Chapter 95: Petrashevsky

Although the young Tolstoy felt a moment of intense anger, he did not know this author and could not go directly to his home to ask about the novel.

So he slowly calmed down from his anger, but even so, he firmly memorized the author’s name; if he ever had the chance to go to Saint Petersburg, he would likely try to inquire about him.

When his temper had fully cooled, he flipped back through the magazine, checking for any details he might have missed, then casually browsed other contributors’ works; after finding some pieces vaguely interesting, he took the magazine and walked toward a certain place.

As a young nobleman who would soon inherit a title and estate, he was greatly welcomed in social circles in Kazan and Moscow, and during his time at university, he had already attended many balls and concerts hosted by high officials and nobles.

Now, as he gradually grew accustomed to these occasions, he had developed a strong interest in many aspects of them, to the point that he had recently been attending balls with considerable frequency.

Today, he had originally planned to attend a ball; buying this magazine was merely an afterthought.

But for some reason, as he walked, he remained immersed in the emotions stirred by that serialized novel.

Undoubtedly, the author’s bias was unmistakable: in his work, the prince appeared as a vile figure, while ordinary people shone more brightly.

Such a bias naturally provoked disgust and mockery among the people in his circle.

He ought to have shared their attitude, yet the vague, stirred emotion within him seemed to be conveying something, so that he not only did not dislike the novel, but found it intriguing.

As he walked, he suddenly stopped heading toward his destination and turned toward his home, intending to continue reading the unfinished works of Rousseau and the literary magazine he held.

Perhaps he would soon regret this choice and return to the embrace of balls, but for now, he walked toward his house.

And during this walk, a thought—never before present in his mind—suddenly emerged: Could I write a story like this?

For someone from his family, becoming a writer was hardly a respectable pursuit; they had more dignified things to do. Yet this noble youth, always seeming distracted and absent-minded, still entertained this idea.

And if he could write, could he write well?

As the young Tolstoy entertained this thought, on the bustling streets of Saint Petersburg, Mikhail walked alongside Nekrasov and Belinsky.

As expected, Mikhail, still asleep, was awakened again.

Fortunately, he had prepared himself mentally and gone to bed early the night before, so when they reached the street, Mikhail looked quite alert; yet at that moment, Belinsky and Nekrasov outside the bookstore looked even more energetic than Mikhail.

Especially Belinsky, who gazed at the young people buying the magazine *Sovremennik* with tender affection, like a father watching his newborn child.

It was clear that the arrival of the new magazine had unsettled some young readers, who rushed into the bookstore and instinctively asked: “Has *Otechestvennye Zapiski* arrived?”

But after a moment’s hesitation, they quickly asked again: “Where is *Sovremennik*? We want *Sovremennik*!”

Still, *Otechestvennye Zapiski* had long been one of Saint Petersburg’s best-selling literary magazines and was not so easily displaced; many still picked it up out of habit.

But Mikhail and his companions did not care much; they had just taken over *Sovremennik* and were satisfied with decent sales—further developments would need time to unfold.

Watching the magazines on the shelves vanish rapidly, Nekrasov and Belinsky could not help but smile with excitement; even Mikhail was infected and involuntarily said: “Shall we go get something to eat to celebrate?”

“Why not have some vodka, Mikhail?” Nekrasov exclaimed excitedly. “Such a day deserves a proper toast!”

Mikhail: “?”

Vodka this early?

By the way, though vodka sounds modern, Ivan III had already established state monopoly on this Russian liquor in the fifteenth century; in 1553, Ivan the Terrible opened Moscow’s first vodka tavern and reaped enormous profits. The nineteenth century was the century when vodka solidified its hold on the international market.

Notably, Ivan the Terrible had a small habit: he frequently held banquets and had guests’ drunken utterances recorded. The next day, he would confront the hungover sycophants with those words.

His practice was later perfectly inherited by a Georgian poet whose guests often behaved disgracefully; among them, a poor peasant’s son who later became obsessed with corn even urinated from drunkenness.

Though many Russians in this era loved this strong liquor, Mikhail simply could not handle it—he could barely manage a little wine, let alone so early in the morning.

In any case, after Mikhail’s insistence, the three ended up at a café—to observe the situation further and to have something to drink and eat.

No sooner had they sat down than Mikhail was about to put a piece of bread in his mouth when a sudden voice made the bread fall from his hand onto the table:

“It’s gone?! Good heavens! How could he dare to serialize only this little?”

Assuming it was an isolated complaint, they were soon joined by others:

“Is this about the novel in *Sovremennik*? I say, why serialize at all? If you’ve written it, just publish it all at once! How much can this tiny portion satisfy?”

“This work is vastly different from his earlier short stories; if those were concise and powerful, this one is undeniably more nuanced. Still, so far it feels good—I really want to know how it will unfold.”

“I’m going to write a letter to this magazine to find out how long the serialization will be. If each issue is too short, I won’t accept it. I won’t allow this.”

“Why write a letter? Just go to their office and ask! I know their address—I’ll tell you exactly where.”

“So it’s here! I understand!”

“I’ve never had patience, and this story is infuriating. A prince, with such a title and wealth—why does he torment a loyal, kind servant?”

“And what connection does the old man, who died unnoticed, have to this story?”

Hearing these conversations, Mikhail, who had been chatting casually, unconsciously slid deeper into his seat and lowered his head slightly; though few had known him before, after receiving many visitors at the office, the chance of being recognized had greatly increased.

After all, Saint Petersburg was not that large, and the places where young lovers of literature and art gathered were few—if he were recognized, what then?

“By the way, Nikolai.” Mikhail turned to Nekrasov. “I’ll work from home these days. If anything comes up, just come find me—I won’t be going to the publisher for now.”

“When will you deliver your manuscript?”

Thinking of the portion of the novel he had read, Nekrasov felt a restless itch in his chest and could not help asking: “Mikhail, you know—because we need to print ahead—you should give me your manuscript now. Otherwise, if printing is delayed and the magazine’s release is affected, that would be bad.”

“Yes, without the full manuscript, how can I write my critique?”

Belinsky, his eyes gleaming with fervor, now spoke up: “Then I cannot share my complete thoughts on this novel with you! And even if you’ve heard many such opinions already, Mikhail, I still want to say: you are a complete genius.”

What kind of person could suddenly shift from concise, powerful short stories to a profound, weighty novel—and in this transition, I see almost no immaturity? You seem to have reached an extraordinary height the moment you began writing at this length!

I simply don’t know how to describe it! And your novel will surely become a dagger thrown into the darkness.

Among us, many gentlemen still cling to unrealistic illusions about certain people, but in truth, only the most radical action can shake their hearts. Your novel will make more people understand this.”

Mikhail: “...”

You’re sweating, old Belinsky.

Seeing this, Mikhail signaled to the frail Belinsky to calm down, and nodded in agreement to provide the remaining portion of the novel they wanted.

The reason he had delayed until now was that *The Insulted and the Injured* contained considerable religious redemption themes.

Mikhail could understand this: for those who long witnessed darkness without seeing any way out, whom else could they turn to but God?

Especially in Russia, a country steeped in religious atmosphere.

The reason later Dostoevsky and Tolstoy’s works were great was that though they held biases, they still portrayed diverse social realities and ideological clashes, exploring them deeply.

But for Mikhail, understanding was possible only because he knew the path ahead; to believe in such things in this era was impossible.

As Mikhail continued talking with Nekrasov and Belinsky, at that same moment, on a nearby street, a massive man, towering like a bear, walked with his companion; even the magazine in his hand looked small against his frame.

This was, of course, Dmitri, whom Mikhail had not seen in a while.

The main reason was that Mikhail had been busy lately, and Dmitri was no less occupied: besides diligently completing his studies, he had recently been attending a small group’s meetings, eagerly absorbing a new ideology he had never thoroughly understood before.

In these gatherings, fragments from Mikhail’s novel were often cited to illustrate a persistent reality in Russia.

Thinking of this, Dmitri could not help glancing again at the familiar name in the magazine and felt genuine pride for his friend.

Who could imagine that a poor university student, not long ago destitute, had become Saint Petersburg’s hottest new literary star in such a short time?

And Dmitri felt sure that within no time, his young friend would solidify his position in the cultural world—who could imagine a temporarily suspended student, a youth, becoming a cultural authority?

Yet while proud of his friend, Dmitri also felt a touch of regret: his friend was often so busy, and since they could no longer meet at school, their chances to see each other had grown scarce.

If Mikhail were still at school, they would surely continue attending these group meetings together?

In the past, Mikhail had attended a few times, but before he could delve deeper, he had already begun his literary career.

I wonder if he’ll have time later—I’ll ask him when I get the chance.

With this thought, Dmitri turned to his companion and asked: “Ilyaslov, has there been another gathering at Mr. Petrashevsky’s lately?”

“Of course.”

Dmitri’s companion replied: “Same time as always—starting Friday, probably for a few more days. Why?”

“Perhaps I should bring my friend along.”

The bear-like man straightened his chest: “And you’ve surely heard his name!”

(End of Chapter)