Chapter 68: Midnight Hour

Since no specific time and place had been agreed upon in advance, by the time Grigoryevich finally found Nekrasov and Mikhail, it was already quite late.

Seeing this, Nekrasov had originally intended to set it aside and read it slowly when other, more free time came, but for some reason, Mikhail seemed to value this newcomer's manuscript greatly; he even skipped dinner at Panayev's house and pulled him to a quiet place specifically to read this novella.

Strange, this simply does not seem like Mikhail.

Although he suspected somewhat that some devil might have possessed Mikhail, since it was rare to see Mikhail so enthusiastic, Nekrasov ultimately became much more serious and prepared to read this novella carefully.

Although up to this point, Nekrasov could not claim to have produced outstanding works, this did not hinder him from possessing very precise literary judgment, which was also a major factor enabling him to become an excellent publisher.

However, there was only one manuscript; if they were to read it, only one person could read the first page first, then pass it page by page to the person behind.

The one to read first was naturally Mikhail; regarding this, Nekrasov was not anxious. Having known each other for so long, he now had no doubt at all about Mikhail's reading speed and his astonishing memory and learning ability.

Nekrasov knew very well that although Mikhail seemed to do nothing all day except eat, in reality he spent a lot of time every day learning various things; sometimes it was languages, sometimes some fashionable thought, sometimes religion, and sometimes social research and observation, and he did every single one quite well.

This was very rare; after all, like Belinsky, although he possessed keen insight and a unique mode of expression in literary criticism that many critics never had, he indeed had no talent for French and had studied for a long time without yet succeeding.

And precisely because he could not speak a word of authentic French, Belinsky indeed received quite a bit of criticism from some people.

Returning to the main topic, as Nekrasov expected, not long after, Mikhail passed the first page over, and judging from the expression on Mikhail's face, it seemed he thought this novel looked not bad?

Thinking this, Nekrasov began to read seriously.

"Poor People".

As Nekrasov's expression gradually changed, although Mikhail had long known this novel by heart, reading it again now through the manuscript gave him both the astonishment of witnessing history and, at the same time, many feelings because of this novel.

The plot of "Poor People" is not complicated; the whole work consists of dozens of letters, which, through these letters filled with vivid psychological descriptions, tell the love story, whether it is love or not, between the low-ranking clerk Manka in difficult circumstances and the orphan girl Vanka.

Although they were both in difficult circumstances, constantly facing the ravages of their environment and the humiliation of others, they, whose hearts were tormented, were still trying to use their sincerity and kindness to resist the erosion of the human soul by this cruel and sick society, to warm each other, and to try to walk out of their current predicament together.

But in the end, they still irretrievably headed toward failure.

Exploring the human spiritual world to reveal the erosion and destruction inflicted on people by the cruel and sick reality outside is one of the major characteristics of Old Dostoevsky's novels.

Understanding this point, one can probably also understand Old Dostoevsky's statement:

"It is wrong to call me a psychologist; I am only a realist in the highest sense; what I depict is nothing but the entire depth of the human soul."

Of course, Old Dostoevsky now probably had not yet formed a complete and rigorous creative concept; so the question arises, how did he write such a novel?

Without exaggeration, some writers must undergo deep reflection and very thorough preparation before completing a passable work, but some writers, simply following their feelings, can produce works that will be remembered by posterity.

Damn, a cheat!

Mikhail cursed this quietly in his heart, but then thought to himself, he himself was also a cheat in another sense; oh, then it's fine.

Ahem, ahem.

In fact, Dostoevsky in this period indeed behaved like a young ruffian in some aspects.

Just as he knew full well that his novel basically could not receive a reply today, he still could not help but look forward to it; however, as time passed, the night gradually eroded St. Petersburg and also gradually eroded Dostoevsky's anxious and restless heart.

When night fell completely, this sensitive young man was inexplicably enveloped by a melancholy mood; after sighing deeply for a while, he finally extinguished his lamp and lay down on his bed.

Although many things were hidden in his head and one thought after another swept across his sensitive nerves, as the night grew deeper and deeper, he finally drifted off to sleep in a daze.

And just then, the sound of a door opening suddenly rang out, followed by the somewhat chaotic footsteps of several people.

These sounds instantly woke the blond youth who had not yet fallen into deep sleep; but before he could feel annoyed, thinking of a certain possibility, he suddenly stood still for quite a while; after finally coming to his senses, this youth hurriedly got up and lit the candle in his room.

As the dim red light of the candle lit up, the sound of knocking also followed.

This sound was not loud, but it made the blond youth's heart pound wildly.

When he walked step by step to open the door, two people immediately rushed in, without saying a word, grabbed him, and shouted with some restraint: "Another Mikhail!"

Although this was praise this young man dreamed of hearing, at this very moment he had no spare mind to attend to his friend and another man he did not know; he just stared fixedly at the person standing in the darkness outside the room.

That person seemed to notice his gaze, so he slowly walked in.

With his movement, the blond youth saw very clearly that the dim red candlelight in his hand was climbing bit by bit on that figure shrouded in darkness, until the candlelight completely illuminated this silhouette, until the candlelight reflected the light yet solemn expression on this person's face, until the candlelight flickered in this person's deep black eyes.

The blond youth just watched as this young man before him revealed a complex and hard-to-understand smile full of mystery, watched him extend his own hand and speak:

"Mikhail, Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov."

As if awakened by this distant voice, the blond youth extended his slightly trembling hand, then opened his slightly trembling lips and replied:

"Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky."

(End of this chapter)