Chapter 72: Get Familiar with the Environment

Seeing the nervous, shy young man return, Belinsky couldn’t help exchanging a glance with Nekrasov; just as they were wondering what was going on, Dostoevsky could no longer hold back and asked:

“I heard they say that the honorable Mikhail is engaged in a high-stakes gamble? What exactly is this gamble?”

To be honest, the moment he heard the word “high-stakes gamble,” Dostoevsky’s heart leapt violently—both with an inexplicable thrill and a sharp, pulsing pain.

Only God knew how much he missed those lost rubles.

Upon hearing Dostoevsky’s question, Belinsky and Nekrasov couldn’t help sharing a smile; then Nekrasov chuckled and said:

“The ‘high-stakes gamble’ they’re referring to is the anthology we’re jointly preparing—and your novel will be placed at the very beginning of it.”

“Oh?”

Perhaps because his eagerness to know the details was too great, the young man momentarily forgot his own novel and pressed on: “But if it’s just publishing an anthology, why call it a high-stakes gamble?”

In Dostoevsky’s mind, publishing an anthology didn’t seem to earn much money, and there was no precedent for such a thing—how much could it possibly cost to publish just one anthology?

“Because Mikhail has already poured nearly two thousand rubles into it, bit by bit.”

After a quick mental calculation, Nekrasov continued with a sigh: “That doesn’t even include the price Mikhail paid for his own contribution. You know, even the stingy Mr. Krayevsky pays Mikhail a price few others could ever get for his novels.”

“Nearly two thousand rubles?!”

Dostoevsky froze at the number, then instinctively asked: “Then the honorable Mikhail must be very wealthy?”

“No, his circumstances are quite ordinary,” Nekrasov said after careful thought. “Not long ago, he lived on his writing fees—and he still does. As for the money poured into the anthology, some was gifted to him, some seems to have been borrowed.”

“Ah?”

Hearing this, Dostoevsky felt blood rushing to his head; soon, his pale face flushed with excitement. After confirming Nekrasov wasn’t joking and carefully studying Mikhail’s attire, Dostoevsky let out a trembling, mournful sigh:

“Oh God, how could he do this? Doesn’t he think about his own life at all? He’s already poured in so much money—and it’s borrowed! I can’t imagine what he’ll do if the anthology sells poorly.”

In that moment, the young Dostoevsky even wanted to rush over and have a serious talk with Mikhail—even if he had to use himself as an example!

Well, at this stage, old Dostoevsky was a gambler, but not yet a true one—and the last time he gambled, the consequences had left him heartbroken.

So now, the situation could be put this way: old Dostoevsky, this little gambler, had been stunned by a real gambler.

“We’ve also advised Mikhail the same way.”

Seeing Dostoevsky’s reaction, Nekrasov felt as if he were seeing his former self, and said with deep empathy: “But from the start, Mikhail has shown absolute confidence in this decision. Over time, I even found myself wanting to join him in the gamble!”

Just as he once told all of us at gatherings: There is no path in the world—until enough people walk it, it becomes one.

Of course, I know this phrase surely extends far beyond this context; someday, many more will repeat Mikhail’s words again and again.

But for now, you can hear from this phrase his unwavering determination and relentless forward momentum.”

There is no path in the world—until enough people walk it, it becomes one.

Repeating the phrase several times in his mind, Dostoevsky couldn’t help glancing at Mikhail.

At this moment, the handsome young man still wore his worn-out coat; his face held no strong expression, only an indescribable calm. His posture was relaxed—he leaned back in his chair, one leg draped over the other.

When it wasn’t his turn, he propped his head up with his wrist, watching the others’ games with serene composure.

Yet none of the well-dressed gentlemen in the room showed any disapproval; instead, they occasionally glanced at him, as if seeking his opinion on some matter.

When a sliver of sunlight fell upon him, Dostoevsky had a fleeting moment where he truly believed he was seeing an angel.

Perhaps Dostoevsky stared too long—so long that Mikhail, who had been distracted by the pain in his neck, finally noticed and turned his gaze toward him.

The reason for the neck pain was simple: anyone who sleeps too long on a hard sofa will suffer from it.

And when Mikhail’s eyes met old Dostoevsky’s again:

Mikhail: “???”

What kind of look is that, brother? You’re making me nervous.

And Belinsky, Nekrasov—please don’t say any more unnecessary words!

After a brief thought about how Dostoevsky would react to their conversation, Mikhail’s lips twitched—but since it was too late now, he tossed down all his remaining cards and sighed:

“I won.”

No sooner had he sighed than the others began to protest:

“Mikhail, why sigh after winning? Are you really possessed by a demon?”

“That sigh alone should count as a loss!”

“Come on, Mikhail—how can you win like this? Even at a casino, I’d win at least twice!”

Facing their complaints, Mikhail found their noise unbearable—but when he saw Dostoevsky suddenly grow animated and eagerly speak to Belinsky and Nekrasov, his heart sank with a dull thud.

You’re making me afraid to publish this anthology now.

Forget it, just publish it already.

Otherwise, I might end up in jail not for my writings, but for debt—just to get familiar with the environment first.

Thank you to the generous patrons: “Shanhaifeiyu,” “Youshui,” “Xifangbawei,” “Luoluo timian,” “Dunskoy,” “Zuojuyou,” and “Tianqibianliang zong shi qiu hou jichangyu.” Thank you so much!

Also, a friendly recommendation for a new novel: “In Russia: I Have a Daily Intelligence System.”

A story set in contemporary Russia—those interested may give it a read.



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(End of Chapter)