Chapter 92: The Release of the New Magazine

Regarding playing cards with Mikhail, since The Modern Person magazine recently received a large advance payment, it was able to ensure sufficient operational funds while also distributing a modest salary, significantly improving Belinsky’s financial situation.

With money in hand and having won several hands straight before Mikhail arrived, Belinsky was in high spirits; after a brief internal struggle, he truly chose to challenge his weakness once more.

As for Mikhail, to be honest, he truly dislikes playing cards; but in this era, ordinary people’s entertainment options are still too scarce to match the lavish pastimes of noble masters, and since Mikhail is a young man with ambition, he refuses to indulge in drinking, gambling, or debauchery—so he plays cards merely to pass the time.

Hmm, let me reiterate: I, Mikhail, do not like playing cards.

When I get home, I’ll write in my diary:

“Alas! I have no real interest in cards, but Belinsky always enjoys them; to foster more connection with him, I’ll play occasionally.”

As Mikhail spoke, the young Dostoevsky, thrilled by the prize Mikhail mentioned, Yirujiwangdi observed Mikhail’s conduct and demeanor.

Although the young Dostoevsky had lately boasted himself a genius, even at times feeling he was no less than Mikhail—merely lacking time—he also recognized a problem: people genuinely favored Mikhail more.

Even Mikhail’s enemies mostly resented him for infringing their interests, not because he was personally flawed.

Though the young Dostoevsky often struggled to suppress his writerly arrogance, with Mikhail as a contrast, he certainly wished to become like him: wealthy through bold gambling, and widely admired.

In short, he observed.

As he observed, Dostoevsky briefly summarized today’s key points:

“Today marks the birth of a new literary prize, proposed by Mikhail, welcomed unanimously by all—including myself. Yet after announcing it, Mikhail didn’t even have time to drink tea before calling others to play cards with him.”

As he mentally summarized this, Dostoevsky carefully observed the card game between Mikhail and Belinsky.

Likely due to his earlier daydreaming, Old Dostoevsky remained in a feverish state, so much so that he seriously considered using his meager bread money to join the gentlemen at the table.

If luck held, he might even treat himself to a decent restaurant tonight.

With this thought, Dostoevsky—who had been arguing with someone before Mikhail arrived—fell silent, sat beside the table with others, and began studying the game’s dynamics.

Belinsky, caught in the game, began hesitantly, then blushed slightly, and soon was drenched in sweat.

“Enough! Enough! Let the Almighty God decide!”

As another round ended, Belinsky wiped his brow and waved his hands frantically; his previously pale face flushed bright red. “Mikhail, if you regret paying out wages, just take them back! Why torture people this way?!”

Dammit, Belinsky just threw shade at me.

Since he hadn’t played in a while, Mikhail’s moves were a bit too heavy-handed; hearing this, he awkwardly rubbed his nose.

As for why Mikhail won so much: truthfully, if you remember every card and aren’t terribly unlucky, your odds of winning are naturally higher.

Then again, I don’t feel like I won that much.

As Mikhail thought this, Dostoevsky beside him naturally heard Belinsky’s words: “Let the Almighty God decide.”

Though he knew Belinsky was an atheist and found many religious remarks grating, hearing this now still made him feel uneasy.

But before Old Dostoevsky could mutter more complaints, he saw Belinsky turn abruptly—everyone else had stepped back—and Belinsky fixed his gaze on the stunned Dostoevsky: “Fyodor, you play! I know you’ve always wanted to talk more with Mikhail, to connect with him—isn’t this the perfect chance?”

“If you’re willing, Mikhail will stay with you!”

Dostoevsky, drenched in sweat: “?”

“No, no, no, forget it.”

Dostoevsky shook his head like a rattle and shoved his seat back sharply: “I have zero interest in cards. Let the Devil come.”

Due to everyone’s retreat, by the end of the gathering, Mikhail could only admit he hadn’t gotten to play properly.

It’s my fault—I should’ve lost more.

Mikhail began to reflect.

Though he hadn’t played to his satisfaction, before leaving, Mikhail did hear some good news.

The young Dostoevsky, somewhat shy, approached him and asked in greater detail about the literary prize.

Clearly, Old Dostoevsky craved those five hundred rubles.

Mikhail, of course, patted his shoulder and said: “Keep going, Fyodor. I believe if you settle down and write seriously for a while, this magazine’s prize will surely be yours.”

“Good!”

Hearing this, Old Dostoevsky felt thrilled and delighted—and quietly reflected on his own behavior.

Yes, I should spend more time writing.

Watching the thoughtful Old Dostoevsky, Mikhail couldn’t help smiling with satisfaction.

After this gathering, the release date for the first issue of The Modern Person was finally approaching.

Mikhail had previously sent part of the novel’s content to Belinsky and Nekrasov, but due to his recent busyness, they hadn’t yet discussed it in depth with him.

Of course, because Mikhail had only sent part of it, whenever Nekrasov or Belinsky saw him now, their most common question was: “Mikhail, have you finished organizing the rest? Send it to us quickly!”

Hmm, I hope the broader readership will be a bit more patient.

(End of Chapter)