Chapter 26: The Hunger Artist

In short, there were certainly voices criticizing Mikhail’s novels, and the outcry was substantial; to some extent, Mikhail even helped Gogol shoulder a bit of the backlash at the height of the controversy.

Gogol and his Dead Souls had dominated St. Petersburg’s cultural Resou for months, and the Redu remained stubbornly high.

To emerge even slightly under such conditions made Mikhail seem truly extraordinary in others’ eyes.

As for those critical articles, some were indeed fierce, but Mikhail paid them no mind—he read them, laughed, and moved on, unaffected.

Others might not know who was right or wrong, but didn’t Mikhail know?

Just a bunch of rotting corpses.

Of course, some bastards exploiting the situation were truly hateful—people were calling him a traitor and rebel just for writing such articles, though no one knew if they were doing it for attention or truly believed it.

Mikhail didn’t care, but several friends who watched over him came specifically to check on him because of this.

First to arrive was Dmitri, striding in with a gust of wind, face full of concern; before Mikhail could say anything, Dmitri began pouring out comforting words, which was fine, but then, as his emotions swelled, he suddenly hugged Mikhail and sobbed:

“Oh my dear Misha, I know you’ve endured so much pressure! If you’re truly suffering, let’s go have a drink! Drink as much as you want—I’ll bring you back safe and sound!”

Mikhail: “?”

Good brother, let go of me first.

As for drinking, forget it—Mikhail’s tolerance was poor, and his mindset was stable enough that he had no need to numb himself with alcohol.

More importantly, he didn’t want to unlock one of the Slavs’ classic death methods: freezing to death on the street after getting drunk.

After dealing with Dmitri’s concern, Nekrasov soon arrived, checking on Mikhail’s condition and delivering a message from Belinsky:

“Oh dear Mikhail, how have you been lately? I came specially to see you, and to pass on Vissarion’s greetings—you know he’s been busy writing his new rebuttal article, but he should come see you himself in a couple of days. Are you well?”

“Thank you for your concern, Nikolai—I couldn’t be better.”

Generally speaking, magazine feuds followed this exact pattern: one side’s latest story or review sold out, so the other side’s next issue would launch a scathing critique to boost sales, then the first side would retaliate in the following issue.

It sounded dull, but the real goal was always the same: seizing the moral high ground, beyond merely selling more magazines.

When criticism becomes loud enough, won’t more people notice the situation and try to act—perhaps even join the movement to change the world?

Critics and political commentators often did exactly this.

Though such change usually began at the top and often ignored the broader public, it was still a decent start.

Belinsky likely wrote his articles with this belief, and while writing, he grew concerned about the recent critiques of Mikhail’s novels, so he asked Nekrasov to check on Mikhail’s state.

Now that he’d come in person, Nekrasov immediately realized his and Belinsky’s worries were unnecessary—Mikhail looked better than ever, even joked about the criticisms.

He acted as if none of it mattered at all.

Seeing Mikhail in this state, Nekrasov felt relieved—and even more admiring.

Recalling when Nekrasov published his first poetry collection, almost no one paid attention; only a few tabloids dragged it out to mock it.

Our young Nekrasov broke down, immediately writing a rebuttal letter—only for them to publish his letter and mock him further, leaving him utterly humiliated.

Fortunately, the incident stirred some noise, and Belinsky happened to see it; after reading carefully, he was furious and launched a blistering attack.

Fortunately, this became a turning point—by chance, Nekrasov entered Belinsky’s circle, was taken along for free meals and drinks, and this eventually led to the famous 3P anecdote.

But we’ll leave that for later, since Mikhail will likely join in within two days.

Yes, free meals and drinks—not 3P.

Seeing Mikhail’s calm demeanor, Nekrasov again realized how vast the gap between people truly was; admiring Mikhail, he silently resolved within himself:

I must strive to match the admirable Mikhail in this regard!

After visiting Mikhail, Nekrasov hurried off to attend to his own affairs.

Nekrasov was no Dostoevsky—a natural genius whose debut was extraordinary—but he was a true workaholic, as if he’d grown a human on his liver.

At this time, due to survival needs and other ambitions, Nekrasov took on every job, wrote everything; incomplete estimates suggest that in the era of handwritten manuscripts, he produced at least ten million words in his lifetime, using countless pen names and aliases—so many he probably forgot them all himself.

After seeing off the workaholic Nekrasov, Mikhail began reviewing his latest submitted short story.

Writing was essentially about cultivating reputation: as long as a writer consistently produced quality work, over time, he would gradually earn great fame and social standing.

For now, Mikhail planned to release one or two short stories every two months; longer works would likely appear in the anthology he was co-editing with Nekrasov.

Also, calculating carefully, old Dostoevsky was about to appear on the literary scene—he should be included in the anthology too.

As Mikhail pondered these things and wrote, two days passed quickly; then, one morning, the old maid Nastasya knocked on his door.

“Mikhail, you have a letter—it seems to be an invitation to somewhere.”

(End of Chapter)