Chapter 87: Reputation in the Cultural Circle and Mikhail's New Role (Part 2)

Regarding why the magazine *The Contemporary*, which Mikhail and his team have taken over, raised its manuscript fee standards, on one hand it was following the trend: as the era developed and the publishing industry became increasingly commercialized, Russian writers' awareness of manuscript fees and copyright grew stronger.

In fact, this trend began with the great man of the Russian literary circle, Pushkin; Pushkin once joked in a letter to his poetic friend Vyazemsky: "I write for myself, publish books to earn money, not to win a beauty's smile."

And while Pushkin was a genius poet, he actually understood the commercial operations of publishing quite well; for instance, regarding the book *Eugene Onegin*, before the complete edition was published, he had each chapter of this long poem published separately, earning a bit of money with each chapter first, then earning another sum with the complete poetry collection.

Thus, it is said that the excerpts and the complete version of this long poem together earned over thirty thousand rubles in manuscript fees, and *Eugene Onegin* is one of the novels in Russian classic literature that earned the most manuscript fees; Pushkin can be called the writer with the most business acumen.

One can only say the great man is still the great man, even leading the way in this; however, due to extravagant spending combined with supporting his family and business expenses, Pushkin was sometimes deeply in debt, living a rather wretched life.

Returning to the present, although there are indeed some well-off gentlemen willing to contribute their manuscripts for free for the sake of Russian cultural endeavors, the market environment has matured considerably, so raising the manuscript fee standards is merely a matter of time.

After all, with higher manuscript fees, naturally more good manuscripts can be received; otherwise, relying solely on a few people might not be enough to sustain a magazine.

Of course, if one insists, Mikhail certainly could, but that would be too perverted...

As for why, even with all this, Kraevsky of *The Fatherland Notes* is still engaging in that exploitation, it is simply that he can earn more; if it can be left unchanged, it is better not to change it.

But regardless, someone must go and do the thing first.

Thus, to increase the influence of the magazine they had just taken over, and on the other hand to cultivate their reputation in the Cultural Circle, after discussing with Nekrasov and Belinsky, who shared this idea, Mikhail quickly settled the matter.

And once this news was released, it immediately caused quite a stir within the circles of the Cultural Circle.

For some writers and poets living in straitened circumstances and making a living from literature, this was undoubtedly very good news; many people have already launched extensive discussions in various settings:

"How is it? Is that news true?"

"It's confirmed! At the time, a Mr. present spoke to them with a tone of pity: 'You are using money so recklessly, you are truly mad!' They replied: 'If the magazine is run well, we will actually increase the pay even more; we ourselves are writers, it is shameful to treat contributors poorly.' What a noble statement!"

"I heard this matter was proposed by those two young men; they offered Vissarion a high salary, and for excellent manuscripts, the prices they offered were significantly higher than current magazines and newspapers; truly a bold decision!"

"I must try it; although they only recently took over *The Contemporary*, it is said that a large number of subscribers have already started reserving!"

"Of course it will be like that! Do you not know how many people in St. Petersburg have been discussing their anthology recently? Of course, there are many voices of criticism; many stories in the anthology cannot be called Gao Ya, but as everyone knows, the novels of that Mikhail before were all like this.

Every issue, I see other magazines questioning his writing techniques, questioning his stance and tendencies, but in fact, everyone remembers those few novels; every single novel is unforgettable!

This *Petersburg Anthology* is the same; although there are many voices of criticism, very many people are talking about it, and it sells very well. I think the readers of Petersburg seem to be gradually beginning to accept this new trend in literature."

"So what exactly is this new trend?"

"I heard from friends in the circle that Vissarion is already brewing relevant articles; it is said that with the help of that Mikhail, they seem to want to raise a new flag in the Russian literary world!"

"I cannot say exactly what this new trend is, but I can be certain that such novels are exceptionally moving and touch more deeply upon our current Russian social reality and the broadest segment of the population.

Poems that can evoke noble human emotions are certainly precious, but they seem too far from the ground, and far less shocking than things on the ground."

Such discussions had already occurred everywhere since Mikhail appeared in the literary world; at first, Mikhail bore the heaviest fire, but because he had no money at that time and did not attend gatherings of other literary circles very often, his feelings about these voices were not so strong.

But in the eyes of others, Mikhail was indeed single-handedly stirring the nerves of the St. Petersburg literary circle, and once he had stirred them enough, other novels with seemingly similar styles and tendencies began to slowly appear in magazines.

If the quality of his works had been average, they would likely have been buried by the overwhelming voices long ago, but precisely because his works indeed made many people unforgettable, this trend was forced out from among other currents.

So much so that by the time of the *Petersburg Anthology*, many people were delighted to see other novels of this style and tendency; after all, once interest in this trend had been aroused, how could one such author be enough?

Although other people's works were far inferior compared to his, the quality was indeed quite good. No, the quality of that *Poor Folk* was truly astonishingly high, to the extent that the discussions surrounding it were not much fewer than those for Mikhail's novels and poems.

But one must admit, perhaps because Mikhail had already stirred people's nerves with those novels, the critical voices regarding *Poor Folk* were not particularly loud; and whenever there were any, many times Mikhail himself had to be dragged out to be criticized as well.

Although there were many critical voices, the sales of the anthology were solid; and those buyers who thought the anthology was good, when they saw news about the new magazine and new novels in the newspaper again, how could they have no interest at all?

To be honest, if the rumors that spread out were not somewhat useful, the reservation volume for *The Contemporary* might have been even higher; currently, indeed some people have been influenced by those rumors and are preparing to wait until the first issue is released to buy and see.

And once the reservation volume of *The Contemporary* spread within a certain range, writers and poets in the literary circle who might have been waiting on the sidelines immediately gained much confidence in it, and then began preparing to entrust their new manuscripts to others to submit, or simply went directly to find the magazine's publishers and distributors to hand them over in person.

If one insists on saying, the cultural circle of St. Petersburg is actually not very large; once news spreads, the speed is relatively fast, and precisely because these people actually have some contact with each other to varying degrees, as long as there are certain connections, it is not difficult to hand manuscripts directly to them.

As a newly taken-over magazine, Nekrasov and his team naturally had a great demand for good manuscripts; once they heard a particular manuscript was especially good, they would even go to the door themselves to ask for it.

And their behavior had an immediate effect on *The Fatherland Notes*; if a short while ago Kraevsky was still feeling angry about the reservation volume of *The Contemporary*, now he cannot spare a thought for that matter and must start dealing with remarks like this:

"Mr. Kraevsky, if I send my article to *The Contemporary*, they will surely be happy to pay me a higher manuscript fee!"

If it were the manuscript of an ordinary author, Kraevsky would naturally give a cold reply: "If you wish to give it to them, then give it to them; we will no longer allow you here."

But if it were a type of article that even he valued highly, then Kraevsky had no choice but to raise the manuscript fee.

For this reason, Kraevsky has more than once shouted in front of his peers who were similarly affected: "They are fostering bad trends in the literary world! How can one compete in such a despicable way? I can predict to you that if they continue to be so extravagant like them, they will not earn a single penny from the magazine!

With such management, their magazine's finances will sooner or later collapse!"

Regarding such remarks, some believed and some hesitated, but for the young Andrei, who had just been deeply moved by that *The Humiliated* a short while ago, he only wanted to quickly find a way to join the new magazine.

The manuscript fees were secondary; what Andrei actually wanted more was to be closer to that writer who, at such a young age, had produced such outstanding works.

Fortunately, as a minor noble with some connections in St. Petersburg, Andrei quickly contacted those gentlemen of *The Contemporary* magazine through some people; however, while contacting them was easy, meeting that young publisher was difficult.

In response, the new editors of *The Contemporary* magazine replied:

"Recently, too many young authors want to see him; although he is willing to set aside his time, because there are too many people, if you also wish to do so, you may have to wait a while."

"I am willing to wait."

Andrei replied without hesitation.

So he waited a few more days; once he finally received the news, he dressed up carefully, put on his most presentable clothes, tidied his appearance, and then, somewhat apprehensively, walked towards the office space *The Contemporary* had recently rented.

Since the budget was not quite sufficient, the office space of *The Contemporary* magazine did not look very large; fortunately, the number of personnel was not too large at present. As soon as Andrei walked in, he could only see a few messy desks and some editors discussing a certain novel enthusiastically.

They were so passionate and focused that they did not notice Andrei's arrival at all; out of politeness, Andrei waited nearby for a long time. During the wait, he was unconsciously infected by their enthusiastic atmosphere, to the point that he even wanted to step forward and ask them which novel they were discussing.

Just like that, a long while passed; finally, someone saw him and hurriedly walked over to him:

"Sorry, sir, is there something you need? Submitting a manuscript or?"

"I am here to see the respected Mr. Mikhail Romanovich."

Andrei involuntarily displayed a humble expression: "I have already made an appointment for the time."

"Then you must be Andrei?"

This editor, who seemed not much older either, displayed an understanding expression; after confirming Andrei's identity, he quickly led him up to the second floor.

Clearly, even though the space was not large, a publisher and writer like the respected Mikhail would most likely have an independent office.

With this thought in mind, Andrei followed that editor to the second floor. The second floor did not look large either, but there were very few rooms; from the staircase entrance to the very back, there were probably only two or three rooms at most. When led to this spot, that editor pointed with his hand:

"It is in that room at the very back; Mr. Mikhail Romanovich is now sitting in his office."

Seeing that this editor seemed to have no intention of seeing him off further, Andrei could only take a deep breath, endure the intense spasms in his abdomen, and take small steps forward. After a particularly long journey, he finally knocked tremblingly on the door of the innermost room.

"Please come in."

As this voice, as if from beyond the heavens, rang out, Andrei made up his mind, clutched his manuscript tightly, and slowly pushed the door open to enter.

With his movement, a very large and spacious desk gradually appeared, slowly revealing a quill pen, ink, several sheets of pristine manuscript paper, and a vase with a bouquet, while at the same time, the silhouette of a person leaning back in an office chair also gradually came into view.

This Mr. was dressed appropriately, yet did not appear particularly luxurious; instead, he possessed a certain simplicity. The hand holding the quill pen appeared knotty, and was currently writing something on the manuscript paper before him. When he finally raised his head, Andrei saw an overly young, even much younger than himself, ruddy face.

Although this Mr. appeared quite young and gave a very gentle impression, Andrei could not help but tense his body, stood straight, and stammered, "Hello, respected Mr."

"Why are you standing? Find a place to sit."

Andrei had barely finished speaking those words when he heard that voice, as if from beyond the heavens, once more. Before he could react, the other party had already stood up on his own, poured a cup of tea, then walked toward Andrei and said:

"Please sit, do not be polite. Would you like some tea?"

What happened afterwards was, for some reason, vague, as if in a dream. By the time Andrei walked out of the other party's office in a trance, his mind was filled entirely with that young face.

(End of this chapter)