Chapter 103: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Normally, Mikhail would avoid the Petrashevsky Circle gatherings as much as possible, though strictly speaking, they were merely a gathering of passionate youths for study and political debate; even if some genuinely wished to turn their ideas into reality, they never actually acted on them.

Thus, legally speaking, these people had not committed any substantive crime; if merely thinking a crime counted as guilt, then who in this world had not sinned?

But one thing was crucial: the law had never been as fair as it claimed to be, especially in today’s autocratic Russia with its harsh punishments; in fact, after their arrest, the young members of the Petrashevsky Circle were interrogated in rotation.

During this process, they met several of the Tsar’s most trusted generals—this was characteristic of Nicholas I’s rule: he favored military officers and at one point had not a single civil official beside him.

For these generals, their method of handling problems was roughly this: “Your Majesty, why waste words on these people?”

General Dubelt, head of the Third Section overseeing the interrogations, held an even simpler view: “If they’ve been arrested, they’re criminals! Get them sentenced quickly!”

So although some expressed regret during interrogation, and many insisted they hated not Nicholas I’s government but the terrible serfdom, they were all sentenced to death.

Of course, after reading the interrogation reports, Nicholas I realized these people had no intention of overthrowing the Tsar, which posed no threat to his absolute power; moreover, like many great men, Nicholas I, though autocratic, still liked to cultivate an image of an enlightened monarch among the people.

So he decided to show mercy outside the law, commuting their death sentences to exile; but to make an example of them and frighten these youths and future unenlightened intellectuals, the mock execution was staged.

This was Russia’s version of “He should still thank us for this!”

But now, Mikhail couldn’t run away even if he wanted to; even if his own involvement came early and might not be affected, he still had to consider Demi and Old Tuo; yet after calming down and thinking carefully, Mikhail realized there was still a way.

Play it safe, and the best strategy is to flee; be bold, and the strategist should throw himself into the scheme, using his reputation to influence the group, telling them the time isn’t ripe, to lie low and wait for the right moment, then strike like a dragon’s spear and seize the Tsar’s throne!

But honestly, that last part was pure boasting; yes, this was an era when new ideas bloomed everywhere, but the root cause of these ideas lay in the social and class contradictions already reached in European nations; why then had Russian intellectuals accepted these ideas one after another?

Because Saint Petersburg had already reached this point.

Then what kind of life did ordinary people across Russia’s vast regions lead?

Forget now—even by the 18th century, abandon these universities, academies, and schools… go to the people!

This call received enthusiastic responses from countless idealistic youths; they abandoned urban life, flocked to the countryside, wore peasant clothing, spoke peasant dialects, lived peasant lives, spread knowledge to peasants, taught them to read and write, treated their illnesses, and carried out revolutionary propaganda.

But they were not understood by the peasants; many were even betrayed by those they had helped, handed over to local police.

Why this happened need not be explained now; in any case, Mikhail would most likely still go to the Petrashevsky Circle gathering, but before going, he needed to prepare himself mentally.

Since the end of that banquet, Mikhail had been handling one task after another: first, going to the publishing house, then using the opportunity to discuss matters again with Nekrasov and Panaev, and finally inviting Belinsky to his office.

On this ordinary day, since everyone was busy in the morning, by the time Mikhail sat in his office chair waiting for Belinsky, the slanting, golden afternoon light streaming through the window had already fallen upon him.

Mikhail’s fingers were interlocked as he pondered certain questions, while Nekrasov and Panaev, seated beside his desk, looked deeply troubled.

Just as Belinsky was expected to arrive, Panaev, the oldest but least composed of them, spoke up: “Mikhail and Nikolai, can we really persuade Vissarion to go quietly for treatment and rest? Especially by year’s end—I suspect he’ll be even more reluctant.”

“We’re only informing him now, not sending him off immediately; look, thanks to our recent efforts, our magazine has truly stabilized—we’ve received enough submissions to keep it running, and besides, there’s Mikhail.”

After saying this to Panaev, Nekrasov turned toward Mikhail, bathed in the golden light.

But before Mikhail could speak, a knock came at the door, and Belinsky entered; unlike his usual passionate demeanor at work, he seemed to have forced himself awake—likely due to renewed discomfort—and coughed incessantly while his back was hunched.

Yet even so, after greeting Mikhail and the others, Belinsky quickly asked: “Gentlemen, has something major happened? Is our magazine facing new difficulties?”

“No, dear Vissarion.”

Seeing Belinsky immediately grow anxious, Nekrasov hurried to say: “Our magazine is doing excellently—sales keep rising, and next issue will sell even better; we’ve already secured all submissions for the next issue, so there’s absolutely no need to worry.”

This was no lie; during the promotional phase, the latest issue of *The Contemporary* had already secured fifteen hundred subscribers.

With the first issue’s release and its growing reputation, sales at bookstores and elsewhere amounted to a substantial number beyond the base subscribers.

Perhaps because the serialized novel was published in installments, subscriber growth was rapid; less than a month had passed, and subscribers had surged from a thousand to nearly twenty-five hundred—a number clearly not yet at its peak.

Recall that *The Fatherland Notes*, one of Saint Petersburg’s best-selling magazines, after years of reputation-building, had only thirty-five hundred subscribers—nearly covering all literary households in Saint Petersburg.

For Mikhail’s group to have achieved this so soon after taking over the magazine was already extraordinary.

The most direct proof: before they took over, *The Contemporary*’s subscribers had plummeted to just a few hundred.

In a sense, *The Contemporary*, Russia’s earliest literary magazine, had truly been revived by Mikhail and his team.

And this was only the subscriber count; many others had no habit of subscribing but visited bookstores monthly to browse before deciding whether to buy.

With the retail price at one ruble and fifty kopecks, combining monthly subscribers and additional sales, revenue could easily reach six thousand rubles per month.

Sounds staggering, but after deducting printing costs, promotion expenses, and payments to staff and authors, the profit wouldn’t be much.

Still, it was undeniably profitable; in the actual history, Nekrasov became so successful in publishing that he moved into a grand villa, ate exquisite food, amassed a fortune, traveled abroad at will, and funded others.

In later times, a literary magazine surviving without bankruptcy was already a miracle—let alone making big money.

In short, given the current situation, as one of *The Contemporary*’s main owners, Mikhail was earning quite a lot; in another two or three years, he’d truly live in a grand villa and eat whatever he pleased.

But back to now: though Belinsky smiled happily upon hearing this, he emphasized, “This is good, but think long-term—what exactly do you want to discuss with me? If it’s not urgent, let me go—I have work to finish!”

“I need to return and keep writing! I still have so much to do!”

Perhaps due to excitement, Belinsky suddenly burst into violent coughing; it took a long while to subside. Though nothing was visible, the intensity suggested his throat likely tasted of rust.

Mikhail: “.”

Suddenly felt like I’d become a capitalist—of the most heartless kind.

Seeing Belinsky’s condition, Mikhail exchanged glances with Nekrasov and Panaev, then dropped all pretense and spoke gently: “Dear Vissarion, we plan to send you to a suitable place for rest and recovery by year’s end.”

“My health is fine! And where will the money come from? If we draw from the magazine’s finances, how will we keep it running?!”

Before Mikhail could finish, Belinsky, suddenly alarmed, firmly refused.

But before he could say more, he burst into another coughing fit.

This is “fine”?

Seeing this, Mikhail sighed and continued: “Vissarion, not now—by year’s end, when the magazine’s situation will surely be much better. And it won’t be just us—your other friends will contribute too.”

“As for the magazine’s operations, don’t worry—I’m here. I can write poetry and novels right now that are good enough for publication.”

Knowing Belinsky’s concerns well, Mikhail, unusually, boasted—only for Belinsky, still unable to let go of the magazine’s work, to immediately reply:

“Really, Mikhail? If you can, write one now—next issue lacks a major piece. If you can’t, forget it.”

Mikhail: “?”

Still thinking about the magazine’s submissions? You piece of work, Belinsky.

Hearing Belinsky’s slightly cheeky remark, Mikhail, though exasperated, picked up the pen and paper already on the desk.

Seeing his action, the three men froze; they wanted to speak, but opened their mouths and remained silent, staring dumbly as Mikhail, bathed in golden light, wrote with a goose quill.

Due to the light, they could barely make out Mikhail’s face, yet they couldn’t help watching his every movement; after an impossibly brief, yet seemingly century-long moment, Mikhail finally stopped, handing the paper to the trembling Belinsky, and his blurred face moved as he spoke:

“Dear Vissarion, I’ve heard you’ve spoken many despairing words about illness and time; now that the chance exists, you must be more careful—how else will you see the future ahead?”

Listening to Mikhail, Belinsky seemed to nod slightly, but his eyes kept returning to the words on the paper; in such a short time, he could only have written a poem:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

The attitude the elderly should hold toward life?

Belinsky’s age was not yet great, but in an era of low average lifespan, and with his frail body, perhaps in some midnight hours, he had entertained bleak thoughts.

Yet recalling Mikhail’s earlier poem, this one might carry another meaning.

But Belinsky had no time to ponder further; his spirit trembled, and he continued reading:

“Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

[85] Do not go gentle into that good night.

[86] Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

[87] (End of chapter)