Chapter 86: The Insulted and the Injured

If all goes as planned, Mikhail will soon be moving into a small villa; though he had already withdrawn part of the money earned from publishing his collected works to help the destitute Belinsky, Belinsky had thrown himself entirely into his work.

In his own words: “I never thought I’d have a turn of good fortune! Now I feel my energy returning, my mind clear again—once it felt stuffed with straw.”

To fulfill his personal ambitions and justify the salary he received, Mikhail and Nekrasov didn’t need to urge him—Belinsky treated himself like a beast of burden, utterly swamped, yet fortunately the money had reached his wife’s hands; while it wouldn’t buy a grand villa, it would surely free Belinsky from his current life of servitude.

As for Nekrasov,

Before leaving, Mikhail had jokingly asked: “Nikolai, where are you moving to next? Tell me—I’ll come visit when I have time.”

It was a simple question, yet Nekrasov’s eyes darted away, avoiding Mikhail’s gaze entirely; only when he reached the door did he mumble: “Not decided yet. I’ll tell you when it’s settled.”

Watching Nekrasov’s hurried departure and recalling his recent furtive gestures and reactions at gatherings, Mikhail could only think: Old Pasha, you really are a true man.

Though after marrying his wife, Panayev, due to his playboy nature, quickly grew cold toward her, he still permitted her relationship with Nekrasov—truly, Panayev was remarkably open-minded.

Nekrasov, however, behaved pettily in this affair, often growing angry from jealousy—well, may he find happiness.

This truly is the Russian version of “the three of us living well is better than anything else.”

After seeing off Nekrasov, Mikhail returned to his desk and reviewed the long novel he had nearly completed.

In this era, due to binding costs, promotional expenses, and other issues, long novels typically appeared in magazines as serials; only after serialization ended and if reader reception was favorable would publishers consider binding them into books for sale.

This serial format was especially popular in Britain and France; Dickens rose to fame by publishing in newspapers, eventually becoming a national author admired even by Queen Victoria.

At this point in time, Dickens was in his prime but had not yet written his greatest works; if Mikhail ever traveled abroad later, he would likely have the chance to meet this great writer.

Back in Russia, since long novels are mostly serialized, to attract readers, one must craft plots that are intricate and gripping; and if one wishes to earn more, extending the length is a sound strategy.

Dostoevsky’s works do bear traces of this intent; due to his gambling and advance payments, before he quit gambling and his final wife took charge of his finances, his royalties were never enough—this made some of his works seem tedious and overly verbose.

In short, padding the text to earn more fees.

Of course, beyond this reason, Dostoevsky’s style was simply this way—even in his later, financially secure novel The Brothers Karamazov, he still filled pages with psychological descriptions and analysis: tedious on the surface, yet collectively delivering a violent impact on the human spirit.

Meanwhile, Russian novels had a habit of debate; this is evident in many Russian writers’ works. Simply put, censorship made it hard to publish books spreading ideas, culture, philosophy, or revolution, so writers turned to novels to convey their beliefs.

In short: using novels to openly build a new order.

As for long novels, as previously noted, they were hard to choose: War and Peace was too grand; Mikhail was too young, and coming from his background, portraying the highest echelons of high society simply wasn’t credible.

After all, the highest-ranking official he had ever met was the General with his peculiar mindset.

Dostoevsky’s later works were also unsuitable—their scope was too vast, and frankly, their style was ahead of its time, meaning they only received proper acclaim later.

Under these conditions, to continue the previous theme without excessive scope, the most suitable choice was naturally this one: The Insulted and the Injured. Of course, certain parts of it still required minor adjustments.

After rechecking and finding no major issues, Mikhail wasted no time—he immediately packed and mailed the manuscript.

A few days later, the subscription drive for The Contemporary, now under Mikhail’s management, officially launched; but before Mikhail received the figures, Krayevsky—who had been closely watching the matter and had enlisted many to gather information—learned the numbers first.

In short, since learning of The Contemporary, Krayevsky had spent these days spreading rumors that the publisher couldn’t repay debts, speaking ill of it to many, while focusing intensely on the quality of his own magazine’s next issue, paying large sums to secure manuscripts from several renowned writers, planning to publish them all in the next edition.

Before the official showdown, Krayevsky hoped his other actions would bear fruit—but upon hearing the subscription number, he blurted out:

“Seventeen rubles annual subscription, and already fifteen hundred subscribers?! What are these people thinking? How can they be so confident in a new magazine? Don’t they fear losing their money?!”

Probably because of Vissarion and his circle, and that young man’s reputation.

Recalling recent street gossip, the editor Nikodin, who delivered the news to Krayevsky, had his own suspicion.

Since their earlier encounters, he had vaguely sensed that the young man wasn’t as easily fooled as Belinsky—but honestly, he never imagined the fellow could pull off so many bold moves in such a short time, and now he was nearly standing above Mr. Krayevsky.

After all, who ever heard of such a young publisher?

And judging by these numbers, the fellow might actually succeed.

Watching Krayevsky still fuming, Nikodin recalled another rumor he’d heard: The Contemporary planned to raise author fees and improve conditions.

Clearly, Krayevsky’s days of getting free manuscripts were over.

(End of Chapter)