Chapter 68: Midnight Hours

Since no specific time or place had been agreed upon beforehand, by the time Grigoryevich finally found Nechayev and Mikhail, it was already quite late.

Seeing this, Nechayev had originally planned to set it aside and read it later when he had more free time, but for some reason, Mikhail seemed to place great importance on this newcomer’s manuscript—he even skipped dinner at the Panayevs’ house and pulled Nechayev aside to find a quiet place to read the novella.

Strange. This isn’t like Mikhail at all.

Though he suspected some demon might have possessed Mikhail, Nechayev, seeing Mikhail so unusually enthusiastic, finally took it seriously and prepared to read the novella carefully.

Although Nechayev himself had not yet produced any outstanding works, this did not prevent him from possessing sharp literary insight—the very reason he had become an excellent publisher.

But there was only one copy of the manuscript, so only one person could read the first page, then pass it page by page to the next.

The first reader, of course, was Mikhail; Nechayev was not in a hurry. After knowing him so long, he had no doubt whatsoever about Mikhail’s reading speed or his astonishing memory and learning ability.

Nechayev knew well that although Mikhail appeared to do nothing all day except eat, he actually spent many hours each day studying various things—sometimes languages, sometimes fashionable ideas, sometimes religion, sometimes social research and observation—and excelled at each.

This was rare. Take Belinsky, for instance: though he possessed acute insight and unique expression in literary criticism that few critics could match, he had no talent for French and had struggled for years without success.

Because he could not speak fluent French, Belinsky had drawn considerable criticism from some people.

As Nechayev had expected, Mikhail soon passed over the first page; from Mikhail’s expression, it seemed he thought the novella was quite good.

Thinking this, Nechayev began to read carefully.

“The Poor.”

As Nechayev’s expression gradually changed, Mikhail, though already thoroughly familiar with the novella, felt both the wonder of witnessing history and a deep emotional resonance as he reread it through the manuscript.

The plot of “The Poor” is not complex—it consists entirely of dozens of letters, through which vivid psychological depictions tell the story of the impoverished low-ranking clerk Makar and the orphan Varenka, whose relationship may or may not be love.

Though both were trapped in hardship, constantly battered by their environment and humiliated by others, their tormented souls still tried to use sincerity and kindness to resist the cruel, sick society’s erosion of the human spirit, to warm each other, and to attempt to escape their present despair together.

But in the end, they were irrevocably doomed to failure.

Through exploring the human psyche, Dostoevsky revealed how the cruel, sick reality of the external world corrodes and destroys the soul—this is one of the hallmarks of his novels.

Understanding this, one might also understand Dostoevsky’s own words:

“It is wrong to call me a psychologist. I am merely a realist in the highest sense; what I depict is the full depth of the human soul.”

Of course, the young Dostoevsky had not yet formed a complete and rigorous creative philosophy—so how had he written such a novel?

Undoubtedly, some writers require deep contemplation and thorough preparation to produce even an acceptable work, while others, simply following their instinct, produce works remembered by posterity.

Damn it.

Mikhail silently cursed inwardly, but then he realized—he himself was a kind of cheat too. Oh, never mind then.

Cough, cough.

In fact, the young Dostoevsky at this time did indeed behave like a Mao Touxiaozi in some ways.

Just as he knew his novella would almost certainly receive no reply today, he still could not help but hope—yet as time passed and night slowly engulfed St. Petersburg, it also gradually swallowed Dostoevsky’s restless heart.

When night fully arrived, this emotionally sensitive young man was suddenly overcome by melancholy. After sighing deeply for a while, he finally extinguished his lamp and lay down on his bed.

Though his mind was filled with thoughts, one after another racing across his sensitive nerves, as the night grew deeper, he eventually drifted into a drowsy sleep.

At that moment, the sound of a door opening suddenly rang out, followed by several hurried footsteps.

These sounds jolted the blond youth awake before he had fully fallen asleep; before he could feel annoyed, a possibility struck him—he froze for a long moment, then quickly rose, lighting the candle in his room.

As the candle’s dim red glow flickered to life, a knock came at the door.

The knock was quiet, but it made the blond youth’s heart pound wildly.

As he walked slowly to open the door, two men rushed in and seized him without ceremony, whispering with restrained excitement: “Another Mikhail!”

Though this was the praise the young man had dreamed of hearing, at this moment he had no attention left for his friend or the stranger beside him—he stared fixedly at the figure standing in the darkness outside the door.

That figure seemed to notice his gaze, and slowly stepped inside.

As he moved, the blond youth clearly saw the dim red candlelight creeping slowly up the shadowed figure, until the light fully illuminated the silhouette, until it revealed the person’s light yet solemn expression, until it danced within the depths of those dark eyes.

The blond youth watched as the young man before him smiled—a complex, mysterious smile—and extended his hand, saying:

“Mikhail, Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov.”

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

“Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.”

(End of Chapter)