Censorship hurt us in the wallet as well. Both editors, in Iaroslavl and in Ekaterinoslav, accepted all my articles and were ready to publish them. Not infrequently, the censors disallowed them. No one paid me for these pieces. It was not easy to figure out what would pass and what would not.
In Ekaterinoslav a battle was also being waged between the lieutenant governor and the editor, Lemke. The latter was a retired military officer, feisty, and with a substantial desire to play a role in leftist circles. Later, he wrote several books on censorship and on the revolution. But at that time, he was a neophyte journalist. I do not know whether he was already a member of the Social Democrat Party, though later he became a member of the Communist Party. As editor of Pridneprovskii Krai, Lemke warred ardently against the local censors as did, by the way, many provincial editors. The sequence was as follows. The galleys of the typeset issue were sent to the censor. He would check off the unacceptable segments. When the sheet, marked up in red censor’s ink, was returned to the editorial office, it had to be patched up hurriedly at night. The offending sections had to be somehow patched up by filling the devastated galleys with material previously passed by the censorship.
Lemke tried establishing a new procedure. He started to distribute the newspaper in the form in which it was received from the censor. The pages were replete with white spaces. The bureaucrats were angry, but there was no law forbidding blank spaces within articles and between articles. Finally, Lemke overdid it. I do not know if he put together an issue that was particularly severe or whether the censor was angry that evening. The galley proofs returned almost wholly smeared with red. No clean space was left, just the headlines and broken lines of unintelligible text. Lemke printed the bald newspaper and sent his subscribers the blank pages with scattered separate phrases.
The authorities went crazy. Pridneprovskii Krai was shut down. However, the newspaper’s proprietor, the millionaire contractor Kopylov, was on good terms with the local administration and knew how to handle his affairs. He obtained permission to publish the newspaper anew but without Lemke. The latter, in response to his firing, immediately sent his colleagues a letter in which he announced that he had left the editor’s post on a “matter of principle.” He asked whether we were agreeable to signing a collective statement that we were also leaving and would not work for Pridneprovskii Krai without him.
For myself and for the majority of the contributors, this was a most unpleasant event. Pridneprovskii Krai buttressed my lean budget. They paid me five kopeks per line and paid punctually, something that could not be said
Aleksandra Tyrkova-Williams, A Woman’s Autonomy
59
about Severnyi Krai. But, nothing could be done. Such was the habit of Russian writers and journalists. We were employed by, and left editorial offices like small herds. I sighed, but wrote Lemke that he could use my signature.
A few days had passed when my servant led a stocky gentleman into my living room. He had a round beard, quick eyes, and a thick gold chain which gleamed on his colorful vest.
“Allow me to introduce myself—Kopylov.”
With a dandyish actor’s gesture, playing the part of a grandee on the provincial stage, he raised my hand to his lips and audibly kissed it.
“I am very pleased to meet you. Kindly be seated.”
The contractor’s sharp eyes surveyed my cramped room, estimated the cost of my chairs and couch, upholstered in cheap cretonne, noticed the sole bookshelf, a plain painted table, the floor without a rug, the pictureless walls, and then confidently they turned to me.
“And I, little lady, am happy to make your acquaintance. I wanted to do this for a long time. God has given you a bold pen. Even fit for a man . . . ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . The readers approve very much.”
“Thanks for telling me. From afar it is difficult for me to determine whether they approve or not. We writers like to be praised by our readers. Thank you.”
“No, thanks be to you. The news venders are asked: ‘Is Vergezhskii in the issue? If not, I won’t give you the five kopeks. Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . All think that Vergezhskii is a man, but look at Vergezhskii.”
He scrutinized me with unceremonious approval. He was amused at the “little lady” who worked for him, who received his money. Without giving me time to collect myself, he began to tell me about himself, attempting to make me understand that his sweep was wide.
“Come to visit us in Ekaterinoslav and see how people live there. You will meet your readers. You can stay at my place for a while. I will gather some guests to meet you. The whole district knows me; I not only own the newspaper but the theatre as well. I am a great lover of the theater. However, it consumes heaps of money. Much more than the newspaper.”
“Tell me stories. I’ve heard that the newspaper gives you a good income.”
He grinned, self-satisfied.
“You heard? Well, I can’t complain, but the money could be better used. I didn’t start the newspaper for purposes of income.”
“Not for income? For what then?”
“For pleasure. A publisher of a large newspaper is someone, after all. But the theater, even though it is an expensive toy, is even more entertaining. I am a happy person and actors are cheerful people. Not to speak of the actresses. Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .”
60
Chapter Five
I demonstratively stayed silent. He understood. Such contractors who come from humble backgrounds to become millionaires were perceptive people and pretty good psychologists. Kopylov once again surveyed the cheap furnishings of my living room, wriggled in the chair, and looking past me out the window, offhandedly asked:
“Might you have a ready article? I’ll send it in.”
“No. You know . . . We . . .”
He didn’t let me finish:
“I’ve heard, little lady, I’ve heard. These are trifles. I have a solid newspaper, and I know how to get on with the authorities. Write the way you wrote. We did not and will not offend you. We can raise the honorarium and set a fixed sum. Would you like to receive a little advance? Why bother with the mail when my office is in my pocket.”
He pulled his office out from his jacket and opened the thick billfold. Habitually believing in the omnipotence of money, he might have truly thought that the sight of hundred-ruble notes would make me amenable. I did not get angry and just laughed.
“No, thank you. What advance? Your editor left and with him so did his co-workers. I left as well. That’s it.”
“In truth, little lady, why should you leave? I already have a new editor. He will continue things as before. And you, write as before also. We’ll make a new agreement, a better one. Would you like to?”
My smile confused him. He saw how I lived and hoped that I was not so foolish as to refuse a good income. Patting the billfold with his hand, he gently attempted to convince me:
“Why refuse the money? Take an advance and we’ll settle sometime in the future. I won’t push you; you’ll repay me whenever you want. Just write. Well, how much money shall I peel off?”
I stood up.
“None. We’re all even. The office sent me everything. But I cannot write for you anymore. You find this difficult to understand. Every one of your worker’s artels has its own rules. We writers are also an artel. If one is affected, all have to back him up. That’s how it is with us.”