Chapter 78: Old Dostoevsky Between Gains and Illusions (Part 1 & 2 Combined)

Mikhail could actually understand Nekrasov's arrival; after all, the anthology's sales truly concerned matters of life and death for both him and Mikhail. If it really failed, Nekrasov might never again be able to hold his head high before Panaeva, and Mikhail would truly have to consider whether to endure the pain of living off a woman.

Precisely because of this, unlike Mikhail's infant-like sleep, Nekrasov was so excited the night before the anthology's release that he could not sleep at all; after lying in bed with wandering thoughts for half the night, Nekrasov simply gave up on sleep, dressed himself, and prepared to go observe the situation at the bookstores.

As for the more famous bookstores and coffeehouses in Saint Petersburg—places with a rich cultural atmosphere—Mikhail had advised Nekrasov to deal with the owners of these establishments; though it cost considerable money, they indeed received quite satisfactory responses, so all that remained was to see how the anthology performed.

Nekrasov had thought he had arrived absurdly early, yet unexpectedly someone else had arrived at roughly the same time, and that person was also heading to a bookstore.

Carrying a dual mood of excitement and apprehension, Nekrasov casually found a spot and began to lie in wait, preparing to see exactly what the situation was.

As time passed, Nekrasov's mood grew increasingly agitated, until finally he could no longer stay put; with a leap from where he stood, he went to find Mikhail.

Then, along the way, he happened to encounter Dostoevsky, who was holding the anthology and muttering mysteriously to himself; after exchanging greetings and seeing that the other man also seemed tremulous over Mikhail's new work, Nekrasov simply dragged Dostoevsky along with him.

Upon learning the sequence of events, Mikhail: "."

It seems that today, no matter what, I shall not be able to sleep in.

After Nekrasov's arrival, he and Turgenev, along with old Dostoevsky beside them, indulged in their excitement for quite some time on their own, speaking passionately for a while, before all three turned to Mikhail and said:

"Mikhail, recite your poem for us! Nothing can lift our spirits more than that poem of yours!"

Mikhail: "."

I still want to sleep; where would I find the energy to recite for you?

"Wait until I have washed and dressed, then we can talk once we are outside."

Seeing that the several men in his tiny cubicle were nearly embracing one another, Mikhail realized he simply could not sleep anymore, so he straightforwardly invited them to take a walk together afterward and have a cup of tea or coffee.

Mikhail did not keep the three waiting long; within a short while, four men whose appearances differed considerably were walking along the street.

Among them, the one dressed best and appearing most respectable was old Turgenev; slightly less so was old Dostoevsky; less still was Nekrasov; and unquestionably at the lowest end of the clothing ecosystem was Mikhail, who had been wearing the same overcoat for three or four years.

Yet, faintly, such a small group seemed to revolve around Mikhail as its center.

The four men walked straight toward a rather famous coffeehouse within Petersburg.

In present-day Russia, almost more than ninety-five percent of the region still lived the traditional agrarian life of old; only in the two great cities of Saint Petersburg and Moscow did fashion slightly keep pace with that of old France and old England in Europe at this time.

One manifestation of this fashion was the emergence of public spaces such as coffeehouses, where cultured people or those interested in culture often gathered to discuss art and philosophy, boast a little, and, most indispensably, debate state affairs.

Of course, in Saint Petersburg there was certainly not the same overt boldness as in the revolutionary old region of old France; more often, such discussions took place privately within salons.

Even so, many educated young people, or Russians who greatly admired European culture, whether out of a desire to follow fashion or for other reasons, were often quite willing to linger here for a while.

Under normal circumstances, the topics in a place like a coffeehouse were diverse, with people chatting about all sorts of things, but today they were unusually unified.

When Mikhail and his companions arrived, this place, which should have been extremely noisy, was instead somewhat quiet, with only the sound of someone loudly reading a novel echoing within.

Generally, reading novels aloud was something done in private; after all, in a public setting with so many people, how could one be certain that everyone would be interested in the same novel?

Yet perhaps because the works of that author named Mikhail had recently been so refined and concise, in any case, quite a number of people were willing to spend some time reading or listening, and the novel currently being read was undoubtedly the piece titled "The Coward," which had just appeared in the anthology.

Once this novel finished being read, the coffeehouse immediately became as bustling as boiling water, with discussions erupting all at once, many of which reached Mikhail's ears:

"Clearly he is demanding the money owed to him, so why is he still so timid and submissive? One should fight for what is one's own! Mere endurance and concession will ultimately yield nothing."

"Look at you, speaking too simply; are there not times when one wishes to strike back but cannot? There are always certain people and certain systems binding your hands and feet, leaving you unable to move!"

"Are you referring to...?"

"Hey! Petrov! Why are you playing the fool here?"

"Her repeated 'Merci' truly became unbearable to me; if one cannot resist injustice, then why unconsciously accept it? Compared with cowardice in action, cowardice of the spirit is the most fatal!"

Just as Mikhail was listening intently, Turgenev, sitting beside him, suddenly spoke: "Mikhail, if they were to recognize you, they would surely invite you to say a few words before everyone! It is a pity that you appear too rarely at various salons and gatherings; otherwise, they would certainly recognize you!"

Mikhail: "."

Say a few words? Say what? Say that our Russia should not be as it is now?

Other places might be fine, but do you truly believe His Majesty the Tsar's radiance does not shine upon a coffeehouse right at his own doorstep?

Waving his hand to brush the matter aside, the several men ordered a few items to refresh their minds; as for reciting poetry, Mikhail need not do it himself, and before long, the sound of passionate poetry recitation arose once more within the coffeehouse.

Compared with the questioning and reflection brought by the novel, this poem, whose specific referent was unclear yet which was exceptionally grand and full of vitality, brought a far more intense emotional impact, as well as a certain inexplicable surge of feeling.

Poetry itself is an art form of extreme condensation containing immense emotional density; coupled with its long-standing lofty status as the crown of the arts, to a certain extent it can indeed cause more people to be directly impacted.

This led to such a problem: Mikhail, situated within the coffeehouse, truly felt his head buzzing; from all directions came impassioned voices, so that anyone unaware might think a riot was about to break out here.

Unlike Mikhail's headache, the other three at the table watched the surrounding scene with a hint of envy, and then Nekrasov could not help but turn to Mikhail and say, "Listen, Mikhail, they are all discussing you; if one day my poetry could receive such treatment, I would have no regrets left."

"This poem of yours, 'On the Road,' is already good enough."

Hearing Nekrasov's words, Mikhail replied with considerable seriousness: "From it I can feel your courage and sincere emotion; it will surely be repeatedly mentioned in the time to come."

"Thank you for your affirmation, Mikhail."

Upon hearing this, while moved, Nekrasov thought of something and could not help but ask, "By the way, may I ask? What exactly does the sun in your poem represent? If it were purely a natural scene, there would be no need to emphasize it so repeatedly."

Facing this question, Mikhail offered no lengthy explanation; he simply pointed a finger at his heart and said, "Everyone will have their own answer; seizing that instant of emotional eruption and feeling the true thoughts and hidden corners within one's own heart—that is what is most important."

"You are right."

In a dazed state, Nekrasov seemed to grasp something, so he immediately nodded thoughtfully and said, "I feel that in this poem of yours I have seen a new expressive technique; perhaps next I can try employing it as well."

"See to it as you wish, Nikolai; judging by the current sales of our anthology, you will likely soon free yourself from your debts and then be able to write poetry properly for a stretch of time."

For a future great poet like Nekrasov, others' artistic experience often becomes nourishment in his process of growth rather than causing excessive interference, so Mikhail was not worried that this poem would exert any adverse influence upon him.

And upon hearing the words "free yourself from debts," old Dostoevsky, who had been somewhat shy just before, suddenly seemed to trigger some switch and immediately asked:

"Nikolai and Mikhail, how many copies of this anthology did you print in total? Judging by the current momentum, I estimate that all two thousand copies might be sold."

He knew the price was not cheap; in order to read his own novel and others' novels as soon as possible, old Dostoevsky had gone out early to buy the book.

Had it not been for obtaining over one hundred rubles in manuscript fees from Nekrasov thanks to his novel "Poor Folk," the money for purchasing this book might truly have made his flesh ache.

Even so, due to repaying some debts and buying a few things to celebrate, Dostoevsky had recently suddenly discovered that this manuscript fee, which had just come into his hands, seemed nearly exhausted...

To return to the main point, judging by the current sales situation of the "Petersburg Anthology," the great gamble undertaken by Mikhail and Nekrasov had most likely already succeeded; at three rubles per copy, two thousand copies would amount to a full six thousand rubles!

Even after deducting costs, there should still be considerable surplus, likely nearly matching the inheritance he had received!

How wonderful; it seems Mikhail's great gamble is truly about to be won, so what he said must also be correct...

Seeing that old Dostoevsky's complexion grew increasingly strange after posing this question, Mikhail's heart suddenly gave a thump; just as he was about to brush it off or play the victim, the excited Nekrasov directly said:

"Not just that! We printed a full four or five thousand copies! Moreover, based on Mikhail's suggestions, some were made into collector's editions and commemorative editions; these books will sell for an even higher price!"

Mikhail: "..."

Old Nye's vision went black.

At the same time Mikhail's vision went black, the young Dostoevsky stood frozen in place as if struck by lightning.

Four or five thousand copies, even at current prices, would sell for a full fifteen thousand rubles!

That was nearly ten times the inheritance he had received!

And if Mikhail had invested just under two thousand rubles, then this would be a return rate of two to three hundred percent!

With this thought, Mikhail's words began to echo again in Old To's ears:

"You must know, daring to commit everything is also a manifestation of wisdom."

If Mikhail could do so, then I, Dostoevsky, could do so as well...

He began to fantasize again, the young Dostoevsky.

While Old To was lost in fantasy, Turgenev asked with some curiosity:

"By the way, what is a collector's edition? I also heard from the bookstore clerks that they haven't started selling yet. It sounds quite good."

"For these books, we used better paper, the illustrations are more exquisite, and the covers and packaging are all the finest. They should be provided specifically to families with deep artistic cultivation and good upbringing; they should be interested."

"Oh?"

Hearing this, Turgenev immediately became interested: "Then I must get a copy. What is your selling price?"

"Mikhail said at least ten rubles."

Looking at Mikhail with a bit of uncertainty, Nekrasov continued: "And it depends on subsequent sales; if they sell very well, it might be more than that."

"Hmm?"

Hearing this price, Turgenev was stunned for a moment, then laughed carefree: "Not expensive at all; in fact, I think even higher would be fine. I will definitely buy a copy when the time comes."

Mikhail, watching Turgenev brag: "..."

"Living expenses haven't arrived yet, and you're already saying it's not expensive. I heard you're borrowing money from everywhere again..."

"V me fifty rubles to show your strength."

Mikhail shook his head, somewhat speechless, but judging by Turgenev's reaction, this amount was truly nothing more than a drop in the bucket for that kind of powerful noble.

In short, making a collector's edition and the like is definitely worth doing; the price might even be set a bit higher, after all, where is the fun in cutting others' leeks compared to cutting the leeks of noble masters?

As Mikhail began to reconsider the pricing, Dostoevsky, standing nearby, trembled again upon hearing this price.

Immediately, his gaze toward Mikhail grew even more fiery...

Sorry for the wait, sorry for the wait. Tomorrow will still be six thousand words, likely at this same time today. Thank you for your support.

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(End of this chapter)