Chapter 6: Contemporary Russian Literature

Thanks to the few rubles he had earned a few days ago, Mikhail's diet had undergone a major upgrade, successfully evolving from scalded water to pig slop...

Of course, ordinary people in Russia during this period generally did not eat well.

If fate was unkind and one was born a serf, one would likely struggle to eat meat even a few times in a lifetime, mostly surviving on grain they grew themselves; yet even though they toiled diligently in the fields day after day, pouring tons of sweat into this insatiable earth, food shortages remained a common occurrence.

Heaven knows why this was so, or perhaps Heaven knows, but this group was often the easiest to manage.

For other classes, you had to throw out a bone to get them to crawl over obediently; with this group, you only needed to brandish a stick, and they would still thank you for it!

Regarding the image of serfs and ordinary people in literature, there were two completely different depictions in the current Russian literary world.

One type, represented by Pushkin and the progressive nobility, portrayed peasants and commoners in their writings as exceptionally simple, kind, and innocent, but this praise was merely a distorted fantasy of the noble lords regarding rural estates.

The other type, represented by Gogol, exposed much of the absurdity, darkness, selfishness, and narrow-mindedness of the serfs.

But this exposure was not truly a criticism of this group; rather, it used such images to reflect the spiritual oppression and devastation inflicted upon serfs by the serfdom system.

The reason for mentioning these things was that, in order to better understand Russia's current state and the trends in the literary world today, Mikhail had spent considerable time walking the streets of Saint Petersburg, observing people's lives, and visiting bookstores to see what the writers of the day were writing.

Upon seeing this, Mikhail was truly made to laugh.

After all, the aforementioned Pushkin and Gogol were, relatively speaking, the more progressive poets and writers of this era.

As for the writing of many other authors, it was indeed empty, dull, and boring.

After all, in these times, writing was considered a somewhat luxurious hobby; most of the time, only wealthy and idle nobles could participate in it.

Commoner writers could be said to be almost non-existent.

Therefore, in a bookstore, apart from those ancient books passed down through the ages, most books were either about the romantic trifles of the noble lords or hymns addressed to the noble lords and heroic figures; ordinary people and serfs were mentioned very rarely, and most of the time they were not positive characters, often portrayed as incompetent, absurd, and ridiculous.

This absurdity and ridiculousness was certainly not of Gogol's school; it was simply the condescension and amusement of the noble lords towards the lower classes.

Looking at it this way, the collections of yellow stories and rumors specifically aimed at the citizens seemed far more interesting than those things.

One could only say that every era was filled with a vast amount of literary garbage, and those that managed to survive and become widely known—namely, the words in Mikhail's mind—would, in this current era, easily lead to the gallows...

Just thinking about it made Mikhail's neck start to itch...

After all, he was not a noble-born Pushkin, Turgenev, or Tolstoy; the Tsar might hesitate to act against them for the sake of appearances, but for a commoner like Mikhail, dealing with him was nothing more than a matter of moving a finger?

Of course, engaging in keyboard politics was such a major affair that even if a noble played too hard, their head would not be safe.

But itchiness aside, writing still had to come first.

Returning to the issue of food, compared to serfs who ate sour rye bread and other grains year after year, city residents ate slightly more richly: rye bread, pickled fish, cheap sausages, and various cooked foods often found on the streets.

Let us not speak of the middle class and the noble lords; Mikhail indeed could not imagine things he had rarely seen.

Mikhail's current standard of living was roughly somewhere between that of ordinary residents and serfs.

A bit of black bread mixed with wood shavings and full of bran, a bit of leftover vegetable soup; if luck was good, sometimes he could even mix in a cup of tea with hardly any tea leaves.

Eating was difficult, and living conditions were not good either.

The space was basically only six paces long; one could not even pace back and forth, and a mere twist of the hips reached the end.

During the last discussion among the three, they were almost huddled together.

The wallpaper was yellowed and covered in dust, peeling off everywhere; it was excessively low, and Mikhail dared not stretch his arms too widely.

As for sleeping, it was nothing more than a heavy, bulky sofa; when no one was around, it was Mikhail's bed, and when guests arrived, it became the place for them to sit.

When Mikhail wanted to sleep, he could only lay down on a sheet, covering himself with his old student coat, with a small pillow under his head.

Although it seemed passable, if one's posture was not quite right, back and waist pain was a common occurrence.

And it was in such an environment that Mikhail finally completed his work and produced a new novel.

More could be handled later; right now, he desperately needed a sum of manuscript fees to improve his life, and most importantly, he had to deal with family matters.

Mikhail had read that family letter twice in these past few days; combining it with the memories in his mind, he understood very clearly that his sister had no feelings whatsoever for that clerk; it was only because the man had relentlessly pursued her, combined with the family's situation, that all of this ultimately led the seventeen-year-old Miss to make her final decision.

The reply letter had already been sent, but more importantly, they needed to see tangible results and returns; otherwise, everything was just empty talk.

Thus, after finishing this novel, Mikhail performed a final check, then spent a few kopecks to find the maid Nastasya and ask her to help send the manuscript.

Due to rushing the manuscript through the night, Mikhail was starting to feel a bit unable to hold on; damn it, writing in Russian was much harder than he had imagined.

Plus, he was not quite sure of the post office's location, so he could only ask Nastasya to do it for him.

"What is this? Mikhail." The maid Nastasya, who was not wearing a maid's uniform, took Mikhail's manuscript, raised it up in great surprise, and then looked it up and down:

"A love letter to your little lover? Such a thick stack; even if she were the meanest, most heartless Young Lady in our countryside, she might shed a tear because of your sincerity."

"It is a novel, Nastasya." Mikhail knew the other person was illiterate, so he explained patiently: "Please ensure it suffers no damage; this is very important to me."

Because he was a bit drowsy, only after finishing his words did Mikhail feel that something seemed a bit off.

What was the difference between telling this chatty maid and telling everyone else in this apartment?

"A novel? Oh God, no wonder he is a university student."

Mikhail was not quite sure if there was any sarcasm in the other person's words, but there was no doubt that the other person was quite excited at that moment.

"Nastasya, please ensure that no one else knows about this."

Since he was writing this kind of article, Mikhail felt it was better to keep a low profile, so he emphasized again: "This is just a small attempt."

"Rest assured, Mikhail."

The old maid Nastasya, with green light shining in her eyes, promised:

"The entire village of Volzograd in Arkhangelsk knows that my mouth is tighter than a widow's door."

Mikhail: ".."

What was she muttering about?

What what village?

(End of this chapter)