olga last washed it. But it was really comfortable, and made of some sort of cozy material from a foreign land.
The tea was already half-cold by the time he drank it, and a little too bitter. But he did not have the effort to complain about it. After finishing the breakfast—no, technically lunch—he sunk down in his chair lazily. Did it count as lunch if it was his first meal of the day? He glanced at the clock.
It was half past one. Half past one!
How time flew! And he hadn't even done anything yet. He made a mental note to get to sleep sooner that night, or the next day would continue to feel mercilessly short. Time always seemed to pass faster during the night. And during the mornings, too. But morning was technically over. In any case, time was his enemy.
After ruminating on his torment, he moved to his desk. An assortment of half-read books, loose pages and cracked quills littered the wooden workspace. He quickly threw the quills into a pile and crumpled all the loose pages into a single ball, pushing it into a corner alongside some other trash and crumbs.
He would clean it later, right now he had to write.
He took out a piece of paper and dipped a quill in ink. Dear father, he wrote. No, no, no, he decided he didn't want to start it that way. He crumpled the paper up.
But how would he start it? He brushed the quill on his chin, feeling the pricks of hair. He reminded himself that he needed to shave later.
Maybe it would help if he looked at some old letters. Or maybe even the letter that his father sent him! That was a good idea. He glanced around the desk. He rose and looked at the bookshelf, looking through some old papers he left lying around and lists he left in half-read books as bookmarks. Not there. It wasn't under the desk either, or on the table. He uncrumpled some old sheets in the trash pile and cringed at the discarded drafts. He considered calling Olga in, but he didn't want to bother her too much.
He sat down at the table and stared at the wooden floorboards. Where could that letter possibly have gone? He was so busy ignoring it that he didn't even know where he put it.
He could only conclude that the letter had been lost to the void. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and thought, drafting the letter in his mind. A greeting, something something...
Eventually Olga came in to the room and asked if he would like something to eat. "No, I'm not hungry. Didn't I just eat?" He paused, immediately feeling sorry for snapping at her. How long ago did he eat, exactly? A chord of terror struck his body. "No, nevermind, don't answer that. No, thank you, I mean." She nodded and left.
He couldn't bear to look at the clock. How much time had he already wasted? He didn't even want to know. But—time always flew faster when he wasn't paying attention. If he kept an eye on the clock, time would surely slow its advance.
He moved back to the desk. He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. He needed to stop worrying about time, about the lost letter, about anything. He needed to clear his mind before getting to work.
A loud knock on the door disturbed his meditation. As he turned around, two figures entered the room. "Misha!" said his old friend Fyodor Ilyich. "What have you been doing all this time?"
Fyodor examined the messy room. "It's a little stuffy in here, don't you think?" The man behind him nodded in agreement. "Oh, this is Andrei Romanovich. You met when I visited you here a month ago, I think. Do you remember?"
"Er, yes, I believe so." Mikhailovich stood up and shook hands with Andrei. Fyodor, however, opted for a strangle-like hug.
"Your servant girl told me you've been decaying here all month. She's a little concerned, you know. And now I am too. It's time to get you out of here. How do you feel about going to a ball?"
"Uh... A ball?" Mikhailovich said with a frown. "What do you mean, whose—what ball?"
"Oh, you see, Andrei's cousin has an acquaintance who is intimate with the Tsarevich—"
"Not intimate," Andrei corrected. "They've spoken a few times."
"Yes, yes," continued Fyodor, "and he happens to know the Count Glukhovsky's daughter, who knows the old Prince Starushkin, who is hosting a ball next week. And so, we're invited."
"Well, my cousin's the one invited," Andrei clarified dully. "Technically."
"The point is, the whole city will be there. And Andrei's cousin's acquaintance wants to elope with the Count's daughter. We're to meet him at the club soon, to plan the whole thing."
Mikhailovich felt vines of anxiety clawing his inner being already. "That's nice," he murmured.
"So, old friend, will you come? We haven't really spoken for so long, and I had hoped you'd be participating in the affairs of the city once you'd appeared here. Why else would someone rent a cramped little flat for the summer?" Fyodor looked at him expectantly.
Mikhailovich didn't know how to say no. Every bit of his essence screamed at him in revulsion to the idea. It was just too much effort. And he had things to do, of course. "I don't think so, sorry," he said finally.
Andrei shrugged and turned to leave. "Oh, come on," said Fyodor. "Why are you rotting in this squalid flat? Don't lie to me and say you're busy, because you're not, you layabout. I apologize, Mikhail Mikhailovich, but harsh words are necessary."
Mikhailovich didn't know what to say. A cauldron of anxiety and stubbornness churned in his stomach, and he refused to budge from his chair, retreating into the realm of rumination.
Fyodor sighed. "Andrei and I will loiter outside for a few minutes and have a smoke. I hope you'll join us."
Mikhailovich listened to the sound of boots stomping down the stairs. He hardly realized Olga came into the room, twiddling her hands with that signature, pitying expression.
"Yes?" He said, looking up at her dully.
"I think you should join your friends on this excursion, Mikhail. It would be good for your health to get some air. And I'll have the whole flat cleaned for you when you get back."
"They're not my friends," muttered Mikhailovich. "And don't call me Mikhail—that's my father's name." But he had to admit that getting some air sounded good, and he wouldn't mind having some food and drink to dine out. And maybe this time is exactly what he needed to inspire him to write that letter.
He turned the idea over in his mind some more, indecisive. Finally, he rose, suppressing any more thought on the matter. "Fine," he said with a gargantuan sigh, "I shall go."
He fetched something acceptable out of the wardrobe and shooed Olga off. He wasn't a child—he could put his clothes on himself. He had no taste for fashion, though, so he put on black clothes and a frazzled, old, unbuttoned frock coat with a stale green color. He ran his hand through his bushy hair and rushed downstairs.
Andrei and Fyodor were getting into the carriage. "Fedya!" He ran to join them.
"See, I told you he'd reconsider!" Fyodor poked Andrei.
"Very good, now we can have an uncomfortable ride," muttered Andrei as Mikhailovich squeezed into the carriage.
"Sorry, Misha, I wasn't thinking when I took this cab."
It didn't take them long to arrive at the club, Mikhailovich still wondering whether it was a good idea to come through the whole ride.
He absentmindedly followed the pair through the anteroom and into the dining room, avoiding the greetings that Fyodor delivered to numerous gentlemen. The table was already set—vodka, veal, selyodka and more.
Mikhailovich hurriedly greeted the group, being introduced to Andrei's cousin Ilya Piavkov, his acquaintance and the man of honor Aleksandr Tarakanov, and his comrades: the brothers Dmitriy Dvoykin and Fyodor Vladimirovich Dvoykin.
Mikhailovich hardly listened to their conversation as he enjoyed the food. The selyodka, drenched in onions, was his absolute favorite and it was prepared ideally. He drank with every toast silently, nodding along with "to our good friend Aleksandr!" and to "our mutual health!".
Soon, he felt that familiar wave of fuzzy warmth wash over him, and a smile involuntarily slid unto his face. The bread was good, the caviar was good, the fish was good, and the company was good, even if he didn't give any cares about the topic of conversation. He slid back in his seat, content.
"Oy, parenh," said someone, pouring him another shot. "Didn't you hear? A toast! Za lubov!"
But the joviality suddenly stopped. Mikhailovich blinked, and saw that the butler had said something to the party.
"The Count's son is here? Why?" asked Fedya Ilyich.
Before the butler could reply, an elegantly dressed figure emerged behind him. Standing upright and proud and holding a cane as if it was the Tsar's scepter, the young Count Glukhovsky delivered a stiff bow.
"May I introduce Count Pyotr Kirillovich Glukhovsky," delivered the Butler courteously.
Mikhailovich snorted. Something irked him about people who took themselves far too seriously.
"Petya," said Aleksandr with an uneasy smile. "What has brought you to our gathering?"
"Dispense with the pleasantries," replied Glukhovsky icily, "You will refer to me as Count Glukhovsky, and nothing less. This farce is over. Katerina confessed all your plans."
A silence washed over the group. Even drunk, the consequences of the elopement's reveal seemed to strike pause into all of them.
Careless and annoyed with the junior Count's arrogance, Mikhailovich raised his glass, still full, and announced, "a toast to love!" He downed it without pausing for the others.
"Silence, you drunk fool!" Glukhovsky raised a gloved finger, twitching in anger. "This is a serious matter."
Mikhailovich stood drunkenly, nearly losing his footing. For once, words flowed from his mouth without a second thought. "Stop waving that cane around, you—you pretender. You're not your father, 'Count'... You're a pretender, to... to nothing but the kingdom of fools."
The seated group found the display rather amusing, and a wave of chortles followed. Mikhailovich fell back into his seat, proud of his dumb joke, and raised his glass weakly. But before he could try to sip from the empty glass, he felt something hit his face.
Glukhovsky's face was bathed in red fury, and he had discarded one of his gloves at Mikhailovich. "You drunk, you scoundrel! I challenge you."
Mikhailovich laughed. "If you say so."
Glukhovsky stomped off without another word. Silence reigned the room once more, and it took Mikhailovich a few moments to understand the events that transpired. It all blurred from there.
"Good luck. For my sake, I hope you kill him," was all that Aleksandr had to offer. He left with the two brothers, who echoed his sentiment, and the party disbanded.
Fedya Ilyich immediately volunteered to be one of the seconds, and Andrei accepted the role alongside him. Mikhailovich hastily agreed to "pistols at dawn".
The carriage ride was nearly wordless. "Get some sleep," Fedya advised him as he stepped out. "Glukhovsky is betting on you still being intoxicated in the sunrise. He acts so seriously, but he's awful scared, I bet."
And sleep Mikhailovich did. It was what he did best, after all.
It was still dark outside when he awoke. He had a pounding headache, and the gravity of everything that happened that day washed over him with a torrent of anxiety.
Lighting a lamp, he sat down at the table and downed several glasses of water. He didn't think, just listened to the pounding of his heart as he quenched his headache.
He stared at the glint of light on the empty glass, savoring the moment of idleness that was unlike every other. He took in the dark that bathed the windows and the flat, and listened to his breath. For a moment, he took in the stillness, the idleness, that lack of fervor that had defined his entire life.
And, having seen it in all its beauty, he decided it wasn't enough. Why had he wasted a month decaying in this city? No—why had he wasted so much of his life until this point? When the sun rose, his life could be extinguished, snuffed out, shattered into pieces with such fragility that one could hardly believe he had it in the first place.
It was scary. It was sad. He did not want to go like that. But at the same time, he didn't want to go on like this. If he died today, he never would have lived at all.
He sat at the desk, facing the window. The first inklings of light would soon blossom from the horizon, and with that, his life would finally start.
He wrote. The letter started with the words, My dear father, not too formal, not too sweet. He told him why he left for the city and what he had been studying. He told him of his encounter with the Count and the duel he was to have. He told him he regretted leaving, and hoped to return soon. He left the letter for Olga to send and went outside.
The air felt wonderfully crisp and rejuvenating, and he spent an untold amount of time merely staring at the horizon and breathing, no thoughts interfering.
Finally, his seconds arrived and handed him a couple pistols that Andrei found. Fedya, doing his duty as a second, raised the idea of submitting to Glukhovsky and so on, but they proceeded to the site of the duel anyway, no mind paid to the idea.
A doctor and Glukhovsky's seconds had already arrived. He was not surprised to hear that Glukhovsky was the one who hired him. The site of the duel was a broad path in a clearing of thin trees, serenaded by the sound of a creek flowing nearby.
The seconds met, and Mikhailovich sat on a nearby stump and traced his fingers over the pistol he held. The pang of anxiety—the pressure, the muted headache—it returned to taunt him, but he listened to the sound of the creek and conquered it.
He imagined the creek, the foamy water lapping over the pebbles... and the image of the duel that would take place nearby found its way in.
For a second, he tasted the bitter bullet of death, the image of him lying in a puddle of blood for no reason other than some petty slight on some fussy noble's honor. He had only just now started living, and he would lose it all like that?
It was unfair. It was foolish. It was cruel, and it made no sense. He balled his hands into a fist and drove it into the bark of the stump. The stupidity of the entire matter inflamed him.
But here he was. He heard some voices, and saw that Glukhovsky had arrived. He stood up and walked to the middle of the path.
He hardly paid attention to what came next. Glukhovsky's servant made some announcement—the parties had refused reconciliation and so on and so on—and he shrugged in agreement to standing twenty paces apart from his adversary.
He rubbed his hand against the pistol's grip, feeling the sweat drenching his palm. His heart clamored, and no amount of deep breaths could stop it. He may have been an atheist—but in that moment he begged God to let him live. If he died today, he would never get the chance...
Raz, dva—
A crackle, a flash, a whiff of gunpowder and a rush of cold air
And then
Bitter. It all tasted—felt, incredibly bitter. It felt so bitter that he drowned it, so bitter and so black and so hot like a cup of tea that had steeped for far too long, and he was drowning in the cup, a cup of the darkest, most bitter tea, black as pitch...
Someone had left the curtains open. A stream of light broke through and hit the bed squarely on his face, rousing him from slumber. And now he was half-awake and suffering a headache, irreconcilability torn from the comfort of dreams.
He traced the faded cracks of plaster on the ceiling for some time, his eyes following the little white hills and rivulets. His sleepy headache persisted. He squeezed part of the blanket in his fist.
Who left the curtain open?
It was probably Olga. How many times had he told that girl not to leave the curtains open? He didn't care if it "freshened the room", her job was to clean and make food. Nothing more, nothing less. And now his sleep was disrupted and he would likely be hounded by the sleep-starved headache all day. How was he to get anything done today? How was he to read, to write? These things could only be done in the best state of mind, and God knew that he had spent pitifully little time doing anything productive over the past few days already...
No, it must have been weeks? The days flew by rather fast in the summer flat, and he came to the city first in—
He heard a knock on the door. Olga came in and placed a tray on the table. She looked at him with a tender frown. "I've brought you your noon tea, Mikhailovich," she said softly.
"Noon?" He said, rubbing his face with a pillow.
"Yes, you told me to make sure you were awake at this time."
Mikhailovich grumbled. "Did you open the curtains?"
"Oh, dear," she said. "They're hardly open at all."
He could feel the light bathe the room. Removing the pillow, he stared in muted anger as she opened up the curtains fully. He wanted to snap out, to berate her, but he just didn't have the will to do it.
She clasped her hands and looked at him with her signature, old, tender frown. He almost felt it condescending—was it of pity, of compassion? No, she was just doing her job. "Your father has sent your monthly allowance from the estate. Did you reply to his letter last week?"
A pang of anxiety shot through him. "Last week?" He could've sworn that he received it just a few days ago, but he avoided thinking of it. He never knew just how to reply, even to his father. "Yes, of course, I'll get to it right away."
"Of course. What would you like to eat?"
He asked her to make some buttered toast with caviar. After she left downstairs, he stopped to think, staring at the ceiling once more. He had a lot to do today. Things that he was supposed to do a week ago. But the days kept slipping through his fingers, and so did the time to be engaged in intellectual pursuits.
Today he resolved to catch the day in his grip, and spend some time writing. First, he needed to finish that reply to his father. Dear father, he imagined the letter would start... something something, I have unfortunately not had the time to visit Fedya. I have spent my time studying matters of philosophy—no, no, that didn't sound right. And it should be longer. Letters couldn't be too short. And should he really write 'dear father'? It sounded too cold. But anything else sounded too formal. It would work itself out when he actually wrote it, he resolved. He hadn't even had breakfast yet.
He finally rose from his bed and stretched when Olga brought the sandwiches. Actually, they weren't sandwiches because there was no bread on the top, just butter and caviar.
He stretched and smoothed out the comfy green robe that he wore all night. And the day before. And maybe the day before that; he didn't remember when Olga last washed it. But it was really comfortable, and made of some sort of cozy material from a foreign land.
The tea was already half-cold by the time he drank it, and a little too bitter. But he did not have the effort to complain about it. After finishing the breakfast—no, technically lunch—he sunk down in his chair lazily. Did it count as lunch if it was his first meal of the day? He glanced at the clock.
It was half past one. Half past one!
How time flew! And he hadn't even done anything yet. He made a mental note to get to sleep sooner that night, or the next day would continue to feel mercilessly short. Time always seemed to pass faster during the night. And during the mornings, too. But morning was technically over. In any case, time was his enemy.
After ruminating on his torment, he moved to his desk. An assortment of half-read books, loose pages and cracked quills littered the wooden workspace. He quickly threw the quills into a pile and crumpled all the loose pages into a single ball, pushing it into a corner alongside some other trash and crumbs.
He would clean it later, right now he had to write.
He took out a piece of paper and dipped a quill in ink. Dear father, he wrote. No, no, no, he decided he didn't want to start it that way. He crumpled the paper up.
But how would he start it? He brushed the quill on his chin, feeling the pricks of hair. He reminded himself that he needed to shave later.
Maybe it would help if he looked at some old letters. Or maybe even the letter that his father sent him! That was a good idea. He glanced around the desk. He rose and looked at the bookshelf, looking through some old papers he left lying around and lists he left in half-read books as bookmarks. Not there. It wasn't under the desk either, or on the table. He uncrumpled some old sheets in the trash pile and cringed at the discarded drafts. He considered calling Olga in, but he didn't want to bother her too much.
He sat down at the table and stared at the wooden floorboards. Where could that letter possibly have gone? He was so busy ignoring it that he didn't even know where he put it.
He could only conclude that the letter had been lost to the void. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and thought, drafting the letter in his mind. A greeting, something something...
Eventually Olga came in to the room and asked if he would like something to eat. "No, I'm not hungry. Didn't I just eat?" He paused, immediately feeling sorry for snapping at her. How long ago did he eat, exactly? A chord of terror struck his body. "No, nevermind, don't answer that. No, thank you, I mean." She nodded and left.
He couldn't bear to look at the clock. How much time had he already wasted? He didn't even want to know. But—time always flew faster when he wasn't paying attention. If he kept an eye on the clock, time would surely slow its advance.
He moved back to the desk. He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. He needed to stop worrying about time, about the lost letter, about anything. He needed to clear his mind before getting to work.
A loud knock on the door disturbed his meditation. As he turned around, two figures entered the room. "Misha!" said his old friend Fyodor Ilyich. "What have you been doing all this time?"
Fyodor examined the messy room. "It's a little stuffy in here, don't you think?" The man behind him nodded in agreement. "Oh, this is Andrei Romanovich. You met when I visited you here a month ago, I think. Do you remember?"
"Er, yes, I believe so." Mikhailovich stood up and shook hands with Andrei. Fyodor, however, opted for a strangle-like hug.
"Your servant girl told me you've been decaying here all month. She's a little concerned, you know. And now I am too. It's time to get you out of here. How do you feel about going to a ball?"
"Uh... A ball?" Mikhailovich said with a frown. "What do you mean, whose—what ball?"
"Oh, you see, Andrei's cousin has an acquaintance who is intimate with the Tsarevich—"
"Not intimate," Andrei corrected. "They've spoken a few times."
"Yes, yes," continued Fyodor, "and he happens to know the Count Glukhovsky's daughter, who knows the old Prince Starushkin, who is hosting a ball next week. And so, we're invited."
"Well, my cousin's the one invited," Andrei clarified dully. "Technically."
"The point is, the whole city will be there. And Andrei's cousin's acquaintance wants to elope with the Count's daughter. We're to meet him at the club soon, to plan the whole thing."
Mikhailovich felt vines of anxiety clawing his inner being already. "That's nice," he murmured.
"So, old friend, will you come? We haven't really spoken for so long, and I had hoped you'd be participating in the affairs of the city once you'd appeared here. Why else would someone rent a cramped little flat for the summer?" Fyodor looked at him expectantly.
Mikhailovich didn't know how to say no. Every bit of his essence screamed at him in revulsion to the idea. It was just too much effort. And he had things to do, of course. "I don't think so, sorry," he said finally.
Andrei shrugged and turned to leave. "Oh, come on," said Fyodor. "Why are you rotting in this squalid flat? Don't lie to me and say you're busy, because you're not, you layabout. I apologize, Mikhail Mikhailovich, but harsh words are necessary."
Mikhailovich didn't know what to say. A cauldron of anxiety and stubbornness churned in his stomach, and he refused to budge from his chair, retreating into the realm of rumination.
Fyodor sighed. "Andrei and I will loiter outside for a few minutes and have a smoke. I hope you'll join us."
Mikhailovich listened to the sound of boots stomping down the stairs. He hardly realized Olga came into the room, twiddling her hands with that signature, pitying expression.
"Yes?" He said, looking up at her dully.
"I think you should join your friends on this excursion, Mikhail. It would be good for your health to get some air. And I'll have the whole flat cleaned for you when you get back."
"They're not my friends," muttered Mikhailovich. "And don't call me Mikhail—that's my father's name." But he had to admit that getting some air sounded good, and he wouldn't mind having some food and drink to dine out. And maybe this time is exactly what he needed to inspire him to write that letter.
He turned the idea over in his mind some more, indecisive. Finally, he rose, suppressing any more thought on the matter. "Fine," he said with a gargantuan sigh, "I shall go."
He fetched something acceptable out of the wardrobe and shooed Olga off. He wasn't a child—he could put his clothes on himself. He had no taste for fashion, though, so he put on black clothes and a frazzled, old, unbuttoned frock coat with a stale green color. He ran his hand through his bushy hair and rushed downstairs.
Andrei and Fyodor were getting into the carriage. "Fedya!" He ran to join them.
"See, I told you he'd reconsider!" Fyodor poked Andrei.
"Very good, now we can have an uncomfortable ride," muttered Andrei as Mikhailovich squeezed into the carriage.
"Sorry, Misha, I wasn't thinking when I took this cab."
It didn't take them long to arrive at the club, Mikhailovich still wondering whether it was a good idea to come through the whole ride.
He absentmindedly followed the pair through the anteroom and into the dining room, avoiding the greetings that Fyodor delivered to numerous gentlemen. The table was already set—vodka, veal, selyodka and more.
Mikhailovich hurriedly greeted the group, being introduced to Andrei's cousin Ilya Piavkov, his acquaintance and the man of honor Aleksandr Tarakanov, and his comrades: the brothers Dmitriy Dvoykin and Fyodor Vladimirovich Dvoykin.
Mikhailovich hardly listened to their conversation as he enjoyed the food. The selyodka, drenched in onions, was his absolute favorite and it was prepared ideally. He drank with every toast silently, nodding along with "to our good friend Aleksandr!" and to "our mutual health!".
Soon, he felt that familiar wave of fuzzy warmth wash over him, and a smile involuntarily slid unto his face. The bread was good, the caviar was good, the fish was good, and the company was good, even if he didn't give any cares about the topic of conversation. He slid back in his seat, content.
"Oy, parenh," said someone, pouring him another shot. "Didn't you hear? A toast! Za lubov!"
But the joviality suddenly stopped. Mikhailovich blinked, and saw that the butler had said something to the party.
"The Count's son is here? Why?" asked Fedya Ilyich.
Before the butler could reply, an elegantly dressed figure emerged behind him. Standing upright and proud and holding a cane as if it was the Tsar's scepter, the young Count Glukhovsky delivered a stiff bow.
"May I introduce Count Pyotr Kirillovich Glukhovsky," delivered the Butler courteously.
Mikhailovich snorted. Something irked him about people who took themselves far too seriously.
"Petya," said Aleksandr with an uneasy smile. "What has brought you to our gathering?"
"Dispense with the pleasantries," replied Glukhovsky icily, "You will refer to me as Count Glukhovsky, and nothing less. This farce is over. Katerina confessed all your plans."
A silence washed over the group. Even drunk, the consequences of the elopement's reveal seemed to strike pause into all of them.
Careless and annoyed with the junior Count's arrogance, Mikhailovich raised his glass, still full, and announced, "a toast to love!" He downed it without pausing for the others.
"Silence, you drunk fool!" Glukhovsky raised a gloved finger, twitching in anger. "This is a serious matter."
Mikhailovich stood drunkenly, nearly losing his footing. For once, words flowed from his mouth without a second thought. "Stop waving that cane around, you—you pretender. You're not your father, 'Count'... You're a pretender, to... to nothing but the kingdom of fools."
The seated group found the display rather amusing, and a wave of chortles followed. Mikhailovich fell back into his seat, proud of his dumb joke, and raised his glass weakly. But before he could try to sip from the empty glass, he felt something hit his face.
Glukhovsky's face was bathed in red fury, and he had discarded one of his gloves at Mikhailovich. "You drunk, you scoundrel! I challenge you."
Mikhailovich laughed. "If you say so."
Glukhovsky stomped off without another word. Silence reigned the room once more, and it took Mikhailovich a few moments to understand the events that transpired. It all blurred from there.
"Good luck. For my sake, I hope you kill him," was all that Aleksandr had to offer. He left with the two brothers, who echoed his sentiment, and the party disbanded.
Fedya Ilyich immediately volunteered to be one of the seconds, and Andrei accepted the role alongside him. Mikhailovich hastily agreed to "pistols at dawn".
The carriage ride was nearly wordless. "Get some sleep," Fedya advised him as he stepped out. "Glukhovsky is betting on you still being intoxicated in the sunrise. He acts so seriously, but he's awful scared, I bet."
And sleep Mikhailovich did. It was what he did best, after all.
It was still dark outside when he awoke. He had a pounding headache, and the gravity of everything that happened that day washed over him with a torrent of anxiety.
Lighting a lamp, he sat down at the table and downed several glasses of water. He didn't think, just listened to the pounding of his heart as he quenched his headache.
He stared at the glint of light on the empty glass, savoring the moment of idleness that was unlike every other. He took in the dark that bathed the windows and the flat, and listened to his breath. For a moment, he took in the stillness, the idleness, that lack of fervor that had defined his entire life.
And, having seen it in all its beauty, he decided it wasn't enough. Why had he wasted a month decaying in this city? No—why had he wasted so much of his life until this point? When the sun rose, his life could be extinguished, snuffed out, shattered into pieces with such fragility that one could hardly believe he had it in the first place.
It was scary. It was sad. He did not want to go like that. But at the same time, he didn't want to go on like this. If he died today, he never would have lived at all.
He sat at the desk, facing the window. The first inklings of light would soon blossom from the horizon, and with that, his life would finally start.
He wrote. The letter started with the words, My dear father, not too formal, not too sweet. He told him why he left for the city and what he had been studying. He told him of his encounter with the Count and the duel he was to have. He told him he regretted leaving, and hoped to return soon. He left the letter for Olga to send and went outside.
The air felt wonderfully crisp and rejuvenating, and he spent an untold amount of time merely staring at the horizon and breathing, no thoughts interfering.
Finally, his seconds arrived and handed him a couple pistols that Andrei found. Fedya, doing his duty as a second, raised the idea of submitting to Glukhovsky and so on, but they proceeded to the site of the duel anyway, no mind paid to the idea.
A doctor and Glukhovsky's seconds had already arrived. He was not surprised to hear that Glukhovsky was the one who hired him. The site of the duel was a broad path in a clearing of thin trees, serenaded by the sound of a creek flowing nearby.
The seconds met, and Mikhailovich sat on a nearby stump and traced his fingers over the pistol he held. The pang of anxiety—the pressure, the muted headache—it returned to taunt him, but he listened to the sound of the creek and conquered it.
He imagined the creek, the foamy water lapping over the pebbles... and the image of the duel that would take place nearby found its way in.
For a second, he tasted the bitter bullet of death, the image of him lying in a puddle of blood for no reason other than some petty slight on some fussy noble's honor. He had only just now started living, and he would lose it all like that?
It was unfair. It was foolish. It was cruel, and it made no sense. He balled his hands into a fist and drove it into the bark of the stump. The stupidity of the entire matter inflamed him.
But here he was. He heard some voices, and saw that Glukhovsky had arrived. He stood up and walked to the middle of the path.
He hardly paid attention to what came next. Glukhovsky's servant made some announcement—the parties had refused reconciliation and so on and so on—and he shrugged in agreement to standing twenty paces apart from his adversary.
He rubbed his hand against the pistol's grip, feeling the sweat drenching his palm. His heart clamored, and no amount of deep breaths could stop it. He may have been an atheist—but in that moment he begged God to let him live. If he died today, he would never get the chance...
Raz, dva—
A crackle, a flash, a whiff of gunpowder and a rush of cold air
And then
Bitter. It all tasted—felt, incredibly bitter. It felt so bitter that he drowned it, so bitter and so black and so hot like a cup of tea that had steeped for far too long, and he was drowning in the cup, a cup of the darkest, most bitter tea, black as pitch...
Pics
There's an interesting throughline carrying this story along--a commentary on how important it is to have a purpose in life. It's not until he has a goal in mind that he is able to finish that letter and make plans for the future.
It suffers, though, because he is so strangely detached from the duel he's about to face. There's no moment of realization that he's just done something incredibly stupid, even after he sobers up. He approaches his impending death the same way someone might react to losing their weekend to overtime at work. For another minor point, I struggled to get too invested in the duel itself because I had no idea of the marksmanship skills of either of these two, so I didn't get a chance to wonder who was going to win. For all I knew, either of them could have been a chump, or a deadeye.
The writing also felt a little slow, though not terribly slow. It felt like certain things were being dwelled on that didn't need to be mentioned, and certain things were given way more attention than they needed. The description of him waking up at the beginning, for instance, felt overlong, and it didn't give me the impression he was being lazy. More like something supernatural was going on with the light or the curtain. The laziness impression came later on through Olga, who was a great addition to the story.
That's all I have to say for criticism, but I did have a suggestion for a different way to end the story. Feel free to disregard it. What if he won the duel? What if he rode the high and the celebration for a while, elating with his new band of friends until they eventually lose interest in him. Then, having still gotten no work done, he goes right back to his lazy lifestyle like nothing's changed, flying in the face of his promise that winning the duel would change his life and start him fresh. Once it's over, so is his purpose, and normal service resumes.
But that's just me. This is a solid and interesting entry, well done!
It suffers, though, because he is so strangely detached from the duel he's about to face. There's no moment of realization that he's just done something incredibly stupid, even after he sobers up. He approaches his impending death the same way someone might react to losing their weekend to overtime at work. For another minor point, I struggled to get too invested in the duel itself because I had no idea of the marksmanship skills of either of these two, so I didn't get a chance to wonder who was going to win. For all I knew, either of them could have been a chump, or a deadeye.
The writing also felt a little slow, though not terribly slow. It felt like certain things were being dwelled on that didn't need to be mentioned, and certain things were given way more attention than they needed. The description of him waking up at the beginning, for instance, felt overlong, and it didn't give me the impression he was being lazy. More like something supernatural was going on with the light or the curtain. The laziness impression came later on through Olga, who was a great addition to the story.
That's all I have to say for criticism, but I did have a suggestion for a different way to end the story. Feel free to disregard it. What if he won the duel? What if he rode the high and the celebration for a while, elating with his new band of friends until they eventually lose interest in him. Then, having still gotten no work done, he goes right back to his lazy lifestyle like nothing's changed, flying in the face of his promise that winning the duel would change his life and start him fresh. Once it's over, so is his purpose, and normal service resumes.
But that's just me. This is a solid and interesting entry, well done!
>>Miller Minus
How do you know that suggestion isn't the bitter cup he mentions?
I, too, felt the beginning was slow, and the end was rushed.
A solid entry, though.
How do you know that suggestion isn't the bitter cup he mentions?
I, too, felt the beginning was slow, and the end was rushed.
A solid entry, though.
The Dawn
I won’t comment on the Easter eggs I found all along this piece – Easter eggs which seem to be targeted specifically at me, BTW – which point (almost) unequivocally to one only possible author. I might be wrong, but I think the margin of error here is less that ten to power of minus twenty.
Now, to the text itself. I found the setting pretty much generic. Right, you use Russian names throughout (BTW, please avoid things like Mikhail Mikhailovich, it sounds as dumb as Michael Michaelson. You can do better.) and mention Russian typical dishes, but apart from these details nothing really anchors your fic into a specific decor.
Well, barring one thing: I’d say the action is set during the 19th century. Fine, I don’t have any problem with that, but please then refrain using modern terminology. For example, I found the repeated use of “technically” a bit jarring, knowing that this particular acception arose probably some time late in the 20th century. In any case, the use of that word felt anachronistic to me.
After she left downstairs, he stopped to think, staring at the ceiling once more. He had a lot to do today. Things that he was supposed to do a week ago. Don’t tell us a character stops thinking if you plan to tell us in the next sentence what he’s thinking: non-sequituur.
There’s one big grammar gripe I have. Look here:
You use simple past either to refer to “contemporary” actions (i.e. “he glanced around the desk“) and past ones (“Or maybe even the letter that his father sent him” / …”he left lying around”…) which creates a sense of confusion. You could use pluperfect instead (“…that his father had sent him.”) which would make the whole passage a lot easier to read.
Occasionally I felt some other awkwardness in the prose, e.g.: How long ago did he eat, exactly? versus “How long has it been since he last ate?”
On to the story. I’ll gloss over the slowness of the beginning, which others have pointed out and which, to me, is one of the Easter eggs I mentioned above. The main problem I have with the plot is the apparent lack of agency the protagonist has. It’s like once he has been challenged, he loses all his volition and everything happens as if it’d been settled down from the start. By the way, we never really get any sort of background about that character. How does he survives, if he’s a layabout? Etc. All in all, I couldn’t really connect with him, and that made me read the whole piece without being really emotionally invested. He’s just a lazy loafer suddenly realizing he’s signed his death warrant and that life is a precious gift after all, especially when you’re about to lose it. But instead of drawing a conclusion and, say, shirk the duel and flee, no, he runs headlong into it.
Takeaway? Guy is a fool and lost his life as a fool.
I won’t comment on the Easter eggs I found all along this piece – Easter eggs which seem to be targeted specifically at me, BTW – which point (almost) unequivocally to one only possible author. I might be wrong, but I think the margin of error here is less that ten to power of minus twenty.
Now, to the text itself. I found the setting pretty much generic. Right, you use Russian names throughout (BTW, please avoid things like Mikhail Mikhailovich, it sounds as dumb as Michael Michaelson. You can do better.) and mention Russian typical dishes, but apart from these details nothing really anchors your fic into a specific decor.
Well, barring one thing: I’d say the action is set during the 19th century. Fine, I don’t have any problem with that, but please then refrain using modern terminology. For example, I found the repeated use of “technically” a bit jarring, knowing that this particular acception arose probably some time late in the 20th century. In any case, the use of that word felt anachronistic to me.
After she left downstairs, he stopped to think, staring at the ceiling once more. He had a lot to do today. Things that he was supposed to do a week ago. Don’t tell us a character stops thinking if you plan to tell us in the next sentence what he’s thinking: non-sequituur.
There’s one big grammar gripe I have. Look here:
Maybe it would help if he looked at some old letters. Or maybe even the letter that his father sent him! That was a good idea. He glanced around the desk. He rose and looked at the bookshelf, looking through some old papers he left lying around and lists he left in half-read books as bookmarks. Not there. It wasn't under the desk either, or on the table. He uncrumpled some old sheets in the trash pile and cringed at the discarded drafts. He considered calling Olga in, but he didn't want to bother her too much.
You use simple past either to refer to “contemporary” actions (i.e. “he glanced around the desk“) and past ones (“Or maybe even the letter that his father sent him” / …”he left lying around”…) which creates a sense of confusion. You could use pluperfect instead (“…that his father had sent him.”) which would make the whole passage a lot easier to read.
Occasionally I felt some other awkwardness in the prose, e.g.: How long ago did he eat, exactly? versus “How long has it been since he last ate?”
On to the story. I’ll gloss over the slowness of the beginning, which others have pointed out and which, to me, is one of the Easter eggs I mentioned above. The main problem I have with the plot is the apparent lack of agency the protagonist has. It’s like once he has been challenged, he loses all his volition and everything happens as if it’d been settled down from the start. By the way, we never really get any sort of background about that character. How does he survives, if he’s a layabout? Etc. All in all, I couldn’t really connect with him, and that made me read the whole piece without being really emotionally invested. He’s just a lazy loafer suddenly realizing he’s signed his death warrant and that life is a precious gift after all, especially when you’re about to lose it. But instead of drawing a conclusion and, say, shirk the duel and flee, no, he runs headlong into it.
Takeaway? Guy is a fool and lost his life as a fool.
>>Hap
Via extreme doubt.
Edit: I should clarify, I'm pretty bad at interpretation sometimes, but here I can't see any way the bitter cup to be interpreted that way. If it is meant this way, it's far too abstract.
How do you know that suggestion isn't the bitter cup he mentions?
Via extreme doubt.
Edit: I should clarify, I'm pretty bad at interpretation sometimes, but here I can't see any way the bitter cup to be interpreted that way. If it is meant this way, it's far too abstract.
>>Monokeras
Prepare to be serenaded by your least favourite artist
Real talk, though—I think the fact that his name is simply a repeat of father's is to show that he has no identity of his own, and that his father is an overbearing rich man who pays for everything for him. This would explain why he is such a layabout, and also how he survives it (Olga mentions that Mikhailovich is receiving a monthly allowance from the estate). I've seen that type of plot before in English stories with characters named "Junior".
Also, thanks for bringing up the fact that the character was lacking agency at the end. That's what I was trying to say in my first comment but the word never came to me.
(BTW, please avoid things like Mikhail Mikhailovich, it sounds as dumb as Michael Michaelson. You can do better.)
Prepare to be serenaded by your least favourite artist
Real talk, though—I think the fact that his name is simply a repeat of father's is to show that he has no identity of his own, and that his father is an overbearing rich man who pays for everything for him. This would explain why he is such a layabout, and also how he survives it (Olga mentions that Mikhailovich is receiving a monthly allowance from the estate). I've seen that type of plot before in English stories with characters named "Junior".
Also, thanks for bringing up the fact that the character was lacking agency at the end. That's what I was trying to say in my first comment but the word never came to me.
>>Miller Minus
Fair enough. To be honest, I always found this “habit” of naming one's son by the same first name with “junior” affixed to it to be highly ridiculous. Thanks God we don’t do that over here.
And also, you’re most welcome!
Real talk, though—I think the fact that his name is simply a repeat of father's is to show that he has no identity of his own, and that his father is an overbearing rich man who pays for everything for him. This would explain why he is such a layabout, and also how he survives it (Olga mentions that Mikhailovich is receiving a monthly allowance from the estate). I've seen that type of plot before in English stories with characters name "Junior".
Fair enough. To be honest, I always found this “habit” of naming one's son by the same first name with “junior” affixed to it to be highly ridiculous. Thanks God we don’t do that over here.
And also, you’re most welcome!
I feel our protagonist's pain all too well. Hours slip into days into weeks into years, months be damned. I wait, constantly, for that transformative experience that sets my sails right, but it never comes. Sometimes, for a moment, after brushing up against death, but even that rush loses its luster with repetition.
Good work trapping the essence of ennui and its only likely cure being imminent death.
Good work trapping the essence of ennui and its only likely cure being imminent death.
Before I stopped procrastinating and wrote this story, I thought of what I was going to say in my retrospective—how I was going to justify myself—a hundred times over. And now, I don't fully know what to say.
Firstly, thanks for the comments and reviews. Secondly, I'm certainly surprised I got as far as 4th place, but I'm sure it was super close. I got a 'most controversial' medal, after all.
I'll go with some replies, I guess:
>>Miller Minus
Sort-of, but I'm an Absurdist so I don't believe in inventing purposes for life.
You're pretty much right. While there were a few lines near the end where he reflected on how stupid the entire matter was—the risk of death in a duel initiated by such a petty dispute—it did bug me that he did not put up much resistance to the duel itself, and I never gave a real reason that he didn't consider apologizing. My official excuse is that I rushed the ending because I procrastinated and the deadline loomed.
That's a good point as well. In War and Peace, which I am reading right now and greatly inspired this story, the marksmanship of two characters is known and briefly mentioned before their duel, which heightened the stakes and made the result more surprising. I should have taken a note from that!
I'm going to use the 'stylistic choice' card here. I wanted to give the impression that Mikhailovich spent so much time idle and consumed by thought and rumination instead of actual action. This wears off later because I sort-of rushed the ending, and also because I felt like he would be less observant while drunk and more mindful after his 'awakening'. I am glad you think Olga had a good role, though. I was a little concerned about that.
One of the works that inspired my story besides War and Peace is another work of Russian literature—Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov. Yep, it's where my name comes from!
There are no duels in that book, but the idea you are describing is similar to what happens in Oblomov, when he is 'awakened' and coaxed out of his idleness by the efforts of his friend Stolz and falling in love with a girl. Ultimately, he is too flawed to know how to love, and falls back into his squalor. I saw my story as a more short-fused exploration of similar ideas, and while the suggestion you have isn't bad, but it's the inverse of what I was shooting for and very similar to Oblomov.
>>Hap
I hope this is nothing more than a joke. I was a little scared someone would criticize me for making the death not-explicit!
Yep, see reply to Miller.
>>Monokeras
Anyone who knows me can easily single this one out as me. They're not exactly easter eggs; it's just that you know me too well.
I am really bad at committing to settings because I am terrified that I don't know enough—that someone will call me out and say, "Hey! That's not how X works!" or "That's not what that city looks like!" Since the story was inspired primarily by two works of 19th century Russian literature, the setting was very vaguely similar, but I never named anywhere explicit to avoid the problem mentioned above. Also, I also was a little bothered by my use of 'technically' as well, but I kept it in.
>>Miller Minus
This is pretty much it, yeah. Note the line: "'And don't call me Mikhail—that's my father's name.'" It would be pretty weird for a Russian person to go by their middle exclusively, I'm pretty sure, and his decision to do so reflects something about how he views himself, I'd say.
But I had some fun with the names here. A very common complaint in Russian literature is English readers being confused about why everyone has "nine different names", which I find kinda funny.
>>Rao
Thanks. I think I targeted the right demographic here!
Final note:
Some may noticed I was concerned about someone deriding me for not having much connection to the art I linked. I'm very happy this was not the case. (I even wrote an explanation for myself beforehand!). In short, GGA suggested taking a shared element of multiple pictures and writing a story based off of that, and both pictures I tagged had some sort of fight or duel happening. This got me thinking about the duel in War and Peace, and then I thought of Oblomov, and so on.
For my first entry under my real alias, I'm quite happy. I frequently checked for reviews to assuage my fears, and I did not see much discussion in the Discord for my story. But Cassius told me not to get demotivated, and Monokeras told me that Cass and him were discussing my story privately, so that 'endorsement' really lifted my spirits.
Thanks again, all. I hope to participate more in the future!
Firstly, thanks for the comments and reviews. Secondly, I'm certainly surprised I got as far as 4th place, but I'm sure it was super close. I got a 'most controversial' medal, after all.
I'll go with some replies, I guess:
>>Miller Minus
There's an interesting throughline carrying this story along--a commentary on how important it is to have a purpose in life. It's not until he has a goal in mind that he is able to finish that letter and make plans for the future.
Sort-of, but I'm an Absurdist so I don't believe in inventing purposes for life.
It suffers, though, because he is so strangely detached from the duel he's about to face. There's no moment of realization that he's just done something incredibly stupid, even after he sobers up. He approaches his impending death the same way someone might react to losing their weekend to overtime at work.
You're pretty much right. While there were a few lines near the end where he reflected on how stupid the entire matter was—the risk of death in a duel initiated by such a petty dispute—it did bug me that he did not put up much resistance to the duel itself, and I never gave a real reason that he didn't consider apologizing. My official excuse is that I rushed the ending because I procrastinated and the deadline loomed.
For another minor point, I struggled to get too invested in the duel itself because I had no idea of the marksmanship skills of either of these two, so I didn't get a chance to wonder who was going to win. For all I knew, either of them could have been a chump, or a deadeye.
That's a good point as well. In War and Peace, which I am reading right now and greatly inspired this story, the marksmanship of two characters is known and briefly mentioned before their duel, which heightened the stakes and made the result more surprising. I should have taken a note from that!
The writing also felt a little slow, though not terribly slow. It felt like certain things were being dwelled on that didn't need to be mentioned, and certain things were given way more attention than they needed. The description of him waking up at the beginning, for instance, felt overlong, and it didn't give me the impression he was being lazy. More like something supernatural was going on with the light or the curtain. The laziness impression came later on through Olga, who was a great addition to the story.
I'm going to use the 'stylistic choice' card here. I wanted to give the impression that Mikhailovich spent so much time idle and consumed by thought and rumination instead of actual action. This wears off later because I sort-of rushed the ending, and also because I felt like he would be less observant while drunk and more mindful after his 'awakening'. I am glad you think Olga had a good role, though. I was a little concerned about that.
That's all I have to say for criticism, but I did have a suggestion for a different way to end the story. Feel free to disregard it. What if he won the duel? What if he rode the high and the celebration for a while, elating with his new band of friends until they eventually lose interest in him. Then, having still gotten no work done, he goes right back to his lazy lifestyle like nothing's changed, flying in the face of his promise that winning the duel would change his life and start him fresh. Once it's over, so is his purpose, and normal service resumes.
One of the works that inspired my story besides War and Peace is another work of Russian literature—Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov. Yep, it's where my name comes from!
There are no duels in that book, but the idea you are describing is similar to what happens in Oblomov, when he is 'awakened' and coaxed out of his idleness by the efforts of his friend Stolz and falling in love with a girl. Ultimately, he is too flawed to know how to love, and falls back into his squalor. I saw my story as a more short-fused exploration of similar ideas, and while the suggestion you have isn't bad, but it's the inverse of what I was shooting for and very similar to Oblomov.
>>Hap
How do you know that suggestion isn't the bitter cup he mentions?
I hope this is nothing more than a joke. I was a little scared someone would criticize me for making the death not-explicit!
I, too, felt the beginning was slow, and the end was rushed.
Yep, see reply to Miller.
>>Monokeras
I won’t comment on the Easter eggs I found all along this piece – Easter eggs which seem to be targeted specifically at me, BTW – which point (almost) unequivocally to one only possible author. I might be wrong, but I think the margin of error here is less that ten to power of minus twenty.
Anyone who knows me can easily single this one out as me. They're not exactly easter eggs; it's just that you know me too well.
Well, barring one thing: I’d say the action is set during the 19th century. Fine, I don’t have any problem with that, but please then refrain using modern terminology. For example, I found the repeated use of “technically” a bit jarring, knowing that this particular acception arose probably some time late in the 20th century. In any case, the use of that word felt anachronistic to me.
I am really bad at committing to settings because I am terrified that I don't know enough—that someone will call me out and say, "Hey! That's not how X works!" or "That's not what that city looks like!" Since the story was inspired primarily by two works of 19th century Russian literature, the setting was very vaguely similar, but I never named anywhere explicit to avoid the problem mentioned above. Also, I also was a little bothered by my use of 'technically' as well, but I kept it in.
>>Miller Minus
Real talk, though—I think the fact that his name is simply a repeat of father's is to show that he has no identity of his own, and that his father is an overbearing rich man who pays for everything for him. This would explain why he is such a layabout, and also how he survives it (Olga mentions that Mikhailovich is receiving a monthly allowance from the estate). I've seen that type of plot before in English stories with characters named "Junior".
This is pretty much it, yeah. Note the line: "'And don't call me Mikhail—that's my father's name.'" It would be pretty weird for a Russian person to go by their middle exclusively, I'm pretty sure, and his decision to do so reflects something about how he views himself, I'd say.
But I had some fun with the names here. A very common complaint in Russian literature is English readers being confused about why everyone has "nine different names", which I find kinda funny.
>>Rao
Thanks. I think I targeted the right demographic here!
Final note:
Some may noticed I was concerned about someone deriding me for not having much connection to the art I linked. I'm very happy this was not the case. (I even wrote an explanation for myself beforehand!). In short, GGA suggested taking a shared element of multiple pictures and writing a story based off of that, and both pictures I tagged had some sort of fight or duel happening. This got me thinking about the duel in War and Peace, and then I thought of Oblomov, and so on.
For my first entry under my real alias, I'm quite happy. I frequently checked for reviews to assuage my fears, and I did not see much discussion in the Discord for my story. But Cassius told me not to get demotivated, and Monokeras told me that Cass and him were discussing my story privately, so that 'endorsement' really lifted my spirits.
Thanks again, all. I hope to participate more in the future!