Chapter 38: Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

Regarding censorship, the previous stories “Wan Ka” and “Ku Nao” were relatively easier to pass, but with “Ke Shui,” things would certainly not be so simple; when Belinsky first submitted it for review, he soon received a revised manuscript with substantial cuts and a notice that seemed somewhat indignant:

“Infanticide? Where does the author place God? Can someone who writes such a story still call himself a Christian?”

Notably, Christianity emphasizes the sanctity of life by actively opposing the widespread global practices of infanticide and abandonment (including abortion), and another way is by opposing suicide.

Chekhov, living in Russia—a country steeped in religious tradition—clearly understood how profoundly this act would shock certain Russians, but his purpose in writing this atrocity was never to reiterate that point; rather, it was to make readers feel more acutely just how utterly exhausted Valka’s exhaustion had become.

Yet for many censors, the latter mattered little.

But perhaps precisely because of this, they overlooked other potential meanings.

This might, in fact, be a good thing.

Faced with this situation, though Belinsky worked hard to advocate for it, the version Mikhail read at the gathering might still have been too shocking for some; after much deliberation and considering Mikhail’s long future ahead, Belinsky ultimately compromised, choosing the version with the ambiguous ending.

This version passed much more easily—even some censors interpreted the ending as a religious tale, depicting how a poor man must choose between good and evil, symbolizing the moral that evil must be punished and virtue rewarded.

To be honest, Belinsky truly couldn’t fathom why this gentleman had interpreted the story so strangely, yet he had grown somewhat accustomed to these gentlemen’s absurd ideas and actions.

In any case, if it passed censorship, that was what mattered.

But while Mikhail’s story had passed, Belinsky’s had not.

Mikhail might exercise more caution regarding certain matters, but for Belinsky—

Here we go!

And as for literary criticism, its advantage over fiction lies in the ability to evade censorship risks through various rhetorical devices and euphemisms; yet despite this, for Belinsky, who wrote his critique of Mikhail’s story with passionate fervor, the review process still filled him with intense irritation:

“Mikhail, do you know? Nothing could be worse than seeing your article smeared red by censors! I’m filled with such agitation—how can they ask me to publish such a fragmented mess! This agitation causes me chest pain and makes breathing difficult!”

Mikhail expressed his sympathy and gently suggested Belinsky might soften his tone slightly or avoid particularly sensitive topics.

But Belinsky’s reply was:

“Mikhail, do you know how many people in today’s Russia are willing to speak—and how many dare to speak? If even critics abandon this right, this gloomy darkness will forever remain the natural state of Russia! And why shouldn’t we speak? Our love for Russia is no less than that of any loudmouthed gentleman! We simply have our own way of expressing it!”

Mikhail: “.”

Well, I knew it.

Fine, if that’s how it is, Mikhail could only silently stand by and share his friend’s fate.

But honestly, some things had no hope of publication; Mikhail could only sigh as he watched this critic wage his battle of wits against the censors.

Meanwhile, having received Mikhail’s verbal promise, the publisher of “Otechestvennye Zapiski,” Krayevsky, naturally could not miss this prime opportunity for promotion.

Although his personal opinion of Mikhail’s fiction was merely decent, since it had generated such a strong response—and even boosted the magazine’s circulation—Krayevsky certainly wouldn’t turn away money.

Thus, a month before Mikhail’s new story was published, he had already mentioned it in “Otechestvennye Zapiski,” and countless young people who had already memorized Mikhail’s name prepared in advance to queue up and buy the next issue.

Among these young people, a thin, blond youth with a sickly pallor stood out as especially agitated.

His small gray eyes, upon seeing the news, gleamed with unusual brilliance, and his pale lips twitched nervously.

Seeing his seemingly neurotic demeanor, his companions were already accustomed to it; anyone who had spent time with him knew he was an extremely sensitive and neurotic young man.

“Wonderful! The next issue has another new story by that respected gentleman—I can hardly wait!”

Though he said this to his companions, the thin youth could not suppress his excitement even by nightfall; he rose from his seat and went to his desk to write a letter to his beloved brother:

“To Mikhail Mikhailovich Dostoevsky:

You cannot imagine, brother! Not long ago, I read two stories unlike any I’ve ever encountered! I’d bet even Gogol couldn’t have written them better! Perhaps because he shares your name, I immediately felt an unprecedented closeness to this author!

I think when I finally meet him, I will fall in love with him.

It was from his story ‘Wan Ka’—the one told through letters, depicting the fate of a pitiful orphan—that I felt I had grasped something! A vague idea in my mind suddenly became clear; perhaps after translating Balzac’s ‘Eugénie Grandet,’ I will begin my own writing.

I have a feeling this will be a great novel! It could earn me several hundred rubles in royalties!

But the future millionaire currently lacks even the money to pay for copying paper, and has no time.

For the sake of the angels, please send thirty-five rubles.”

Night fell, and the neurotic, impoverished youth gradually sank into endless darkness.

Yet his neurotic eyes still seemed to flicker somewhere in the dark.

His name is the bearer of a series of labels: “Brother-obsessed,” “Gambling enthusiast,” “Wholesaler of suffering,” “Experiencer of the Tsar’s iron fist,” “Siberian wanderer,” “All-in is wisdom”—our Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky!

(End of chapter)