Chapter 97: A Glimpse into the Russian Bureaucracy and the General

The content of Nadya’s letter, at first glance, seemed unremarkable, but upon closer thought, something felt off.

As for what she asked about, it’s not impossible for descendants of great and minor nobles to marry, but the resistance would be immense—after all, even in later eras, the norm was always a union of equals, a step upward.

There may be logic to it, but in the end, what will it become?

Only heaven knows.

Under the sun, there is nothing new; sometimes it’s just like a game of hot potato, where everyone knows a bomb will explode, yet everyone bets it won’t be them.

Unfortunately, Nicholas I and the emperors who followed him were the ones who got blown up.

By the way, as a prodigy from a small town in this era, Mikhail’s prospects can fairly be called decent.

In today’s Russia, especially under Nicholas I, whose reign nearly saw the nobility overthrow him, his restrictions on the nobility were indeed harsh.

After all, from his position, he certainly didn’t want to share power with the nobles—he’d rather have the entire empire serve as his loyal serfs, all striving together for the empire, building a brighter future.

In fact, during Peter the Great’s time, Russia was nearly this system: only the Tsar was free; even the nobles were serfs in another form. For example, Peter’s nobles were forbidden to evade military service, forbidden to falsify serf counts—anyone caught hiding peasants faced confiscation of property and execution.

Nobles were bound to lifelong service, permanently chained to the state system; violations, as stipulated by the 1720 law, were punished with flogging, nose-cutting, lifelong hard labor, loss of estates, and the whip of the knout. Reporting a deserter earned you his property.

Those who harbored deserting servicemen faced collective punishment, so some nobles preferred becoming merchants, peasants, or even giving their children up for adoption by other classes rather than serve in the military.

But such a system demanded extraordinary competence from the Tsar himself; any lapse in character could strangle him outright in this grotesque machinery—and indeed, after Peter the Great, a few unfortunate rulers met exactly this fate.

Under this system, nobles naturally suffered terribly, but after Catherine II ascended the throne, the nobles’ benevolent patron arrived—yet while the nobles prospered, the lowest serfs suffered even more.

Of course, Catherine II also implemented countermeasures, much like Qin Shi Huang’s approach: promoting foreign ministers, appointing men like Li Si from other states to high office, suppressing domestic noble power. During Catherine’s reign, the proportion of foreign civil servants in the Russian government once reached as high as 37%.

Nicholas I took similar measures: among all civil officials, nobles could not exceed 30% of the total.

On this basis, a prodigy like Mikhail, even without noble birth, could after several years of work earn an official rank—even if modest, it was still an official title, still touching the edge of nobility.

Of course, if Mikhail’s family were noble, he might well start as a tenth-rank civil official; with connections, even ascending from ninth-rank wasn’t impossible.

But in the Russian bureaucracy, having connections versus having none made a colossal difference—getting a permanent post was nearly impossible, even for a genius problem-solver.

And even if promoted, normally, the fourteenth-rank civil official would be Mikhail’s lifetime—day after day doing meaningless work, enduring demands and insults from superiors and even higher figures.

Slowly worn down in this hopeless existence until he became a negligible gear in the vast machine, until mentally broken, self-deceiving, a man in a case.

In Russian literature, classic works like “The Station Master,” “The Overcoat,” “The Death of a Civil Servant,” and Dostoevsky’s “Poor Folk” and “Crime and Punishment” all feature such pitiable, tragic figures trapped in spiritual despair.

Have such figures become outdated?

Every era has its own civil servants and men in cases.

Then again, if even a genius problem-solver ends up this way, no wonder Russian university students became increasingly eager to launch revolutions—how could their hearts stay at peace?

Of course, if Mikhail followed the old path, flattered some noblewoman, cultivated connections, he might well start at a higher rank, even seduce the general’s daughter and engage in base schemes—he might climb higher.

But even if he reached that point, his rank would still be limited—look a little higher, and you’d see men who served Peter the Great, or those with noble blood tracing back to the Rurik dynasty; you, a sponger, eat your fill—but dare you compare yourself to these lords?!

How audacious!

This really does make revolution look good!

On this ordinary day, perhaps because he received Nadya’s letter, Mikhail briefly imagined alternative paths for himself, and ultimately concluded that revolution was better.

Of course, there were other paths—but they still related to what Mikhail was currently doing.

For a long time, Russian nobles had been spiritual Frenchmen, spiritual Germans; though somewhat eased now, this trend still persisted. Under such conditions, if Mikhail could gain cultural prestige in revolutionary hotbeds like old Paris or elsewhere in Europe, he might indeed secure greater safety and status.

After briefly considering possible developments, Mikhail made several decisions in his mind, then stopped overthinking and continued reading the rest of Nadya’s letter.

The most notable part of the remainder was undoubtedly the general’s evaluation of Mikhail’s new work.

To be fair, though the general often made startling remarks, he truly was a loyal reader of Mikhail’s—according to Nadya, not only Mikhail’s poetry but even some of his novels were cherished by the general.

Even the stories he disliked, Nadya said, the general still mentioned often; Mikhail could only conclude the general might be a bit hypocritical.

Also, by the way, though the general felt great regret upon learning Mikhail’s commoner status, he had indeed invited Mikhail to his family’s dinner—but Mikhail, occupied with other matters at the time, had only promised to come next time.

If the general invited again, Mikhail had no reason to refuse.

And this time, the general had read Mikhail’s new novel, and said this:

“How dare a petty man challenge a powerful prince? He’s clearly lost his mind. But this prince isn’t even respectable—he was born into a ruined family, fine, but instead of earning glory through military service or cultural knowledge, he chose to revive his house by marrying a tax farmer’s daughter! What a disgrace to our nobility!”

“Someone like that, no matter how high he rises, I look down on him from the bottom of my heart!”

Good grief, the general is a character.

To be fair, in a way, the general is upright—a true old noble of St. Petersburg.

Oh, right, the general’s remarks weren’t over:

“Tell Mikhail to publish the next part of the story quickly! But unlike others, I’m not in a rush—serialized novels are like this. Right now in St. Petersburg, there are too many people who can’t wait and have no patience; such people will never accomplish anything.”

“And serialization has one obvious advantage: the writer can adjust the story based on the opinions of respectable readers, avoiding clichés.”

At this point, Mikhail was briefly surprised by the general’s genuine insight—but then he read on:

“So in my view, the story should proceed like this: After the lawsuit erupts in St. Petersburg, the matter quickly escalates, reaching even the Emperor’s attention! At this moment, our wise and mighty Emperor can no longer tolerate this farce, and immediately dispatches his trusted minister—a respectable general—to handle the case.”

“And this respectable general, of course, will not betray the Emperor’s trust. He is wise, possesses a sharp mind, and quickly discerns the essence of the case. He first scolds the disreputable prince, then scolds the insolent steward.”

“After both regret their actions, under the general’s judgment, they forgive each other—the steward apologizes to the prince, and the prince restores the steward’s rightful honor. And this respectable general, naturally, receives the Emperor’s praise.”

Mikhail: “???”

In your fantasy, is the Emperor always wise and mighty, General?

The general is a character, but his opinion on the novel is utter nonsense.

After reading the letter, Mikhail laughed for a long time, then quickly wrote Nadya a reply, chatting about recent moving details and answering a few of her questions about the novel.

It’s precisely through discussing these serious issues that one can better judge whether the other’s inclinations align with one’s own.

Especially in the coming era, ideological alignment becomes a crucial matter.

Mikhail hadn’t thought much about it, but discussing such topics was still good—it kept his mind active.

Besides, since becoming friends with Belinsky and the others, avoiding political talk was nearly impossible.

Recently, Belinsky had again discussed Mikhail’s novel “The Insulted and the Injured” with him.

Broadly speaking, Belinsky, besides seeing the suffering of kind, wronged people, had also noticed another critical issue: marriage between nobles and wealthy merchants.

In today’s Russia, due to class barriers, caste systems, and traditional views, such marriages were extremely rare, and even when they occurred, were conducted in secret—so to conservative nobles, the phenomenon Mikhail wrote about was impossible.

But Belinsky had keenly sensed the changes in Russian society, and discussed this issue at length with Mikhail.

His reasoning went like this: first, the rising power of new social classes; second, their disruption and destruction of the existing system; finally, the inevitable arrival of revolution in Russia.

Mikhail: “.”

I didn’t say a single word.

“Mikhail, great writers and their works often detect social changes before the masses! You are such a writer! Let those who mock you for writing unrealistically watch—when your novel’s predictions become reality, they’ll realize how extraordinary and perceptive you are!”

This was Belinsky’s prophecy regarding Mikhail’s novel.

As Mikhail pondered these thoughts, he quickly finished his reply.

By now, Mikhail had enough money to buy good paper; when Nadya learned his financial situation had improved, she didn’t enclose blank sheets in her letter, but instead placed inside the envelope some unknown variety of fresh flowers.

Though slightly wilted by the time they reached Mikhail, he still seemed to smell an unfamiliar fragrance—pleasant, indeed.

By the way, during the promotion phase of “The Modern Person,” this girl had also promoted Mikhail within her circle, encouraging her acquaintances to buy the deluxe edition of “The Petersburg Collection,” indirectly helping their journal and anthology gain sales.

Yes, the price of the deluxe edition of “The Petersburg Collection”—Mikhail had really set it high, leaving Nekrasov and Belinsky stunned, repeatedly asking: “Will this work? Will anyone actually buy it?”

Honestly, Mikhail himself wasn’t sure—but sales turned out excellent; they’d made another profit.

Thinking of these things, Mikhail placed the letter in its envelope, paused for a moment, then stepped out of his home and headed toward a famous flower shop in St. Petersburg.

Learn from it.

(End of chapter)