Chapter 66: Chance Encounter

Although Mikhail was deeply surprised by Tushenbach’s wealth and his trust in him, to be honest, if not necessary, Mikhail certainly did not want to spend this old man’s gold coins, lest it seem as if he had ulterior motives.

But under the old man’s persistent insistence, Mikhail could only nod, almost ready to recite right then and there:

“Mikhail has wandered half his life, regretting he never met a wise lord; if you will not reject me, Mikhail wishes to take you as his adoptive father!”

Perhaps because sincerity begets sincerity, up to now Mikhail found that those around him had been quite kind to him—truly, there was nothing to complain about.

Mikhail could only note this in his heart, planning to repay every penny as soon as he sold the collection, then add some small gifts.

After chatting warmly with the people in the apartment and spending time with his mother and sister, Mikhail finally had a moment of free time. He briefly calculated his debts, felt the pressure mounting, then lay down on his stiff sofa, ready to read the reply he had received that morning.

As for who sent the reply, it was naturally the young lady from the General’s household.

Notably, in his previous reply, Mikhail had written nothing extraordinary—mostly just praising her genuinely admirable ideas, answering the questions she had posed, and at the end, after much thought, he finally imitated her style and wrote a little about his recent life.

To be honest, there was little worth saying, and since her own writing seemed equally unremarkable, Mikhail decided to write about how he had been mooching meals at others’ homes.

Of course, he softened it a bit—I, Mikhail, am also a man of dignity.

This time, perhaps because she had never encountered the kind of life Mikhail now led, or perhaps because his words gave her a perfect opening to ask, the young lady expressed great curiosity about what he had written:

“Could you tell me more about this?”

“It sounds fascinating—I’ve had a similar experience myself.”

“I never imagined you’d do something like that—I think…”

Is it because she’s never seen poverty, so she’s curious?

Looking at those ornate words, warm yet restrained, Mikhail couldn’t help but stroke his chin.

Could it be—pfft! What am I thinking?

Stopping his idle thoughts, Mikhail continued reading. Below was the young lady’s opinion on his latest short story, “The Chameleon,” and the General’s own view of it:

“It’s incredibly interesting! To be honest, I feel a bit ashamed—I had long accepted the behavior of so many people at gatherings as normal and inevitable, but after reading your story, I can no longer even look them in the eye!”

Only God knows how hard I’m holding back—and how can some of them read your story while acting out exactly what you describe? It’s baffling.

As for my father’s opinion of your story, let me tell you now—please, for God’s sake, don’t laugh too hard at his remarks.

He said: “This story is truly excellent! The most moving part is the protagonist’s attitude toward the General—that’s the only admirable trait he has. Yes, one should treat a General this way—even the General’s brother’s dog!”

Mikhail: “?”

No wonder the General sees things so uniquely.

As he read, Mikhail’s lips involuntarily curved upward. When he finished the letter, he suddenly felt his mood had lifted considerably.

And as before, the letter ended with several sheets of fine paper. This time, Mikhail no longer hesitated—he walked briskly to his desk, sat down, and began writing his reply.

Writing letters to this young lady felt surprisingly pleasant.

After finishing his reply, it was already the next morning. Mikhail went out to mail the letter, then headed as usual toward Panayev’s house.

Hmm, when my brothers and I have money, we’ll definitely invite Panayev to our place for a proper feast.

On the way to Panayev’s, as he walked, Mikhail suddenly spotted a familiar figure.

“Hey, Nikolai.”

Upon hearing Mikhail’s voice, Nekrasov, who had been walking with a tall young man, turned around. He exchanged a knowing smile with Mikhail, then introduced him:

“This is Grigoryevich, one of the contributors to my earlier small anthology.”

After a brief introduction, Nekrasov turned to the young man and said: “This is Mikhail, the one you’ve mentioned to me so often.”

Before Nekrasov could finish, the tall young man burst into excitement, hurried forward to shake Mikhail’s hand, and stammered:

“Respected Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, what an honor! I’ve heard your name countless times, but this is our first meeting—Lord above, I don’t even know what to say now.”

In Grigoryevich’s own view, this excitement was inevitable.

After all, in today’s Saint Petersburg, how many young writers hadn’t heard of Mikhail?

His profound themes, concise expression, understated yet intense lyricism, his surgical pen—though criticized by many in the cultural world—had already inspired young authors to imitate him!

Who among the young hasn’t dreamed of being a genius writer appearing out of nowhere?

And he was so young!

“I’m equally honored to meet you.” Grigoryevich was ecstatic; when Mikhail heard the young man’s name, his heart stirred slightly, but he suppressed his doubts and firmly shook the excited young man’s hand.

Once Grigoryevich had calmed down a little, Nekrasov, seeking to lighten the mood, smiled and said: “We were just talking about one of Grigoryevich’s friends—he’s thinking of submitting something. Grigoryevich came to ask if it might be accepted here.”

“What’s his name?”

Mikhail asked.

“Fyodor, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.”

End of month—gentlemen with tickets, please toss them my way (dog head)

Also, thank you to the patrons: “Miyazaki Potato Cake,” “Fish Me Again,” “Cool Weather Always Comes After Autumn Rains,” “Void Deity,” and “Reading Cat Pope”—thank you so much!

Also, I recommend a novel by another master: a historical fiction set in the Wei, Jin, and Southern and Northern Dynasties—interested readers should check it out.

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(End of Chapter)