Chapter 38: Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

Regarding censorship, the previous "Vanka" and "Misery" were relatively easy to get past, but with "Sleepy," things were certainly not that simple. When Belinsky first submitted it for review, it wasn't long before he got back the novel with quite a bit of content altered, along with a notification that seemed rather indignant:

"Infanticide? Where does the author place God? Can a man who writes such a story still call himself a Christian?"

It is worth noting that one way Christianity emphasizes the sanctity of life is by actively opposing the worldwide practices of infanticide and child abandonment (including abortion), and another way is by opposing suicide.

And Chekhov, being in religiously traditional Russia, naturally understood just how shocking such an act would be to some Russians. But the purpose of Chekhov writing this atrocity was never to reiterate that point — it was to let the reader feel even more intensely just how unbearably drowsy poor Varka truly was.

But for many censors, the latter didn't matter.

Yet perhaps precisely because of that, it caused them to overlook other potential things.

Perhaps that counts as a good thing.

Faced with this situation, although Belinsky worked hard to advocate on its behalf, the version Mikhail had read aloud at the gathering was still perhaps too provocative for some people. So, after weighing the matter repeatedly and considering that Mikhail still had a long future ahead of him, Belinsky ultimately made certain compromises and chose the version that left things open-ended.

This version passed much more easily. There was even a censor who interpreted such an ending as a religious story, telling of how a poor man should choose between good and evil, signifying the moral of punishing evil and promoting good.

To be honest, although Belinsky truly could not figure out why this Mr. would interpret the story that way, he had actually grown quite accustomed to these gentlemen's absurd ideas and behavior.

Regardless, as long as it passes censorship, that's fine.

But Mikhail's novel passed review — Belinsky's had not yet.

Mikhail may still need to be cautious about certain things, but for Belinsky—

Bring on the keyboard!

As for literary criticism, its advantage over novels is that one can use various rhetorical tricks and euphemisms to sidestep the risks of censorship. But even so, for Belinsky, who was writing his review of Mikhail's novel with passion, censorship still annoyed him immensely:

"Mikhail, do you know? There is nothing worse than seeing your article scribbled all over in red by the censors! I am extremely agitated — asking me to publish such a fragmented piece! Such agitation pains my chest and makes it hard to breathe!"

To this Mikhail expressed his sympathy, while tactfully suggesting that Belinsky could be a little gentler, or steer clear of particularly sensitive material.

But Belinsky's reply was:

"Mikhail, do you know how many people in today's Russia are willing to speak up, and how many dare to? If even the critics give up this right, then such a gloomy scene will continue to hang over Russia as a matter of course! And why shouldn't we speak? Our love for Russia is no less than that of any Mr. who shouts loudly about it! We simply have our own way of expressing it!"

Mikhail: "."

Sigh, I knew it.

Fine, since that's the case, Mikhail could only secretly risk his life to keep this gentleman company.

But honestly, some things truly had no hope of being published, and Mikhail could only watch with a slight sigh as this critic battled wits with the censors.

Meanwhile, having received Mikhail's verbal promise, the publisher of "Notes of the Fatherland," Kraevsky, certainly could not let slip such a golden opportunity for publicity.

Although his personal impression of Mikhail's novel could only be described as passable, since it had caused such a great stir and even boosted the magazine's circulation, Kraevsky certainly wasn't going to turn down money.

So, a full month before Mikhail's new novel was released, he had already mentioned the matter in "Notes of the Fatherland," and the many young people who had already committed the name Mikhail to memory had long since made up their minds to line up and buy the next issue of "Notes of the Fatherland."

Among these young people, one youth — thin, with a head of golden hair and a sickly complexion — appeared especially excited.

His small grey eyes, upon seeing the news, actually flashed with an unusual light, and his two pale lips twitched nervously.

Seeing him in this seemingly neurotic state, his companions were already long accustomed to it. After all, anyone who had spent time with him would know that this was an extremely neurotic and sensitive young man.

"How wonderful — the next issue of the magazine actually has another new novel by that esteemed Mr. I can hardly wait."

Although he said such things to his companions, this thin youth, even by evening, still could not suppress his excited mood. So he simply got up, went to his desk, and prepared to write a letter to his beloved brother:

"To Mikhail Mikhailovich Dostoevsky:

You simply cannot imagine, brother! Just recently, I read two novels the likes of which have never existed before! I dare you to bet me that, just based on these two novels, even Gogol might not be able to write better than he does! Probably because he shares your name, I immediately felt an unprecedented sense of closeness to this Mr.!

I think that when I one day truly meet him, I will surely fall in love with him.

And it was from his 'Vanka' — that novel which, in the form of a letter, reveals the fate of a poor orphan — that I felt I seemed to have grasped something! Some vague thing in my mind suddenly became clear, and perhaps after I finish translating Balzac's 'Eugénie Grandet,' I shall set about my own creative work.

I have a premonition that this will be a great novel! It will at least bring me several hundred rubles in fees!

But the future rich man at this moment has neither the money to have it copied out, nor the time.

For the sake of the angels, please remit thirty-five rubles."

Night gradually fell, and this nervously sensitive youth, lacking money, was gradually swallowed up in the endless darkness.

But his neurotic eyes seemed still to flicker in some corner of the darkness.

And his name is the bearer of a series of labels such as "brother-obsessed," "gambling enthusiast," "wholesaler of suffering," "taster of the Tsar's iron fist," "wanderer of Siberia," "all-in is a kind of wisdom" — our very own Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky!

(End of chapter)