Chapter 85: Even Mikhail Needs a Small Villa

As for how publishing anthologies and running a magazine had affected his life, Mikhail felt one thing was unmistakable: money, at a glance, had swollen dramatically in value for him.

At first, twenty rubles made him ecstatic; now he casually spoke of business deals involving hundreds, even thousands of rubles.

But this was naturally because publishing, in this era, was considered an upper-class industry, its products aimed squarely at nobles who never lacked for money.

If twenty rubles could feed a commoner’s family black bread for a full month, for a noble it might not even buy a decent coat.

Ultimately, the vast gap between rich and poor made money feel profoundly alienating: what an ordinary person labored a lifetime to earn might not even cover the cost of a nobleman’s toilet.

This was true in this era, and future times would likely be even more extreme—though most people simply never saw it in daily life.

But for now, Mikhail could indeed see the aristocracy firsthand, and he was actively trying to sell his products to them, which meant he now dealt routinely in sums of eight thousand or two or three thousand rubles—costs, it seemed, truly demanded such prices.

And because he had been so absorbed in this venture, Mikhail had yet to use the income from his anthologies to improve his living conditions—say, by moving into a small villa.

Thus, when Nekrasov came to speak with Mikhail, he still had to come to this tiny room, reconfirming details and preparations—as he did today.

Now, two grown men sat on Mikhail’s sofa—simultaneously bed and parlor—intently conversing, while the old housemaid Nastasya, as always, brought in two cups of tea.

By nature, she paid close attention to their talk, and phrases like “seven hundred rubles” and “another thousand rubles” drifted into her ears.

Nastasya: “?”

It’s broad daylight, and I haven’t smelled any alcohol!

After setting down the tea, the old maid stood frozen for a long moment, then glanced again at Mikhail’s clearly patched-and-repaired clothing, then at Nekrasov’s slightly better attire, and finally, she smiled in relief…

So they’re just boasting. But lately I’ve heard Mikhail made some money—yet he doesn’t look like it…

And if he really had, wouldn’t he stop coming here altogether?

As these thoughts crossed her mind, the old maid Nastasya, who had been smiling, suddenly felt an inexplicable sadness.

As Nastasya slipped quietly away, Mikhail and Nekrasov’s conversation continued:

“Our earnings from the last anthology are clearly no longer enough. Fortunately, Panayev has joined us, and we’ve arranged to pay half the printing and paper costs monthly, deferring the rest to next year—I’ve already settled this with them.”

“Then our magazine’s first issue won’t be far off. How’s the response to our advertisements?”

“Some gentlemen in literary circles keep dismissing us,” Nekrasov shrugged, “but perhaps because our anthology didn’t disappoint after the promotion, or because of Visarion’s and your reputations, many people have already begun contacting us.”

When we start collecting advance payments, we won’t be as strapped as we are now.”

Here, Nekrasov glanced again at Mikhail’s tiny room and added, “You’ll soon find yourself a spacious, bright place. So will I—and of course, dear Visarion too.”

“Yes.”

Mikhail lifted his head and surveyed his room. Thanks to his mother and sister, the space had stayed tidy these past days, always clean.

But no matter how much he cleaned, its location and size made comfort impossible.

For his health, he must move—but hearing it said so suddenly, he felt an unexpected reluctance…

Notably, Mikhail had already spoken to his landlady Pavlovna about moving. Seeing how hard she had tried, how often she had pretended nonchalance while flaunting her wealth, yet still Mikhail refused, she had finally abandoned her extra hopes.

But she had still said: “Mikhail, though you’ve turned me down so many times, because it’s you—if you ever find yourself desperate, come to me. If my daughter isn’t married by then, perhaps I’ll give you another chance.”

Mikhail: “………”

Honestly, Mikhail was starting to feel guilty…

But such things cannot be forced.

As for the rent he owed Pavlovna, he had already paid it in full—and even planned to pay extra to ask her to find him a sufficiently spacious and bright apartment in this neighborhood.

Pavlovna paused, then asked hesitantly, “I heard from Turgenev you even had enough left over to repay his five hundred rubles. With so much money, why stay in this neighborhood? Why not move somewhere better?”

Because the better the neighborhood, the closer it is to the Third Section and the Tsar…

Ahem, just joking.

Mikhail replied: “That kind of place isn’t for me. Staying there too long might make me forget certain things. For now, this neighborhood still suits me best. When I have time, I’ll come back to sit awhile—hope you won’t begrudge me your tea.”

“………Of course!”

After a long moment of stunned silence, Pavlovna burst out excitedly: “Dear Mikhail, I hear you’ve gained great fame in literary circles, right?”

“Great fame? Not quite.”

Mikhail modestly waved his hand, yet his spine straightened slightly as he replied, “But I suppose I’ve gained a modest reputation.”

“That’s perfect.”

Hearing this, Pavlovna’s eyes sharpened with calculation: “Once you leave, I’ll triple—or quadruple—the rent for this room. You know, every year in St. Petersburg, there are poets and writers desperate to rise, and some not-so-well-off students.”

If they learn you once lived here, they’ll gladly pay far more!”

Mikhail: “？？？”

Poets, writers, and students are already suffering enough, dear Pavlovna—please show them some mercy…

(End of chapter)