Chapter 70: Sukha Is a Form of Wisdom

The aftermath of Mikhail’s meeting with Dostoevsky was somewhat complicated.

First, there was Dostoevsky’s reaction: after Mikhail and his group left, he couldn’t help but laugh for a long while, too excited to sleep, and immediately sat down at his desk to share his joy with his brother, his closest friend:

“Hey, brother, my reputation—I believe—will soon reach a height you can’t imagine! Don’t think I’m rambling; on this night you know nothing of, do you know who I met?! I’m sure you’ve heard his name.

And if you knew what this gentleman thought of my novel, you’d fully believe what I just said!

I don’t know how to describe how I feel right now; perhaps I should talk about this with more people.”

Though it might seem a bit boastful, the series of events that followed unfolded exactly as the young Dostoevsky had hoped.

First, Nekrasov rushed to Belinsky and shouted at him: “Another Mikhail!”

Though Belinsky initially didn’t believe him, after hearing Mikhail’s views, he immediately took the novel and began reading it at once.

After reading it, just as he had done when he first met Mikhail, Belinsky promptly invited the young Dostoevsky for a meeting.

He affirmed his talent and smoothly brought him into Panayev’s circle.

Mikhail could only say that Panayev was remarkably resilient—despite everything, he’d managed to live quite well all along, clearly with substantial family wealth.

Also, Mikhail had been right: when he said they’d meet again at a gathering, they truly did meet again at a gathering.

Since they’d already brought Dostoevsky into their circle, they naturally needed a formal introduction, and this meeting was scheduled for the next gathering.

Besides witnessing Dostoevsky’s debut, Mikhail also took time to discuss with Nekrasov the publication date of the anthology; now that major novels had all been secured, they shouldn’t delay publication any longer.

After all, every morning Mikhail opened his eyes to find his interest payments had grown again.

Yet before discussing this with Nekrasov, Mikhail was surprised to find the general’s daughter had sent two letters at once, and one of them was surprisingly thick.

Though baffled, before heading to the gathering, Mikhail still took time to read her reply.

Unlike her previous letters, which were long-winded, this one was concise:

“Why have you never told me what you’ve been preparing lately? If I hadn’t heard a little about you from Ivan Sergeyevich, I wouldn’t have known you’ve been struggling for money—you gave not the slightest hint in your letters.”

Mikhail: “?”

Turgenev, you big mouth, what did you say?

“I can do little for you, but here are three hundred rubles—”

Mikhail: “???”

When did I suddenly start living off a woman’s money?

How come everyone here is so rich?

Though the girl seemed willing, Mikhail could only say he’d rather avoid it—especially living off a girl nearly his sister’s age—something he felt awkward about.

But before figuring out how to politely refuse, Mikhail headed to the gathering where Dostoevsky would make his debut.

When he arrived, the young Dostoevsky hadn’t shown up yet, but Belinsky and Nekrasov were already discussing “Poor Folk.”

The excitement had already passed; now they were debating where to place the story in the anthology, looking somewhat hesitant.

Upon seeing Mikhail, they immediately invited him over, eager to hear his opinion.

At this point, besides providing substantial funding for the “St. Petersburg Anthology,” Mikhail was also one of its contributors; had Dostoevsky not yet submitted “Poor Folk,” Mikhail’s own story would likely have opened the anthology.

But now—

“It should be ‘Poor Folk.’”

Mikhail, indifferent to the matter, smiled: “It deserves that spot. My story—you’ve read it—it’s too sparse. Too light. Maybe it could open the anthology if nothing else were available, but now that this work exists, there’s no need to hesitate.”

Upon hearing this, Nekrasov and Belinsky exchanged glances; then Belinsky took a deep breath and said, with quiet excitement and admiration:

“Mikhail, though I thought I knew you well, hearing you say this still fills me with genuine respect for your character.”

To be honest, it wasn’t a grand thing—but Belinsky had never met many who could so easily let go of such an advantage.

After settling that matter, Mikhail quickly found Turgenev and asked him, somewhat wearily, what he’d told the general’s daughter.

After hearing Mikhail’s words, Turgenev widened his eyes: “Mikhail, I swear to God, I only mentioned it in passing—I promise I didn’t say much.”

From your tone, she’s done something troubling you? Could it be…”

“Leave me alone!”

Waving Turgenev off, his head throbbing, Mikhail set the matter aside and slipped into the card game, joining the table amid the players’ startled glances.

As Mikhail began to win steadily, someone nearby brought up the “St. Petersburg Anthology,” especially Mikhail’s massive investment in it.

“Mikhail? Why such an impulsive move? That’s not like you.”

When someone voiced this doubt, Mikhail had just played his last card and won. He replied casually:

“Nothing. Betting everything is a kind of wisdom.”

Of course, it was nonsense—but he couldn’t reveal the real reason, so he made a joke, assuming no one would take it seriously.

Just as Mikhail thought this, he looked up and saw someone standing there, staring at him intently, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Mikhail, seeing the young Dostoevsky who had somehow arrived: “???”

Everyone else could hear that—but you? You’re the only one who shouldn’t have heard a single word!

(End of chapter)