Chapter 96: A Young Man Arrives on the Russian Literary Scene (Combined)

Overall, although the office of “Modern Man” had indeed suffered some impact, fortunately, its editorial team included several sharp-witted individuals who immediately assured every visitor:

“Yes, yes, we’re already considering expanding the length of the serialized novel—next issue will likely have far more pages than before!”

“That’s right, we’ve already put expanding the serialized novel’s length on the agenda! We’re already rushing to discuss it, and we’ll definitely deliver a result that satisfies our readers!”

Of course, these assurances sounded solid but contained not a single concrete promise.

Yet in the editors’ view, as long as the respected Mr. Mikhail still had manuscripts, expanding the novel’s length was virtually guaranteed—after all, respected Mr. Mikhail, you wouldn’t want our magazine to become something entirely different because of your laziness, would you?

But those who came directly to the magazine to inquire were still few; most subscribers of “Modern Man” expressed their opinions by letter. Besides the common demand to expand “The Insulted and the Injured,” many subscribers eagerly sought information about their favorite author’s past and present—asking about his social class, his acquaintances, and more.

The profession of writer had not yet been devalued so severely in this era; otherwise, with Mikhail’s commoner status, he could never have been invited to so many noble banquets.

This had already happened when Mikhail was publishing novels in “Fatherland Notes”—many readers, after reading his works, were eager to learn who this writer really was.

Mikhail once preferred to keep a low profile, but now that his fame and prestige kept rising, modesty had become nearly impossible; if so, he might as well accept it openly.

Thus, details of his identity and circumstances gradually spread—ordinary readers still knew little, but most in St. Petersburg’s cultural circle had slowly learned the truth.

Yet some people always got news faster than others; for instance, Krayevsky, publisher of “Fatherland Notes,” had long known Mikhail’s exact situation—but he never leaked it.

After all, a brilliant university student with terrible finances sounded easy to manipulate; a little kindness could make him work like a beast of burden.

But now it seemed not only could he not make him work like a beast—he was about to be ridden over by him!

Just thinking of the rumors he’d heard and the sales figures of this issue of “Fatherland Notes,” Krayevsky turned livid with rage.

Leaving aside other losses, the number of subscribers had plummeted by five hundred alone due to Belinsky and his friends’ departure.

Not to mention other damages.

According to what he’d learned, the newly relaunched “Modern Man” had opened with a roaring success: not only was its serialized novel wildly popular, but all its other works had also received excellent reviews.

In short, if it could maintain this quality, its subscriber growth was virtually guaranteed.

Even if other works faltered, the mere presence of that serialized novel would keep this new magazine thriving for a long time!

Before “Modern Man” launched, Krayevsky had expected the magazine might enjoy a brief surge of attention due to the university student’s short story—but who knew this seemingly open and honest student had secretly written a full-length novel?

And it just happened to coincide with the new magazine’s debut.

In short, the more Krayevsky thought about it, the more stunned he became: from his perspective, this student had first gained fame on his magazine, then used that reputation to co-publish an anthology, secured startup capital, and immediately moved to poach several of their most important staff members.

And now here he was.

Had he planned this all along?

He was just like his own duke—a thoroughly hypocritical, treacherous capitalist.

Just as Krayevsky was growing increasingly unnerved by his thoughts, at the gathering he was attending, several cultural figures had just learned the young writer’s age and exclaimed in shock:

“That famed genius is still just a university student? Today’s students are this capable? It’s unbelievable.”

“So he’s barely twenty, yet all those working under him are in their thirties or forties—hardly ever seen such a thing.”

“I’ve read the new magazine—it’s very different from others. I think it’ll sell well.”

“They’ll surely establish themselves in publishing soon. Hard to imagine a new magazine growing this fast.”

At first, Krayevsky was lost in his own thoughts, but the more he listened to others’ conversation, the more familiar it sounded; just as he was about to retort, he remembered the rumors he’d heard about the new magazine—and fell silent, choked with fury.

Now, he had to think carefully about how to respond.

As Krayevsky began contemplating his response, Mikhail was reading reader letters and a recent letter from Nadya at his new home.

As previously mentioned, with landlady Pavlovna’s help, Mikhail had finally found himself a decent apartment.

It was a standalone suite—though not large, Mikhail could jump around without hitting his head; it had a living room, two bedrooms, proper sofas and armchairs for guests, and a clean, comfortable bed.

After moving in with his meager belongings, Mikhail finally began to feel the reality of being a magazine publisher.

After all, previously, which publisher received guests like a godfather by day and slept on a hard sofa at night?

The rent was high—nearly ten times what his old tiny apartment cost—but he could now afford it; some even thought his residence didn’t match his status, yet Mikhail was thoroughly satisfied.

Moving wasn’t too troublesome; the real trouble lay in moving customs.

To be honest, Russians were also tenants; there’s a Russian saying: “My house is my fortress.”

Thus, there were many rituals to observe during a move.

Including, but not limited to: inviting a priest to bless the new home—the priest would sprinkle holy water, light incense, place icons, then look at Mikhail, waiting for him to pull out money to offer to God.

Also, letting a cat enter first—many believed cats drove away unclean spirits—and bringing salt and bread as symbols of peace and prosperity.

Mikhail wanted to keep it simple, but landlady Pavlovna and the old maid Nastasya, seeing his carelessness, shook their heads repeatedly, scolded him for his recklessness, and took charge of arranging everything for him.

“Mikhail, doing these things is necessary. Joyful days in life are few enough—how could you neglect such a major and happy occasion? God will protect you, but you mustn’t be so careless.”

To be fair, Mikhail felt Pavlovna, this sturdy woman, had grown gentler—even her attitude toward other tenants seemed less harsh than before.

After handling these matters came the relatively joyful banquet time.

During Mikhail’s move, many friends had wanted to help: the minor landowner Turgenev wanted to use his life experience to judge the feng shui of his new home—his method was to throw three large round loaves of bread; if they all landed crust-side up, it was auspicious; if not, he should reconsider.

Though this method left Mikhail baffled, the result seemed good—Turgenev threw them and immediately nodded with satisfaction: “Mikhail, as a good man like you, your dwelling should be auspicious.”

The petty merchant Versilov had sold Mikhail some cheap yet practical furniture; the low-ranking clerk Smirnov had run errands to handle government paperwork, and before leaving, he patted his chest and assured Mikhail:

“Dear Mikhail, if you ever run into trouble here—no matter how big—just come to me, I’ll fix it for you.”

Mikhail: “?”

Really?

But remembering Smirnov was only a fourteenth-rank clerk, Mikhail couldn’t help asking: “And how exactly will you do that?”

“I’ll tell them a joke!”

Smirnov, who struggled to feed his large family, cheerfully said: “They’ll laugh, get happy, and let you off!”

Mikhail: “.”

Go tell that to the Tsar!

Of course, it was just a small joke—though a bit cold, Mikhail laughed after hearing it.

Nekrasov also came to check on Mikhail; having spent years in the lower ranks, Nekrasov was a master at haggling—but even he was no match for Mikhail’s landlady.

So his wish to negotiate the rent failed; instead, he gifted Mikhail a card table and a deck of cards, saying: “Alright, Mikhail, your landlady managed to charge this price for such a place—she must be an undiscovered businesswoman.

Since that’s the case, I’ll give you what you love most—but promise me you won’t tell Viсsariyon it was from me.”

As for Turgenev, he was out of the question—he’d written that he’d return soon, but given his nature, he might easily forget.

As for Belinsky, he came in person, bringing Mikhail precious philosophical books and others explicitly banned by the current Russian government, and said solemnly:

“Mikhail, you must read these books carefully—I believe you, of all people, will understand them more deeply and form your own thoughts!”

Mikhail: “.”

You overestimate me, old Belinsky—some books make me want to sleep.

As he was leaving, Belinsky suddenly noticed the prominent card table, stared for a long moment, then tremulously asked: “Mikhail, did you buy this? Good heavens! A smart man, an obvious genius—how can you waste your energy on meaningless cards!”

Mikhail: “?”

You play cards far more than I do.

“Dear Viсsariyon, I didn’t buy this.”

Remembering Nekrasov’s request, Mikhail cleared his throat and quickly explained: “It was a housewarming gift from Turgenev—I didn’t want to accept it, but since it was him, sigh!”

And so Belinsky left, trembling.

So many people had helped Mikhail greatly—he naturally ought to host a good banquet for them.

Mikhail had already begun purchasing food, drinks, and pastries; before they arrived, he took a moment to read the reader letters.

In a relatively cheerful mood, Mikhail opened the first letter:

“Put the rest of the story in the next issue—or I’ll kill you!”

Mikhail: “???”

Opening salvo, huh?

Who’s this angry old man?

Wiping nonexistent sweat from his brow, Mikhail hurried to open the second letter:

“Although there’s a respectable duke in the book, please make sure you kill him—otherwise, I’ll find a way to come after you!”

Mikhail: “?”

Oh no—the duke won’t die.

Now sweat actually appeared on Mikhail’s forehead as he opened the third letter:

“Could you tell me what happens next? I swear to God—I won’t reveal a single word of what you tell me!”

Mikhail: “.”

To be honest, I think you’re a heretic.

Reading these letters, Mikhail grew increasingly drenched in sweat, so he finally opened Nadya’s letter:

“Most kind and respectable Mikhail Romanovich, I’d like to ask about your novel—based on the earlier part, it seems you’re planning a romance between the duke’s son and the steward’s daughter. Am I right?”

“Do you think the duke’s son will have a chance to marry the steward’s daughter? Or, to put it differently—if you swapped their roles, do you think...”

Mikhail: “.”

Oh no—you guessed right, but their ending won’t be good.

And what do you mean by swapping their roles?

Mikhail began sweating again—but this time, in a different way.

(End of chapter)