Publishing Activity Having made this conclusion, I decided to take up publishing activity. This did not require the establishment of a publishing house, it was enough to make an appropriate amendment to the charter of an existing company and establish cooperation with the Book Chamber.

I sat at home and wrote. I wanted to write a novel from modern life and worked diligently for several months. One fine day I packed up and left for Terpilitsy - I wanted to see my nanny. In Terpilitsy I continued to write. I wrote during the day and talked to the nanny in the evenings. My friend Kalina was no longer in Terpilitsy. He left the estate shortly before his father's death and, according to rumors, entered an actor somewhere in the south.

Books, like people, have their own destiny. The fate of what I wrote was not to be born. I have written a lot in my life, but only two books were published - one, which I mentioned earlier, in French, the other - “Peter Basmanov and Marina Mnishek, two dramas from the history of the Time of Troubles”; I also translated the first part of Goethe's Faust, which was also published. I wrote because I wanted to, and this occupation gave a feeling of joy and peace with myself. But I never knew how to return to what was already written - the fate of what was written did not interest me. I believe that neither I myself nor the society have lost anything. My Marina Mnishek was out of luck. The drama seemed interesting to the director of the Imperial Theaters I.A. Vsevolozhsky, he offered her to the theater committee, Strepetovagotova was to take the role of Maria Mnishek in her benefit performance, but theatrical censorship did not approve of the choice. Why? Only Allah knows.

The comedy Our Augurs was even less fortunate. This play made fun of our journalists, and I did not foresee any difficulties with it. However, it was not allowed to publish it, and the censor, a good-natured and middle-aged man named, if I am not mistaken, Friedberg, explained why. The censors, according to his explanation, feared that the publication of this play would further exacerbate their relations with journalists, who were already bad.

The story with the translation of Faust was strange. The censor demanded to “soften” some passages. I decided to speak with the censor of the St. Petersburg Censorship Committee in person. I mentioned that two translations of Faust have already been published.

I know, ”he said. “But the translators have agreed to make changes to many passages that might be puzzling to the reader.

I didn't want to change anything.

Do I have the right to lodge a complaint with the Minister?

Complain to anyone, ”he said, unexpectedly, very rudely. “Just don’t stop me from working anymore. And believe that the minister will not help you.

The historian Sergei Tatishchev was the persona of a grata in the highest government circles and, after listening to my story, he advised me to talk to the chief censor Feoktistov, offering to introduce me to him. We agreed to meet for dinner at the English Club next Saturday, when other members of the club usually gathered there, believing that Feoktistov would also be there.

Arriving at the club on Saturday, I asked the manager to leave an empty seat next to me, as I was expecting a friend. After some time, a gentleman I did not know came up to the table and wanted to sit down next to me. I said that the place was taken for Tatishchev.

He will not come, - quickly answered the master. - I am from him, he was summoned to Moscow in front of me, where he is leaving tonight.

The gentleman sat down and we began to talk. I was annoyed that Tatishchev could not come, and I asked the gentleman if he knew what Feoktistov looked like and if he was in the club.

Oh yes, I am quite familiar with him. Do you need it?

I told him about my case and with all the humor I could describe my conversation with the censor.

Yes, - he said, - it is sometimes impossible to reach the censors, as well as everyone else. But I think that your case can be helped.

He took out his business card and wrote a few words on it. The unknown gentleman turned out to be Feoktistov.

The next day I hurried to the censor, who greeted me very hostilely and, instead of greeting me, said that he had no time for me. His expression changed as soon as I presented him with Feoktistov's card. He called and entered the secretary ordered to issue the papers authorizing the publication of "Faust".

But the fate of one of my plays still saddens me. Perhaps, of all that I wrote, this was the only thing that I really liked. In the play, Catherine the Great was portrayed, although, of course, she did not appear in her as a character, since the censorship did not allow portraying monarchs on the stage. I showed her to four friends who served as theater censors to see if she would be allowed to pass. They liked the play, and they praised me, saying that there was nothing to ban it, but they didn’t miss the play.

Many years later the Maly Theater wanted to stage this play. I was asked to add a fifth act and make changes to some of the scenes. The changes spoiled the play, and the fifth act failed and the play was never staged. All this has now lost all meaning, and the play, along with the rest of my archive, was probably burned by the Bolsheviks.

Returning to Petersburg, I reread and burned everything that I had written. And again he began to wander the streets, again I didn’t like everything, and most of all I didn’t like myself. But then I began to write again, and, as before, it fascinated me. I met people less and less. When I got tired, I went to the noble masquerades.

At that time, masquerades had not yet become a meeting place for women seeking adventure and men who pay them. These masquerades were attended by women from respectable noble families, middle-aged serious fathers of families, military men and members of the imperial family. As is known, the late Nikolai Pavlovich was passionately fond of these masquerades, and during his lifetime there were many anecdotes about his adventures in St. Petersburg. Here is one of them.

I know you, ”the mask told him.

The use of “you” in the masquerade was common, and the phrase “I know you” was standard. But when addressing those whom everyone knew, it was not accepted to say “you”.

Really? - the Tsar answers. - How can you know such a poor and insignificant person like me? But you know, because I know you too.

Tell me if you know.

An old fool, - answered the Tsar.

Once Potapov mentioned his brother in a conversation with me.

You have a brother? It's strange that I've never heard of him.

Alexander Lvovich smiled and told me what had happened to his brother. His brother, a twenty-year-old hussar, diminutive, like all Potapovs, had amazingly beautiful hands. Once he came to the masquerade as a woman and attracted the attention of the Tsar. The young man was witty and resourceful, and the Tsar liked him. Walking through the halls of the masquerade and talking, they entered a small living room, usually open to everyone. But this time the living room was closed for visitors to the masquerade, which Potapov, of course, could not know about. When they were alone, the Tsar began kissing the hands of the mask and swearing in love. The disguised hussar, as you can easily imagine, was terribly frightened. He ran out of the room, mixed with the crowd, got to the stairs, ran downstairs, got into the carriage and drove away.

Find out who this woman is, - the Tsar ordered the police chief Kokoshkin. - I will wait for your report.

The enraged King went to the palace. An hour passed, then another. The Tsar's impatience and anger grew, but Kokoshkin was not there. Finally he appeared.

Well? Nikolai Pavlovich asked.

Moron. I ordered you to find out who was hiding under the mask, and you are thrusting the hussar Potapov into my nose. Who was hiding behind the mask?

Guard officer Potapov, Your Majesty.

Potapov was expelled from the guard and sent to a village somewhere on the edge of the world, from where he had no right to go anywhere. Only under Alexander II was he allowed to go abroad, but without permission he would ever return to Russia.

faith

On one of these days, when I was writing with enthusiasm, I received a letter from an unfamiliar woman who insistently asked me to come to the next masquerade. I threw away the letter and did not intend to go to the masquerade, since my thoughts were occupied by others. But on the day of the masquerade, while sitting at work, I suddenly remembered the letter and, although I decided not to go anywhere, I suddenly got up, quickly gathered myself like a machine gun and went to the masquerade.

As soon as I entered the hall, a lady in a black domino came up to me and touched my hand. At the sound of her voice, I remembered something familiar and dear, something as if it had come from another distant life, and perhaps from dreams.

You will not recognize me? the mask asked.

No, I said. - But it seems to me for some reason that you are not completely unfamiliar to me. Are you happy that we met?

Yes, said the mask. - All this was so long ago, it was in the spring in Rakitna. Do you remember?

Faith! - I almost screamed.

And I remembered a village remote from the whole world, an old farmhouse with columns by a sleeping pond. I remembered benches, blooming lilacs and jasmine, and far-flung green fields. And as if it were yesterday, I saw an old-fashioned family in front of me - an energetic hostess with white curls, a smiling elderly owner quenching his thirst with cranberry juice, and a charming simple girl who grew up far from the center. I remembered the last evening I spent in my beloved Rakitna. There was light and long, some kind of pale twilight, a strong smell of flowers in the garden, and, spellbound by this mysterious light, we embraced, without disturbing the calm of the evening. And the angel of silence flew past us. For a moment, our souls succumbed to the music and flowering of this evening, but we could not find the words for this joyful song at that time.

How long has it been, ”I said. - How much we and everything around has changed since that time. I haven't heard anything about you all this time.

I've been married for a long time, ”she said.

Are you happy?

Yes. My husband is a good man. I have two children, wonderful children. I don't need anything else. And you? Are you happy?

No, I replied.

And suddenly to this person, barely familiar to me, with whom fate united me for one short evening, I told the story of my life as they say in confession.

No, no, she said. - You can't live like that. Take the very first job that comes across to you, take on some load, harness yourself in any activity, put on a yoke, any yoke, and the effort will give you the strength to live, the work itself will pull you out.

This in itself an insignificant meeting (by the way, in the spiritual world of a person nothing can be measured or weighed, so there is nothing significant or insignificant), and so, this meeting made me make a decision that completely changed my life. I made the decision to stop being a normal inhabitant of this land and take on the burden, as my charming companion advised me, I decided that I needed a yoke. I soon found such a yoke. Hearing that a large plot of forest is being sold in the Kharkov province on good terms, I decided to buy it and start a new life there.

In the yoke

I checked my finances and found them to be in dire shape. It should be noted that I did almost everything to bring them to such a state, however, and my lawyer helped a little. The money I had left was barely enough to pay for the land. I sold the horse and carriage, left the paintings at my friend's house, made a deposit and left for my new place of residence, which was nothing but a forest and a swampy valley along the Donets River. In all my territory there was not a single large house, and only in the forest there were three huts, in which the foresters used to live. One of them was cleanly swept, whitewashed, and it became my home. In one of the small rooms I settled down, in the other - my manager, an impoverished nobleman, who during the time of serfdom had only one serf. As a servant, we had a Ukrainian who knew how to cook borscht and dumplings. The interior of my beautiful dwelling cost me less than a hundred rubles (I brought the bed with me), the stable cost 313 rubles, I paid 100 rubles for an excellent three horses, another 100 for a used carriage, 13 for an excellent riding horse the size of a rat, and 100 for for another horse, purebred Kabardian. I brought the saddles from St. Petersburg. And as a hermit, I began to live in this dark forest.

The deal was successful. There was no cleared land on my site, but I was not going to grow anything and, of course, did not know how. The forest was magnificent and, with skill, could become a source of unexpected income. I had no capital, I never did business, but, as it turned out, I had enough common sense. And I dealt with my forest in the most original way. I started selling it and, not really knowing how to do it, I sold it by sight. There were many buyers. Some bought for their own needs, some for the construction of mines.

It was late autumn, we got up at 5 in the morning, when it was still dark in the yard, ate borscht and everything that was left from dinner, put on short fur coats and felt boots and went to cut down the forest. We returned at dusk, frozen and very tired, ate the eternal borscht with a piece of meat and fell asleep at 8-9 pm. Thus, day after day, I lived for almost two years. Only on Saturdays I returned earlier and left for Golubovka, where a family I knew and several French engineers lived, and we spent Sundays together. One winter I fell ill and lay for several weeks in a cold hut without any help whatsoever; it was a terrible time. In order not to disturb my relatives, I did not inform them of anything. I only wrote that I had bought a large estate in the Kharkov province, and the former Zayka, who has now become Dasha, sent me a letter from Florence asking me to photograph the house: “I can imagine how you probably decorated everything”. After a year and a half, I paid the cost of my estate.

Money in the south at that time, in the literal sense of the word, was lying on the ground, and only the lazy would not pick it up. Very soon I paid for the land and in the same village on the opposite side of the river I bought a house from the priest's widow. The house had five rooms, I bought furniture, it was neither particularly old nor particularly unusual, but my life became much more pleasant. The house had a stable and several special rooms. All this cost me 8 thousand. Two times during the winter I went to Kharkov on business. My business expanded. When I now came to the city, I stayed at the Hotel France and no longer felt like a country hermit. I began to visit the theater and soon got to know the whole city. Many rich noble families lived in Kharkov at that time, among whom were the princes Golitsyn, the Counts Sivers, Miklashevs, Danzases and others. There was a certain Pokhvostnev who inherited the Donets-Zakharzhevsky estate. He ordered a troupe from Paris and organized a French opera house. Tickets were not on sale, but they were sent to friends for free. The performances were often followed by a dinner in the theater. The governor at that time was Prince Kropotkin, whom I have already mentioned. My cousin, Adjutant General Baron Korf, the commander of a hussar regiment, was also in Kharkov at that time. In short, life was quite pleasant. But in the city I did not stay long. I was in a hurry to return to my forest. Living as a hermit was not easy, but work really gives me strength to live, and I was happy with both life and myself.

Neighbors

Bunny told me about her engagement to Obukhov, and I promised to come to their wedding in Wiesbaden. My business continued to expand; I was lucky. In the summer I was involved in the sale of timber and, when I had free time, sometimes I visited my neighbors. The local nobles, my neighbors, were uneducated people, but original and quite aroused my curiosity, especially since I was not familiar with remote parts of Russia. One of my neighbors, a wealthy landowner Golubev, turned out to be a modern Plyushkin. A bear was tied at the door of his bedroom at night, which guarded him and the treasures of his home. There were bars on all the windows of his house. When I came to him and said that I was hungry, he offered me a glass of coffee with rusks. When I assured him that I didn’t need anything, he also offered me coffee, but without the rusks, but he put five pieces of sugar in a cup of coffee, saying that it wasn’t every day that he had such pleasant guests, that’s why For me he does not feel sorry for sugar, because he knows for sure that I drink coffee without sugar at home.

Among my neighbors was a very beautiful and wealthy widow. Hunting was her favorite pastime. She kept a large pack of dogs; a landowner who had long been ruined and degraded served as her dog. She kept this man, her former lover, in a black body, treated him like a servant, and never put him at the table with her during dinner.

Since I pay him money, he is my slave, not my equal, she explained.

The third neighbor, as in the good old days, had a harem in which no longer serfs lived, but simple peasant girls. The landowner behaved like an employer: he paid each of them six rubles a month and fed everyone; for the eunuch his own mother was in the harem, a stern and silent woman with moral principles incomprehensible to me, but at the same time seemed religious and carefully monitored the observance of church rites.

Potiphar's wife

Once I visited the widow of one of the local landowners, where I was forced to play the wonderful and shameful role of Joseph: I fled, pursued by the pictures of my death. This widow was a simple Ukrainian woman, a former serf, whom her master married after her second child. She was almost as tall as me, and I was just over two meters, twice as wide as me, but nevertheless very beautiful. She had fists like heavyweight wrestlers, and her fiery temperament was told in legends throughout the county.

Once, driving past her estate, I was caught in a thunderstorm of such force that it was impossible to go further. I knocked on her door, introduced myself. She invited me to come in, fed me very tasty, treated me to cherry and plum brandy, and it was interesting for me to listen to her. During lunch, I could not help but notice that she was trying to give me some signs with her foot. I was on my guard.

In the yard, something unimaginable was happening - it was thundering, pouring like a bucket, and I had to stay overnight. Anticipating the attack, I closed the door with a key and began to wait for what would happen. When all was quiet in the house, I heard the sound of bare feet, and the handle of my door was pulled. Thank God it was closed. But, I thought, if she pulls the handle harder, no lock will stand anyway.

What a pity! I shouted. - I can not open the door. I twisted my leg and can't go to the door.

Why did you lock it with a key?

By mistake! I shouted back. - I have a terrible headache, and I have a very bad idea of ​​what I am doing.

Nothing, my mistress replied. - I'll fix everything now. Wait, I'll be with you in a minute.

How do you get here?

I'll open the window, just find an umbrella.

I was frightened in earnest, and as soon as the sound of bare feet under my door died down, I jumped out the window, rushed to the stable, saddled my horse and finally got home, wet as a mouse, but unharmed.

Since then, I have avoided even approaching the road that could lead me to her house. You never know what could have happened!

Disengagement

A few words about the naivety of our far from simple peasants. When I lived in the woods, I made friends with many of my buyers. They treated me with confidence, perhaps because they did not rank me among the masters - they did not even know my name and simply called me Baronov, thinking that this was my last name. One day a commission from two villages came to me with two cards. The peasants asked to help them to dissociate themselves amicably. The plan was brought in. We started. I look - the plan of my dacha.

Yes, this is, they say, Maryevka, - I say.

She is the one in akkrat.

What should you divide other people's good into?

The tsar will soon order all the land to be divided among the peasants.

What nonsense, where did you get this from?

We are right.

Who told you that?

A student came here recently. He himself, he says, saw the royal golden letter. It was ordered to take the land from the gentlemen.

Okay, I say. - I was with you, Karpenko, the other day I traded a horse, so drag him to my yard.

And what, will you give two hundred rubles? And then only one and a half hundred promised.

I will not give anything. What for? You take my good, I am yours.

Yes, I paid money for the horse. I dumped a hundred rubles.

And I gave forty-seven for a tithe for the land.

The horse is animal. It needs to be grown, left, and the land, which means that of God, belongs to everyone.

Why, if everyone, you want to take it for yourself, and not give it to your neighbor. Why are you arguing about the border? - They laugh.

Well, keep it simple.

Come on in.

Are gone. Today they calmed down, tomorrow they will undertake the same. Students will teach.

The teaching about God's land, as far as I know, is also of recent origin. Before, something had not been heard about God's land. But the intelligentsia crucified in order to convince the peasant that this should be so, and the peasant, although he didn’t really believe it, if he didn’t believe it, he pretended to believe it. Maybe it will burn out. Students then, yes, however, and then no longer studied, but "went to the people" (it was then called that) and trumpeted about the same. Completed a good deed ... (probably for this insolence, even many will anathematize me, who know that this is so, but do not dare to express it) "The Great Elder" Count Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy. He stopped writing his brilliant works and, having abandoned the vanities of the world, left the multiplication of his personal income to his wife, Countess Sofya Andreevna, he himself created a whole horde of propagandists who managed to finally confuse the dark people. Now this "God's land" is nobody's, or rather belongs to everyone. "But it is not being developed, it will not give birth, and the people who own it are swelling with hunger and dying of hunger. Intellectuals wandering in a foreign land collect money for the starving in Russia from refugees starving abroad, shed tears in print, bless the memory of the" Great Elder "and do not realize that they themselves are the original culprits of these troubles.

First. Writing one book a year or two is not the best path to financial independence for a writer. Whatever the apologists say “working on the novel,” but this path is not suitable for in the foreseeable future (3-4 years) to surrender only to creativity without thinking about their daily bread.

Second. We need to work with publishers that can (!) Publish a book and publish a book in large circulation. The distribution system of many publishers is such that they are able to cover St. Petersburg, Moscow and online stores. Which gives the author a maximum of fifteen thousand copies. In order to determine such a publisher, look at the circulation of the authors they publish, especially calling them bestsellers.

Third. Capital residents / authors need to remember that the level of expenses of a person in Moscow and a person in Kherson is very different. Therefore, if in Kherson it is very good to earn 30 thousand dollars a year (and it is quite tolerable to live on 10 thousand dollars), then in Moscow it is still problematic to support a family with that kind of money without having an outside income. On the other hand, having reached an income level of 30 thousand a year, you can leave the smoky city somewhere in the Crimea, Bulgaria, Kaliningrad or Dubna near Moscow.

Fourth. Remember that the difference in profit for a publisher between books with a circulation of 20 thousand and 5 thousand is not 4 times, but much more. And for a writer, the difference in fees can be surprising at all. I show with an example:

Example No. 1 (circulation 5 thousand)
You were offered to publish with a book in the "Combat Science Fiction" series (conditionally). The prices for books there are 180 rubles.
They offered a starting circulation of 5 thousand copies. Percentage - 10% of the wholesale price excluding VAT.
The publisher's wholesale price will be 90 rubles. and without VAT - 76 rubles.

Publisher's earnings 380 thousand minus:
Writer 30 400 rubles.
Production (25 rubles excl. VAT) - 125,000
Cover - 10-15 thousand

We will not take into account the warehouse and the rest, then the publishing house has about ... 180000 rubles !!!
And if suddenly a part of the circulation will be on sale for a long time, and other costs have not been taken into account (office rent, a secretary with coffee) ... We are not talking about returns.
In general, the publisher earned $ 3-4 thousand on the book.

Example No. 2 (circulation 20 thousand)

You were offered to publish with a book in the "Combat Science Fiction" series (conditionally). The prices for books there are 180 rubles. But you are the author of which the previous book left with 25 thousand preprints.
They offered a starting circulation of 20 thousand copies. Percentage - 30% of the wholesale price excluding VAT.
The publisher's wholesale price will remain at 90 rubles. and without VAT - 76 rubles.

Now let's look at the publisher:
Earnings of the publisher 1520 thousand minus:
Writer 460 thousand
Production (19 rubles, excl. VAT) - 380,000
Cover - 15 thousand
Editor, proofreader (Moscow publishing house) - 30 thousand
We will not take into account the warehouse and the rest, then the publishing house will have about 635,000 rubles !!!
That is, not 3-4 thousand, but 20 thousand.

That is, the circulation is four times more, the writer is paid 15 times (!) more BUT earnings are still more five or six times!

That is, it is better to publish one book with a circulation of 20 thousand than six or seven (!) With a circulation of 5 thousand. Especially for the author. But for the publisher, in addition to purely finances, other factors still work:
- space on the shelves (the shelves are not rubber and the publisher's products always fight for them in the minds of the wholesaler and the retailer who tries to supply what is being sold. Sometimes you also have to pay for the shelves)
- staff (to publish a large title of books, you need to keep more staff, which means higher fixed costs of the publishing house).

So ... to summarize. Writing is still a profitable thing, the main thing here is the battle for circulation. The author must understand that every thousand books over 10 thousand are a powerful step towards their financial independence.
Very often I meet the groaning of published authors that it is impossible to live on the income from writing alone.
Even more often I meet puzzled posts of newcomers who received a thousand dollars for their imperishable work for a year or two and do not understand how writers make money.

I decided to try to state my view of things with figures. As an example, I decided to focus on the circulation / money of the fantastic genre.