Chapter 11: Motherland Chronicle

If Mikhail later truly thrived, future historians and literary enthusiasts would likely treat his first meeting with Belinsky as a historic moment, endlessly discussing and commemorating it, even longing to travel back in time to speak with these two men directly.

But unfortunately, Mikhail’s meeting with Belinsky was anything but solemn—it could even be called shabby.

After all, as mentioned earlier, Belinsky was a pauper.

Coincidentally, Mikhail was also a pauper.

As for Nekrasov, though he would later make a fortune, right now he was still a pauper.

Three paupers gathered in one room—anyone in Russia today could imagine what that looked like.

Three worn-out coats, three unkempt men, cheap taverns and alcohol, laughing and shoving each other around.

Still, they were cultured men, so speaking in overly noisy places was inappropriate; thus, Nekrasov gritted his teeth and finally chose a café as the venue. Belinsky would go there after finishing his current work, while Nekrasov personally went to invite Mikhail.

Now, Nekrasov had already brought Mikhail to the café, and after glancing around, Mikhail’s gaze settled on the man sitting in the corner, lost in thought.

It was clear the man had made a deliberate effort to tidy himself before arriving, yet details still revealed his modest means.

And that face, deep in thought, bore at least eighty percent resemblance to the portrait Mikhail had seen before.

So, was this truly the living Belinsky?

Slightly stirred, Mikhail quickly calmed himself and followed Nekrasov toward the man.

As if sensing movement, Belinsky, who had been lost in thought, suddenly snapped awake and turned toward Mikhail and Nekrasov. In one glance, he leapt to his feet—his previously heavy contemplation instantly transformed into a flame.

That flame moved straight toward Mikhail.

Mikhail did not stand frozen; he stepped forward as well, and their hands clasped firmly together.

“Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov.”

“Vissarion Grigoryevich Belinsky.”

Before Mikhail could express his admiration for this leading figure of the literary world, Belinsky, his face glowing with excitement, spoke first:

“Young man, a fine young man! Your writing is superb! This is exactly the kind of work I want to see in Russian literature—something deeply rooted in the Russian soil, pulsing with an invisible rhythm!”

“You flatter me.”

Before Mikhail could humble himself further, Belinsky continued:

I’m desperate to write a review of you! I have so much to say! “The Suffering” is excellent; “Wan Ka” strikes straight at my heart—no one could read it without weeping, even though Russia’s reality today is even heavier than any novel.

Clearly, this brilliant critic had no trace of literary authority’s pretense—he grabbed Mikhail and wouldn’t stop talking. Only after a long while did the three finally sit down. After again expressing their praise for Mikhail and their hopes for his future, Belinsky turned to the matter of the manuscripts:

“Next month—how about next month? I’ll do my utmost to finish my review and publish it alongside your stories in ‘Motherland Chronicle.’”

“Censorship is strict now, but your two pieces should be fine—as long as they don’t touch the Tsar, ministers, or noble masters, what the Russian people think? Ha! They’ve got no time for that.”

“I look forward to your review—I’ve often read your articles in magazines; there’s never been a better critique.”

This wasn’t mere flattery. From the memories in his mind, Mikhail had read such pieces often, and when moved, he’d passionately debate them with companions—once, so carried away he nearly got dragged to the police station and punched with fists the size of potatoes.

“But dear Mikhail, I must tell you something,” Belinsky said, his earlier passion softening into generosity. “Your writing will likely be attacked by conservatives, just like Gogol—merely for depicting social reality, he’s been relentlessly vilified.”

“I’ve defended him from the start, but he’s still suffered greatly and often feels confused.”

As for who Gogol was, Turgenev, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky all said: “We all emerged from Gogol’s ‘The Overcoat.’”

Undoubtedly, Gogol inherited the realist tradition from Pushkin, carried it forward, profoundly influencing Russian writers—and even deeply shaping another great writer a century later.

As for that great writer, let’s just say Gogol wrote a novel called ‘Diary of a Madman.’

Today, Gogol stands at the peak of Russian literature—he only last year published his monumental work ‘Dead Souls,’ which shook all of Russia.

Yet at the same time, waves of controversy and criticism crashed upon him, and under this pressure, his mental state was dire.

The reason? Gogol had sharply satirized Russian serfdom, the bureaucracy, and the vulgar, absurd, and pitiful archetypes of landowners in “Dead Souls.”

To mock every single member of Russia’s upper class—how could he expect to escape unscathed?

But Mikhail himself knew well what his two stories truly were: merely sketches of the lower classes’ reality, far from political provocation.

So in this situation, when he was nearly starving, what did he care?

Let them criticize—if a writer in this era escapes criticism, can he even be called a writer?!

He’d be a lapdog beneath the Tsar’s feet!

Knowing this, Mikhail remained calm and even smiled lightly as he faced Belinsky’s warning and concern, looking solemnly at Belinsky and the young Nekrasov:

“Don’t worry, Vissarion Grigoryevich—I don’t care about any of that.”

“Undoubtedly, what we’re doing is the future of Russian literature!”

“Even if we face temporary setbacks and criticism, history will still deliver the fairest judgment upon us!”

(End of Chapter)