A Landlady and a Male Tenant—maybe he'd once read too many questionable stories, but Mikhail used to think that sounded like a suggestive pairing. Now, after meeting a Russian Landlady, he knew better… The bitter cold of Siberia has scoured the Slavs for over a dozen centuries, and the misery of the lower classes has lasted nearly a millennium. Harsh weather would be bearable, yet the upper crust also brands them "Gray Cattle" and drives them at will.
To survive here, raw willpower and stubborn spirit aren't enough—you need a body of iron.
Man or woman.
Often, Russian women shoulder an even heavier load in daily life than the men.
In practice, a sturdy Landlady can literally hoist a rowdy drunk overhead and hurl him into the street, or give a rent-dodger like Mikhail a good stretching—and a knockout punch.
So the three of them stayed dead silent; only when every sound from the Landlady's side ceased did they dare whisper their plans.
But once the talk turned to Mikhail's novel, Nekrasov couldn't contain his excitement:
"Mikhail, I'm going to show your manuscript to Visarion Grigoryevich Belinsky! Do you know him? He'll be even more thrilled than I was—just wait."
Still, a man of his stature is busy; I can't simply knock on his door.
So how about this: write another one or two stories like these. If he likes them, he'll review them himself and you'll step straight onto the Russian literary stage. Let's raise the banner of Naturalism together!"
What Nekrasov called "Naturalism" would later be known as critical realism.
It would, without question, dominate the next era of literature.
As for Belinsky—suffice it to say, he is the undisputed arbiter of the current literary world, wielding immense influence through his brilliant criticism.
A single review from him is tantamount to skyrocketing into the firmament of letters.
So… I've walked off with Dostoyevsky's own script for fame?
Stunned yet elated, Mikhail could hardly refuse the offer.
After a brief discussion they set a time and place; then Demitri and Nekrasov took their leave.
Nekrasov, riding a wave of recent success and hungry for greater achievement, had been dashing about piling up errands.
Demitri, not wishing to disturb Mikhail as he plunged into a new work, lingered only to say:
"Looking forward to your new piece, my friend! When you have a moment, I must pick your brain about writing."
With that, he too departed.
Once the two were gone, Mikhail sought out the Landlady, Pafvlovna. Before she could speak he pressed several rubles into her hand:
"Here's part of what I owe, Pafvlovna. I swear I'll settle the rest soon—please give me a little more time."
Incidentally, before leaving, Demitri had lent him a bit more cash; prospects might be bright, but you still have to survive today.
"I was on my way to report you to the police today." Counting the coins, the towering woman's expression softened: "For God's sake, I'll wait a while longer."
With the rent crisis partly solved, Mikhail meant to start writing—until the Landlady's lone Maid-And-Cook, Nastasia, approached.
Nastasia hailed from the countryside, no longer young, famously garrulous, and capable of rendering any meal inedible.
She marched up and thrust a letter at him:
"Your mail. I paid the Postman three kopeks for you."
In the Russia of the day, postage was normally collected from the recipient.
A letter?
Startled—and suddenly guessing who it might be—Mikhail reimbursed the maid and carried the envelope back to his room.
He opened it: a message from his mother in the provinces.
"My dear Misha, two months have passed without a letter between us and my heart aches; I lie awake at night, turning thoughts over and over. Yet I trust you will forgive this forced silence.
You know how I love you: you are all Dunia and I have, our only kin, our whole hope and expectation.
When I learned you had stopped attending lectures for want of money, and that tutoring fees and other income had dried up, I was devastated. My Pension is but 120 rubles a year—what help can that be?"
Four months ago I sent you 15 rubles, money I myself had borrowed from local merchants, pledging my Pension as security…
For some reason, as he read, a tangle of emotions twisted inside Mikhail.
In short, the letter brought "good news" after a string of family misfortunes: at last she could send him a little money again.
Enough to remit a modest sum.
Mikhail's father, a minor clerk, had taken to drink after losing his job and, like so many, succumbed to the Russian winter.
His aging mother had nothing beyond her Pension and the endless cycle of pawning and borrowing.
And his sister, hoping to forward him some cash, had accepted a post as Governess—only to endure constant harassment and, in the end, be publicly expelled by her employer's jealous wife.
Now, out of desperation and concern for Mikhail, Dunia is ready to marry a forty-five-year-old Civil Servant. The purpose? "We cautiously sounded Pyotr Petrovich. He spoke guardedly: of course he needs a Secretary, and better to pay the salary to a relative than to a stranger, provided the relative is competent (and who better than you!).
Yet he hinted that your unfinished studies might leave you no time for his office."
The conversation ended there, but Dunia thinks of little else. For days she has lived in a fever, drafting an elaborate plan…
Though his mother painted the match as promising, the aging clerk remains evasive, granting no firm promise.
His sister, a beauty and clever to boot, is barely seventeen.
"Three years and we shall embrace at last! The very thought makes Dunia laugh and tremble; once she jested that she would marry Pyotr Petrovich for that alone!
Now everyone knows of it, and my credit has suddenly risen. I'm sure Ivan will now advance me seventy-five rubles against my Pension, so I can perhaps send you twenty-five—or even thirty-five."
Finishing the letter, Mikhail felt the uncomfortable realization that his plight mirrored that of crime and punishment's protagonist.
No point lamenting; life is here and now. First he must stop this shameless, opportunistic marriage.
Anger flared, but he quickly quelled it.
What mattered now was to find a solution.
Everything else could wait; first he must write home and explain the situation.
He seated himself again at the rickety desk, dipped his pen, and set about rewriting his little sister's fate.