Chapter 43: The Past of Piracy

With Mikhail’s two latest novels now published, let’s set aside for now their impact on contemporary St. Petersburg’s cultural scene—let’s speak only of the tangible results.

At this very moment, in the editorial office of *The Fatherland Notes*, publisher Krayevsky stared at the latest subscription figures, his usual solemnity—the very mask of his status—now visibly cracking, on the verge of dissolving into a radiant smile that would shock everyone around him.

As previously stated, Krayevsky was a liberal, and his liberalism manifested in his swift adaptation to new ideas, provided those ideas boosted magazine subscriptions.

Thus, though he had once been stunned by Belinsky’s sudden ideological shift, upon seeing the subscription numbers, he raised no further objections.

The same held true now: though he found certain elements and tendencies in Mikhail’s novels unsettling, it didn’t matter—as long as subscriptions rose.

As for how much they had increased…

The editor Nikodin, who delivered the figures to Krayevsky, blurted out in awe: “Compared to the last issue, subscriptions have surged by nearly three hundred copies! Good heavens, that’s almost equal to our entire year’s growth last year!”

It’s hard to imagine a debut writer bringing us such growth—the last time this happened was with our beloved Vissarion! His works truly deserve such attention; every cultured household in St. Petersburg must have heard of his novels by now.”

“You’re wrong, Nikodin.” As if sensing danger in the editor’s words, the publisher cleared his throat and swiftly regained his dignity before saying:

“The rise in subscriptions is the result of all our collective efforts—how can we reduce it to the work of one or two individuals? That would be unjust.”

Yet no one’s pay has changed, has it?

And even Vissarion, who drove and sustained our subscriptions, barely gets anything at all.

Though Nikodin harbored these two complaints inwardly, he said nothing more to this respected cultural figure—yet moved by his admiration for Mikhail and what he had observed, he added:

“Respected Krayevsky, if this young man submits another manuscript, I suggest we raise his fee…”

“That would spoil the boy, Nikodin.” Before the editor could finish, Krayevsky, stern-faced, cut him off: “When has a writer’s fee ever risen twice in such a short span? I was already astonished by the price you proposed last time—but out of sympathy for the youth’s circumstances, I agreed.

How soon has it been? How could we raise it again? And besides our *Fatherland Notes*, who else would accept his novels—so ambiguous in tendency, so out of step with current trends?”

Seeing Krayevsky had spoken thus, Nikodin had no reply, and could only reluctantly return to his duties, leaving Krayevsky to continue gazing at the subscription data.

In a certain sense, Krayevsky’s current attitude had been spoiled by Russia’s literary idealists and young enthusiasts.

In today’s Russia, those willing to contribute to culture are either wealthy nobles with no financial worries but a passion for the arts, or young people driven by hope and ideals.

These noble patrons, lacking no money, often willingly donate their works free of charge to fund new magazines, hoping to renew Russia’s cultural landscape.

This was an old Russian tradition, and indirectly led to the rampant piracy that followed—you could find nearly everything for free on Russian websites.

The reason for this lay in the social responsibility these writers felt.

Simply put, writers and political commentators of this era believed their works were not mere cultural commodities, but tools of public education—convinced that the people would draw something beneficial from them.

Thus, many of them soon relinquished their copyrights after their novels were serialized.

Old Turgenev and Old Tolstoy both did this; Tolstoy was the most extreme—he sold his copyrights at rock-bottom prices and demanded publishers sell his works at the lowest possible cost.

Later, the revolutionary writers of the Silver Age inherited this tradition, and under the Soviets, it was magnified further.

Yet, noble as this behavior was, it was catastrophic for small publishers and impoverished authors.

Not to mention, Old Tolstoy would be the first to object, shouting:

“Fuck you, you nobles have food and drink—I’ve got to use this fee to pay off gambling debts and feed my whole family…”

Cough, cough…

Of course, such conduct was noble—after all, who among us wants less money?

Krayevsky was certainly among those who did.

And beyond these noble gentlemen, acquiring manuscripts from the young was even easier.

Simple-minded, passionate, idealistic yet inexperienced—exploiting this group was always easy, even in revolution.

In this era, countless young people would take to the streets, striving desperately for vague ideals—yet what remained in the end?

In short, as a cultural authority, Krayevsky could easily manipulate these youths using his prestige and idol status.

Though Krayevsky had never formally met Mikhail, he was certain Mikhail differed little from the many young men he’d encountered before.

As Krayevsky thought this, elsewhere, in the Panayev household, Belinsky and the other group members had gathered as usual—though today’s gathering was slightly different: all of them stared silently at Mikhail as he spoke:

“I see Krayevsky as a man selling his own head on a sign! He is nothing but Pliushkin!”

(End of chapter)