Chapter 37: Russian Censor

Mikhail had no intention of telling this somewhat annoying man much about Pyotr Petrovich; he would simply wait until his mother and sister arrived, then settle the matter.

The moment his manuscript fee arrived, Mikhail did a quick accounting and managed to scrape together a little to send to his mother and sister.

To be fair, Mikhail had been here a while, but his financial situation hadn’t improved at all—any extra money he had went straight to others.

Forget it, let’s leave it at that for now. He still needed to push forward with the anthology as soon as possible—then he’d make a big move.

Beforehand, aside from “Sleepiness,” Mikhail also planned to publish another short story, to create a simple contrast with “Sleepiness,” so both stories could achieve a better effect together.

As for what this other story was, he’d leave that for later.

In short, it was time to borrow from old Tolstoy—relying solely on Chekhov for now felt a bit like squeezing one sheep too hard.

Also worth noting: old Dostoevsky’s literary achievements were mostly in his novels, while in the realm of short and medium-length fiction, he still lagged slightly behind old Tolstoy.

After agreeing to the task, Mikhail immediately locked himself in his small room to keep working; unless another salon gathering came up, he wouldn’t step outside even once—after all, every time he went out, his few coins risked dwindling further.

Of course, he also needed to catch up on philosophy and art theory—he’d borrow books from Dmitri and Belinsky later.

As Mikhail began to busy himself, Belinsky was also preparing to wrestle with the censor.

In this era, censors were often a mountain pressing down on authors and magazines alike; some still resembled human beings, others were barely even human—like the censor Krasovsky, who would not only mutilate manuscripts but also append scathing commentary.

Beyond lacking cultural refinement, this censor viewed every author as an atheist and a lecher.

Mikhail could accept being labeled an atheist—but lecher? He couldn’t accept that.

As for what his comments were like, they generally ran along these lines.

A poet once wrote:

“I swear, my life with you has been exquisite,

I see your lips curled in a smile like an angel’s.”

Krasovsky’s comment: “Exaggerated! A woman’s smile cannot be called angelic!”

Then this line: “I silently fixed my gaze upon you.”

Comment: “This line carries a lewd implication.”

He wrote such comments, but Mikhail would bet his last coin that the old man’s eyes weren’t nearly as pure as his remarks suggested.

Then the poet wrote again:

“What others think means nothing to me. Your gentle glance

Is more precious than all the world’s attention.”

Comment: “Overblown! There is still the Tsar and the lawful government—attention to them should be treasured.”

Someone writes a love poem and you drag in the Tsar and lawful government? It’s like buying a phone to watch a movie and then lecturing about patriotism.

Of course, patriotism is good.

Then the poet wrote again:

“Ah, how I long for some remote, quiet place,

To live in anonymity, enjoying the highest joy beside you.”

Comment:

“This idea must not be spread. These lines imply the author wishes to abandon service to the Emperor forever to remain with his lover. Moreover, the highest joy can only be found in the Gospel—not from a woman.”

The poet continued: “Ah! I wish to devote my entire life to you!”

Comment: “What is left for God then?”

The poet wasn’t done: “Sometimes I tune my strings at your feet and sing for you.”

Comment: “A Christian kneeling at a woman’s feet? Unthinkable! Utterly undignified!”

Though there were many more jokes, to avoid getting scolded, I’ll end here with one final example.

Although there were still many delights, to avoid being scolded for saying too much, he would add just one more as the final closing.

“I know all your secret desires. I press your head tightly to my chest.”

Censor Krasovsky, with a single stroke, bluntly annotated: “Pornographic poem!”

Frankly, Russia’s current censorship system and its censors were simply unbearable.

Had it not been for a few censors with genuine literary taste, and given the tangled web of relationships among officials and nobles in this autocratic state—where some held far greater power—anyone who knew how to navigate connections could easily bypass censorship.

Otherwise, who knew how terrible the literature of this era would have become?

Of course, some magazines took even more direct measures—they simply appointed a censor to a position on their staff: no work required, but the pay was substantial. Such magazines enjoyed green lights for everything they published.

One thing remains unchanged: nothing under the sun is new—some tricks remain effective even after one or two centuries.

And yet, despite this unbearable censorship system and these censors, things would grow even worse by 1848—what we have now is still relatively good, at least connections still worked.

Also, from the censor’s comments above, one can glimpse the mentality of certain Russian officials and nobles—there was simply too much rot.

As for Belinsky’s approach to censorship, he usually followed the basic procedure; if that failed, he’d set the manuscript aside untouched for two days, then submit it again—by then, some censors would merely nod slightly and say: “Hmm. The revisions are acceptable.”

These were the kind who used their power to flex their authority and extract personal benefits—easier to deal with.

But if he encountered someone whose mind was as rigid as stone or whose greed was insatiable, Belinsky could only turn to his noble friends in the literary world.

By the way, when the two stories “Wan Ka” and “The Kunao ” were reviewed, the censor said:

“I don’t understand why you’d write about a lowly serf’s grandson and a coachman, but since you insist on publishing such dull prose, go ahead and publish it.”

“Though I don’t understand why you’d want to publish drivel about a lowly serf’s grandson and a coachman, if you’re willing to print such dull words, then print them.”

(End of Chapter)