Chapter 80: Reaching Out to Belinsky

When the time came again for the gathering at the Panayevs’ home, Mikhail simply drank a cup of tea at his landlady Pavlovna’s and left, and as he passed by cafés and the like, he still seemed to hear voices discussing the works in The Petersburg Collection.

He didn’t catch which specific piece, but he did see several young men gathered together, then lifting their heads toward Saint Petersburg’s dull, grayish sun of late, reciting poetry with passion:

“I came into this world to see the sun,

and when the light fades,

I shall still sing… I shall sing of the sun

until the final hour of my life!”

Mikhail, who felt he often saw such scenes: “.”

It must be said that Mikhail’s novels still drew much discussion, but his poetry seemed to spread even wider during this period, especially among the upper class, whose discourse on his poetry far surpassed that of his novels.

Mikhail could understand this phenomenon, if he had to: the hints were already visible in Nadya’s letters.

“Here I warmly congratulate you and your friends on The Petersburg Collection—it’s being discussed everywhere. I’ve already heard it mentioned many times in our circle. And people don’t just buy one copy; it’s clear they’re eager for your limited collector’s editions, seeing them as a symbol of status.

They say: We must distinguish ourselves from those mediocre buyers—after all, who else has our love of reading and refined upbringing?

I’ve also promoted this collection in my circle. It’s truly excellent and deserves to be known by more. Also, I should remind you: you might raise the price of the collector’s edition slightly—fifty rubles? I think people in our circle would pay it; it’s nothing to them, and they might even take pride in it!”

Mikhail, upon reading this: “.”

Fifty rubles? The idle remark of the rich was beyond the reach of the poor’s wildest imagination.

Still, it was a good idea—but Mikhail remained a publisher with conscience, not so heartless as to exploit it outright; perhaps forty-nine rubles and ninety-nine kopecks would do.

If pressed, launching a Supreme Edition series wouldn’t be impossible either?

For now, back to the letter:

“I greatly admire your novels and poems in this collection—my father does too. Of your novel, he said: What a brilliant, wise piece it is! It warns us that at all times, one must be strong, never weak.

Ordinary people have no future, and those who sink to such depths are not worthy of pity!

I don’t agree with his view, and I worry it might upset you—but since you said you wanted to hear it, I’ve written it down. I hope it doesn’t anger you.

As for your poetry, I’m certain half the upper class is singing it. I’ve heard it recited at banquets more than once; each time, they refuse to name the author, only stand tall amid speculation and chatter.

Whenever this happens, I step forward and tell them: the author of this poem is Mikhail, a respected writer and poet. Then the reciter falls silent, mumbling.

That was the beginning. I’m sure by now everyone knows the author’s identity. My father adores this poem—he recites it loudly before us. He even says that if he gets the chance, he’ll recite it personally to the Emperor!”

Mikhail: “???”

Please, no.

It seems even the General has started fantasizing—imagining meeting the Emperor, winning his favor, and rising further.

In short, the girl’s letter was as above. Clearly, she sincerely rejoiced in Mikhail’s success, and while recounting these things, she seemed to ask why he never attended salons or gatherings, so that while many knew his name, none had ever seen him.

To this, Mikhail could only say: keep it low-key. One is better off staying low-key.

Still, Mikhail would likely have to start appearing more soon—after all, meeting and interacting with more people might help their future endeavors.

Back to the matter: Mikhail spent considerable time on the road, so when he arrived at the Panayevs’, everyone else was already seated.

Seeing Mikhail’s arrival, those who had recently sensed the craze and heard the rumors all turned to him, smiling and speaking at once:

“Look, our wealthy man has arrived! I’ve heard The Petersburg Collection sells out the moment it hits bookstores or cafés—not a single copy left! Now everyone takes pride in owning one.”

“Mikhail, how many copies did you and Nikolai print? At first I thought even five hundred might not sell. Now I see I was wildly wrong! Mikhail, as expected of you! I should’ve trusted your judgment!”

“See? I always said Mikhail and Nikolai’s venture would succeed!”

“Sergei, you were the loudest to oppose it! Look—the Ochumelov of our group has appeared!”

“They say the collector’s editions haven’t even gone on sale yet—how much money will that be? I bet for a long time, Mikhail and Nikolai won’t have to worry about money again.”

Listening to these voices, Nekrasov, already seated, beamed, occasionally glancing toward a certain direction. Mikhail, calm as ever, waved his hand, smiling as he sat down amid the crowd’s exclamations.

To him, this success was hardly surprising. But to everyone else present, Mikhail’s triumph was nothing short of miraculous.

Who else would risk their entire fortune—even take on heavy debt—to pursue an uncertain venture while living on freelance pay? And he succeeded.

Now, within the circle, when people spoke of Mikhail, it wasn’t just his moving novels and poems—they spoke of his sharp vision and astonishing intellect!

After sitting down, Mikhail still looked toward Nekrasov and asked about the collection’s recent sales.

Nekrasov had always handled this, and now he replied, excited:

“Over three thousand copies sold already! By next week at the latest, our collection will be completely sold out! Then we can launch the collector’s editions. Mikhail, our collection has been unprecedentedly successful—no one before us has ever achieved this!”

“Yes, we must find time to celebrate properly.”

After laughing with Nekrasov for a long while, Mikhail asked: “When will the money arrive?”

“If nothing goes wrong, the first payment should already be on its way. What’s wrong? Do you need it urgently? As soon as it reaches me, I’ll give it to you immediately.”

“I’m not in a hurry, but perhaps we should give a sum to dear Vissarion first.”

With this remark, Mikhail turned toward Belinsky, who was speaking with someone nearby.

Regarding the novel The Coward, Belinsky had felt it deeply, and been stirred by it for a long time—his own situation was perhaps even worse than the girl’s in the story.

Krayevsky often treated Belinsky like a beast of burden, exploiting his passion for work by giving him not only important books but also trivial pamphlets—literacy primers, children’s grammar—to review.

At peak intensity, Belinsky wrote sixteen hours a day, his hands swollen from overwork.

But when he realized this exploitation, he had to endure it—for his marriage and his wife’s pregnancy.

Still, after reading The Coward, Belinsky, moved and shaken, deeply reflected on his own weakness—and perhaps would act soon.

Yet before he acted, Mikhail had already walked toward him. As if sensing something, Belinsky looked up—and saw Mikhail approaching, as if wrapped in sunlight.

After their previous two gatherings, Belinsky had largely understood what Mikhail intended to do. But perhaps because the final sales figures and profits hadn’t yet settled, they had never fully clarified the plan.

But now…

Belinsky’s heart began pounding uncontrollably, leaving him frozen, unable to move.

And perhaps he didn’t need to move—Mikhail walked straight over, extended his hand, and said bluntly:

“Dear Vissarion, let us begin publishing a new journal. We all hope you’ll serve as editor-in-chief. This task demands no one but you. And as we said before: eight thousand rubles a year. Not a kopeck less.”

“What else can I say?”

Trembling, Belinsky grasped Mikhail’s hand: “For our shared cause.”

(End of chapter)