Chapter 101: The Awakening at Longchang

As time slowly passed, the lively banquet at Mikhail’s home gradually came to an end.

First to leave were Mikhail’s friends from the apartment building; though they longed to fully let loose, they remembered the heavy workload awaiting them tomorrow and retained just enough sobriety to stagger home.

Had they failed to hold onto this courage to face life soberly, they would have become the common drunks of Saint Petersburg who never returned home at night.

For safety’s sake, Mikhail arranged carriages for them, while Turgenev, Dmitri, and others, due to their comfortable means, stayed a while longer at Mikhail’s.

As the crowd thinned, Belinsky, who had been unusually animated earlier, quickly grew listless—his face pale, breath ragged, and occasional violent coughs suggesting he might spit blood at any moment.

This frail state was, in fact, Belinsky’s most common condition.

Already in poor health, plagued by tuberculosis and long-term spiritual and material oppression, his physical condition had deteriorated to a dire state, so much so that he had once coldly told his friends:

“You are all young and healthy—you have hope. But I see no light ahead, and I am becoming a useless invalid.”

Under these circumstances, he sometimes avoided serious conversations to prevent overstimulating his nerves and worsening his already fragile health.

Today’s atmosphere had unconsciously stirred him, but once the excitement passed, his illness revealed itself in a deeply alarming form.

Fortunately, the early appearance of “The Contemporary” had greatly uplifted Belinsky, both spiritually and materially, making him appear radiant lately—but the root illness remained, and tuberculosis was still incurable in this era.

This ancient disease, tuberculosis, continued to plague many underdeveloped regions even in later centuries, and between the seventeenth and twentieth centuries, it afflicted countless people.

Chopin died of tuberculosis, Chekhov succumbed to worsening pulmonary illness, and Lu Xun also passed away from deteriorating lung disease.

The only consolation was that tuberculosis was a chronic illness; with proper rest and care, one might avoid dying in youth.

In the normal course of history, Belinsky, despite his illness, held out until 1847 before traveling to Europe for treatment, with travel expenses raised by friends, the largest sum coming from Herzen.

Though his condition improved somewhat after a period of rest, the Gogol incident and the Tsarist regime’s brutal persecution of the literary world utterly shattered his body, accelerating the decline of his lungs.

That distant future was beyond his control now, but Mikhail had already arranged to find Belinsky several reliable doctors—or even send him to Europe for rest.

Doctors were crucial, and one must never overestimate their skill in this era: even Gogol, with his wealth and status in Russia at the time, refused to cooperate with physicians in his final days, yet as he neared unconsciousness, they forcibly treated him:

First, they placed eight large leeches on his nose to draw blood, then lifted him into a warm bath, stripped him naked for a shower, then bled him, placed ice on his head, and poured hibiscus root juice down his throat… Gogol groaned and begged: “Remove the leeches, take them off my mouth…” His groans grew weaker until he fell utterly silent.

Merely imagining this made Mikhail shudder; as for his own health, for some reason, despite living in terrible conditions before, Mikhail had rarely even caught a cold or headache.

In an era rife with disease and upheaval, this was certainly a blessing.

After pondering this for a moment, Mikhail pulled Nekrasov aside and bluntly raised Belinsky’s health issue; Nekrasov, who had long been concerned about Belinsky, nodded repeatedly, but when it came to implementation, he sighed:

“I’ve long wanted to bring in good doctors to examine him, but you know—patients often fear a doctor’s diagnosis; this method would terrify Belinsky.”

As for traveling abroad for treatment, he’s now wholly absorbed in his work. I and Panayev tried mentioning it to him—he grew angry. He refuses to abandon “The Contemporary” under any circumstances.

He says that though we have the means to run the magazine well, our inexperience might lead to mistakes, and since many writers are hostile to “The Contemporary,” such errors would give them grounds to attack us mercilessly.”

Mikhail: “.”

What a chosen worker

“But Mikhail, if you were to persuade him, I think you’d succeed.”

Nekrasov added, thinking of something: “Consider this—your novel alone guarantees our magazine won’t lack subscribers for a long time, not to mention your other works. As long as you’re with us, “The Contemporary” never lacks confidence—and besides, you know a general’s daughter.”

That last bit was unnecessary!

Hearing this, Mikhail nodded, planning to find a quiet moment in the coming days to speak seriously with Belinsky—but for now, let him enjoy this rare joy.

Since it was a banquet, Belinsky had certainly drunk a bit, and in his high spirits, he wandered unconsciously to Mikhail’s card table and invited several friends to join.

But just as he was about to begin, he suddenly remembered something—his drunkenness vanished. He shot an angry glance at Turgenev, who was boasting to others, then looked at Mikhail with pleading eyes.

Turgenev: “???”

Why that look again?

Mikhail: “.”

Old Bel, you’re making me feel awkward.

Fine, fine—I’m not some devil.

Seeing Belinsky’s gaze, Mikhail, struggling to keep his composure, waved his large hand.

With that wave, Belinsky and those around him broke into joyful smiles, nodding eagerly as they began their card game without Mikhail.

Watching this scene, Mikhail, now idle, finally recalled his earlier unease. He rose and walked toward Dmitri and Old Dostoevsky, who still seemed deep in conversation.

Perhaps because he remembered Dmitri’s mention of something good, Mikhail joined them with apparent enthusiasm—but he still asked first: “Dmitri and Fyodor, did you know each other before? Why didn’t you ever mention it?”

“Huh?”

Hearing Mikhail’s question, Dmitri and Dostoevsky, who had been speaking, turned to him at once. They exchanged a brief, suppressed laugh, then Dmitri replied:

“We met at a small group gathering. Fyodor was there for the first time. I’d already heard you discovered him and his writings, and that you greatly admired his work—so we soon began talking, and discussed many things about you!”

But those are idle matters. Today, I want to tell you something else, Mikhail—do you remember the gatherings we attended once or twice in university? Of course, they’ve changed greatly since then: some have left, but many more have joined.

And the ideas we now discuss are entirely new, unlike anything before!

What a noble vision it is! No one could fail to long for the new world it promises! It’s far more powerful than any idea I’ve ever heard!”

Mikhail: “.”

Small group gathering, Dostoevsky, new ideas—and I used to attend them.

Why does this feel increasingly wrong?

Listening, Mikhail’s initial enthusiasm faded quickly. His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, inexplicable chill that enveloped him.

As his mind raced, he vaguely grasped something—and seeing Dmitri’s excitement and Dostoevsky’s faint agitation, he could no longer hold back:

“What exactly is this new idea? And where do you meet?”

“Mikhail, have you heard of Fourier and Saint-Simon? Have you heard of utopian socialism?”

Here, the bear-like man launched into a tale of coincidence:

“We meet at Mikhail’s house—ha ha, of course, another Mikhail: Mikhail Vasilievich Petrashevsky. We gather every Friday. Would you like to come? You can even read—he’s preparing to publish a pocket dictionary of foreign words in Russian, and he’ll use it to introduce this doctrine clearly and accessibly.”

Mikhail: “.”

Though he’d mentally prepared himself, hearing Dmitri’s words made Mikhail’s vision darken again and again.

Oh god, I was worried about Dostoevsky before—but now it seems I’m far more authoritative than he is.

(End of Chapter)