Chapter 82: The Long Novel and the Meeting

Regarding the magazine project, since the decision had already been made, all that remained was to put it into practice; thus, the day after finalizing all details, Panayev visited the rector of Saint Petersburg University, Pletnyov.

Although the rector indeed held high rank and power and normally had no shortage of money, driven by the simple notion that “whoever would mind having too much money?”, he demanded an annual fee of four thousand rubles for the publishing rights of “The Contemporary”.

Fortunately, Panayev’s senior family members had some acquaintance with the rector, and after hours of negotiation, he finally managed to reduce the fee to three thousand.

Meanwhile, other problems arose: the Book Censorship Committee deemed Panayev and Nekrasov politically unreliable and refused to approve them as editors. If Pletnyov’s exorbitant fee had already enraged Belinsky, this matter was an even more devastating blow to him.

As for Belinsky serving as editor, that was out of the question—over the past few years, the reactionary writer Bulgarin’s newspaper “The Northern Bee” had repeatedly published critiques condemning Belinsky’s writings as dangerously subversive.

Moreover, people had continuously reported to authorities, accusing Belinsky of promoting atheism and immoral behavior, mocking the Russian people’s traditional sentiments, and so on.

Normally, at this point, one would either bribe their way through—paying a censor from the Book Censorship Committee to serve as a nominal editor, then giving him a hefty annual salary.

Historically, Panayev and his associates, forced by circumstance, did exactly this: they hired a censor named Nikitinko as nominal editor, paying him six thousand rubles per year.

Frankly, Mikhail had every reason to suspect the Book Censorship Committee deliberately created obstacles just to extort money.

One could only say: the Russian bureaucratic system—those who understand, understand.

To be honest, Mikhail had anticipated this situation; his budget had indeed accounted for this expense. But just as he was about to raise the matter with Panayev and Nekrasov, they pulled him into a secluded corner and whispered:

“Mikhail, why don’t you be the editor? What do you think?”

Mikhail: “?”

Come on, guys! You two are politically unreliable—do you think I’m some loyal subject of His Majesty the Tsar?

Just as Mikhail found this idea absurd, Nekrasov continued: “Mikhail, frankly, though many are dissatisfied with your novels, your poetry is truly excellent and widely circulated among the upper classes—many gentlemen hold a favorable impression of you.

If you take the role, we might still face obstacles, but the rubles we’d have to spend might be considerably less.

Also, there’s something I’m not sure whether I should tell you: General Danilevsky has a very close relationship with a highly influential man in the Book Censorship Committee, and his beloved daughter Nadya has recently shown considerable interest in your affairs.”

Mikhail: “???”

Huh?

My entire life, Mikhail, I’ve never been inferior to anyone!

Are you seriously forcing a respectable man to live off a woman’s favor?!

Is this right?

“Of course, we don’t mean to pressure you—this sort of thing is hard to bring up. Even if the general were willing to speak, success isn’t guaranteed, and we’d likely still need to pay a censor as nominal editor—but the cost would be far lower. I estimate we could save at least two or three thousand rubles.”

Mikhail: “.”

How much?

“Don’t worry, Nikolai and Panayev.”

Thinking of those two or three thousand rubles, Mikhail finally gave a heavy nod: “For our shared cause, I’m willing to try. But I can’t guarantee success—I’ve only met that girl once.”

That wasn’t a lie. Aside from that one gathering, their interaction had mostly been through letters; they were certainly familiar now, but whether he could ask her for a favor, Mikhail wasn’t sure.

Still, it was worth a try.

After all, in this era, writers living off women’s connections wasn’t shameful—Mikhail’s approach was already quite restrained.

But before Mikhail took this step, since their actions weren’t hidden, news of their magazine venture spread rapidly through Saint Petersburg’s literary circles.

The literary world was small, and the news was startling enough that it spread with extraordinary speed.

At first, many refused to believe it, but as confirmation gradually came, they began mocking Nekrasov and Panayev as mere paper generals who would lose everything and end up penniless.

Yet sometimes someone would cry out: “But Mikhail is involved too!”

At such moments, the laughter would pause—for among the circles, besides tales of Mikhail’s literary talent, his legendary gambling success had been recounted again and again.

To many, this sum was trivial, but such debt-fueled investment followed by sudden escape from ruin resembled romantic novels—rich with romance and legend.

But this vague respect didn’t last long; after all, everyone has a moment of success—don’t treat one triumph as permanent, for one success doesn’t guarantee another.

Moreover, the magazine market had, to some extent, become saturated—every conceivable genre already existed, and “The Fatherland Chronicle” and another magazine dominated the market; competing against such established giants was extremely difficult.

Thus, mockery quickly resumed:

“Publishing a collection is entirely different from launching a magazine—I bet they can’t even pass the censors.”

“Where would they get so much money? I doubt the profits from their collection were enough—if they’re in debt, the magazine won’t survive.”

“Look at them—none of them have any experience as publishers.”

Of course, those who mocked were mostly those at odds with Belinsky’s literary circle, or those fearing their own interests would be harmed—and among them, the most furious and vehement critic was undoubtedly Krayevsky, publisher of “The Fatherland Chronicle.”

Mikhail and Nekrasov’s wildly successful “St. Petersburg Collection” had already humiliated him, making him avoid gatherings for days; but once the dust settled, Krayevsky still told some people:

“You know, privately I thought they’d succeed, but I couldn’t say so openly. Now it’s clear my guess was right—I only hope they won’t celebrate so long they forget to send me manuscripts.”

This was merely a blow to pride, not serious financial damage; and perhaps, by publishing Mikhail’s and the rising Dostoevsky’s new works, subscriptions might surge again!

But Mikhail and his group launching a new magazine had clearly crossed Krayevsky’s line: it meant Belinsky, their exceptionally useful editor, might leave “The Fatherland Chronicle,” and a new competitor had emerged—something no one could call good.

Moreover, he believed he had personally nurtured both Belinsky and Mikhail, yet now they had suddenly launched a magazine without even informing him!

In short, Krayevsky was truly shattered—he even began cursing openly within his own literary circle:

“Ungrateful bastards, traitors! They took my magazine, took my payment, then quietly launched a new one without a word! I never wronged them, yet this is how they repay me! Do they think my magazine can’t survive without them?”

Just watch—I’ll find better people to replace them! And they and their new magazine? They’ll soon be tossed into some garbage heap, forgotten by all!”

Mikhail, of course, heard these rumors—but he paid them little mind, instead focusing on revising the long novel he was working on.

As for what novel it was, Mikhail could only say: sorry, old Dostoevsky—I’m borrowing from you.

Choosing a long novel was indeed difficult, especially since most Russian novelists wrote works closely tied to reality.

Fortunately, choices still existed.

Of course, some elements needed changing—even substantial revisions were required—and Mikhail was now working hard on this task.

In between this work, Mikhail also began drafting a letter to the general’s daughter, planning to gently inquire whether he could mention the matter to the general.

But before he could finish and send the letter, he received one himself—opening it, he found it was from the young lady again. The content followed the usual pattern, but at the end she wrote:

“I heard from others that you and your friends want to launch a magazine. Perhaps I can help? If you think it’s possible, let’s meet to discuss it. You haven’t appeared at the salon in a long time, so...”

Mikhail: “???”

(End of Chapter)