Thanks to the few rubles he had paid back a few days ago, Mikhail's current meals could be described as a major upgrade, having successfully evolved from pot-rinsing water into pig swill... Of course, ordinary Russians of this period generally didn't eat very well anyway.
If you were unlucky enough to be born a Serfs, you'd likely hardly taste meat more than a few times in your life. Most lived off the grain they grew themselves, and even though they worked diligently in the fields every day, pouring tons of sweat into this insatiable land, food shortages remained a common occurrence.
Heaven knows why it was like this—or perhaps Heaven knows that this group of people was simply the easiest to manage.
With other classes, you have to pull out a bone to make them crawl over obediently; with these people, you pull out a big stick, and they'll still thank you for it!
Regarding the image of Serfss and ordinary people in literature, there are two starkly different depictions in the current Russian literary world.
One category is represented by progressive aristocrats like Pushkin. In their writing, peasants and ordinary people often appear as exceptionally simple, kind, and innocent. However, this praise is merely a distorted fantasy of rural estates held by aristocratic lords.
The other category is represented by Gogol, who exposed much of the absurdity, darkness, selfishness, and narrow-mindedness of the Serfss.
But this exposure wasn't truly a critique of the group itself; it was more about using these images to reflect the spiritual oppression and devastation inflicted upon the Serfss by the system of serfdom.
The reason for mentioning this was, naturally, that in order to better understand the current face of Russia and the trends of the literary world, Mikhail had spent a considerable amount of time walking the streets and alleys of Saint Petersburg, observing people's lives and checking bookstores to see what the contemporary writers were producing.
This investigation truly made Mikhail laugh.
After all, the aforementioned Pushkin and Gogol were considered relatively progressive poets and writers of this era.
But the writing of many other authors was indeed hollow, bland, and boring.
In these times, writing was a relatively luxurious hobby; most of the time, only wealthy and idle aristocrats could participate in it.
Commoner writers were almost non-existent.
Consequently, in a bookstore full of books, aside from the ancient texts passed down through generations, most volumes were either about the romantic dalliances of aristocratic lords or hymns dedicated to lords and heroes. Ordinary people and Serfss were mentioned quite rarely, and most of the time, they were not positive characters, often portrayed as incompetent, absurd, and ridiculous.
This absurdity and ridiculousness were naturally not of Gogol's school; it was simply a form of condescension and amusement from the aristocratic lords toward those of lower status.
Looking at it this way, the collections of smutty stories and anecdotes specifically aimed at the townspeople were actually far more interesting than that other stuff.
One could only say that every era is filled with a vast amount of literary trash. Those works that managed to survive and become famous—the very texts in Mikhail's mind—would easily lead one to the gallows in this current era... Just thinking about it made Mikhail's neck start to itch... After all, he wasn't an aristocrat by birth like Pushkin, Turgenev, or Tolstoy. The Tsar might find it difficult to move against them for the sake of appearances, but for a commoner like Mikhail, dealing with him would be as easy as snapping one's fingers.
Of course, big moves like political commentary were enough to lose one's head even if an aristocrat played too hard.
But itch or not, he had to write first.
Returning to the issue of diet, compared to the Serfss who ate sour rye bread and other grains year-round, city dwellers ate a bit more diversely: rye bread, pickled fish, cheap sausages, and the cooked food often found on the streets.
As for the middle class and the aristocratic lords, Mikhail couldn't really imagine things he hadn't seen much of.
Mikhail's current standard of living was roughly somewhere between an ordinary resident and a Serfs.
A bit of black bread mixed with sawdust and full of gluten, a bit of leftover vegetable soup, and with luck, sometimes a cup of tea that barely had any tea leaves in it.
Eating was a struggle, and his living conditions weren't much better.
The space was basically only six paces long; he couldn't even pace back and forth. A single turn of the hips and he was at the end of it.
When the three of them were discussing things last time, they were practically huddled on top of each other.
The wallpaper was yellowed and covered in dust, peeling off everywhere. The ceiling was excessively low; Mikhail didn't even dare to stretch too widely.
As for his sleeping arrangements, it was just a heavy, clunky sofa. When no one was around, it was Mikhail's bed; when guests arrived, it became the place for them to sit.
To sleep, Mikhail usually just laid down a bedsheet, covered himself with his worn-out student overcoat, and rested his head on a small pillow.
While it seemed okay, if he slept in the wrong position, back and muscle aches were common.
It was in such an environment that Mikhail finally finished his work and wrote a new novella.
More could wait for later; right now, he desperately needed a payment to improve his life, and most importantly, to handle the family matters.
Mikhail had read that letter from home twice more over these past few days. Combining it with the memories in his head, he understood very clearly that his sister had no feelings for that clerk at all. It was only the man's relentless pursuit, coupled with the family's situation, that finally made the seventeen-year-old girl make her final decision.
A reply had already been sent, but more importantly, he needed to let them see substantial results and returns; otherwise, everything was just empty talk.
So, after finishing the novella, Mikhail did a final check. He then spent a few kopeks to find the maid, Nastasia, and asked her to help mail the manuscript.
Because he had been rushing the draft through the night, Mikhail was already at his limit. Damned Russian was much harder to write than he had imagined.
Plus, he was a bit unsure of the post office's location, so he could only let Nastasia do it for him.
"What's this, Mikhail?" Nastasia, the maid—who wasn't wearing a maid's uniform—took Mikhail's manuscript. She held it up in surprise, looking it over from top to bottom.
"A love letter to your little sweetheart? Such a thick stack. Even if she were the meanest, most cold-hearted lady in our countryside, she might shed a tear for your sincerity."
"It's a novella, Nastasia." Mikhail knew she was illiterate, so he explained patiently, "Please make sure it doesn't get damaged. It's very important to me."
Because he was a bit light-headed, Mikhail only realized after speaking that something felt off.
Telling this talkative maid such things—was there any difference between that and telling everyone else in the apartment building?
"A novella? Oh Lord, as expected of a university student."
Mikhail wasn't sure if there was a hint of mockery in her voice, but there was no doubt she was quite excited at the moment.
"Nastasia, please make sure no one else knows about this."
Since he was writing this kind of piece, Mikhail felt it was better to keep a low profile. Thus, he emphasized again: "It's just a small attempt."
"Don't you worry, Mikhail."
The old maid Nastasia, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, promised:
"The whole village of Vorzogory in Arkhangelsk knows that my mouth is tighter than a widow's door."
Mikhail: "..."
What on earth was she babbling about?
What-what village?