November 21, 1843. The harsh and long winter of Saint Petersburg was approaching. Tsar Nicholas I, along with a group of nobles, was about to engage in painful reflections on the fate of Imperial Russia within the brilliant, bright, and warm Winter Palace.
Meanwhile, also in Saint Petersburg—at the docks, in the neighborhoods, in the taverns, and in the brothels—workers continued to struggle with lime mortar, scaffolding, and bricks. Ragged beggars huddled into balls, using scraps of burlap to challenge the entirety of the Russian winter.
Drunkards, numbing their lives with alcohol, polluted the streets of Saint Petersburg with a nauseating stench. Only the bodies of the prostitutes still held warmth, as they tried to provide for their families and sustain their gradually decaying lives.
They had no conscious awareness of the fate of Imperial Russia, caring only for the meager scraps they could grasp.
Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov was not among them, yet he faced a situation that could become even more difficult than theirs at any moment.
After all, he was a university student.
Specifically, a university student about to be kicked out into the Russian winter because he couldn't afford his rent.
Damn these 8 AMs!
Early that morning, Mikhail slipped out of his 'pigeonhole'—a room so small he'd hit his head if he wasn't careful. Before leaving, he deliberately checked his surroundings and managed to successfully avoid his landlady, whom he was also prone to bumping into.
The small room Mikhail now occupied was on the top floor of a tall five-story apartment building, right under the roof. It was less of a room and more like a cupboard. The landlady lived in a separate suite downstairs. Every time he went out, he had to pass the landlady's kitchen, which had its door wide open and faced the stairs; one wrong move and he'd run into her.
Mikhail wasn't particularly afraid of the landlady, but he was indeed heavily in debt to her. Once she began to seriously consider whether it was necessary to let him stay, his eviction would be only a matter of time.
It could be said that Mikhail had reached the end of his rope. Had it not been so, this unlucky fellow wouldn't have died silently of a fever in his coffin-like room, allowing a soul from a later generation to begin a new life.
Frankly speaking, if given the choice, even if it meant being born into a wealthy family while also being handsome and multi-talented, the current Mikhail would have been very willing.
Unfortunately, such good fortune is rare in this world, while misfortunes never come singly.
The misfortunes that fall upon poor people are even more numerous.
Tightly wrapping his tattered clothes around him, Mikhail walked toward the place where he had agreed to meet his classmate.
Although he was an unlucky fellow, he had been a Master's student specializing in Russian literature in his previous life. Moreover, his memory seemed to have been enhanced now. Thus, while his current situation was dire, it wasn't without a chance for a turnaround.
At this thought, Mikhail couldn't help but firmly pat the manuscript tucked in his coat, fearing any accident that might destroy his last hope.
Just a week ago, after a brief moment of shock, Mikhail had to consider the problem of survival.
In the Saint Petersburg winter of 1843, without a place to stay, the cold could easily freeze Mikhail solid, after which he would be unceremoniously dragged away for mass disposal.
The good news: people were relatively civilized these days; there was no organ trafficking.
The bad news: one was easily incinerated like trash, then left to float in the sewers of Saint Petersburg or linger in the air to be inhaled by some other unlucky soul, worsening their already severe tuberculosis caused by the cold.
Mikhail didn't want such a fate, so he had to find a way to save himself. After some thought and observation, he could only rely on the memories in his head to start writing a novel.
To be honest, if there were any other choice, Mikhail would never have stepped onto the path of no return that is writing.
The treatment of writers and intellectuals really depended on the era. Most of the time, so-called writers and intellectuals were thorns in the side of the ruling class and parasites in the eyes of the lower classes.
The upper class sometimes hated that they couldn't hold their tongues and would swing a big stick to silence them physically. The lower classes often didn't see the use of people who just talked and wrote; when the time came, they would surely want to do something to teach these people a lesson.
Unfortunately, during the reign of Tsar Nicholas I, Russia was in a period of 'thriving' development, where the growth of capitalist production factors masked the already intense contradictions of the autocratic system and serfdom.
From the perspective of Nicholas I, couldn't they see that Imperial Russia was thriving and moving forward?
With such brilliant achievements, why did they still have to gossip, chatter incessantly, and even launch armed uprisings?
Troublemakers! All of them are troublemakers!
They simply couldn't see how hard the Tsar worked for the Empire!
In short, since the bloody suppression of a group of progressive military officers' armed uprising in 1825, the atmosphere in Russia had been very tense. If Mikhail remembered correctly, during this period in diplomacy, Nicholas I intensified the suppression of European revolutionary movements, earning Russia the reputation of the 'Gendarme of Europe.' After the Revolutions of 1848 broke out, Russia immediately enacted strict press censorship laws, known to the world as the 'iron-clad censorship.'
Under such severe circumstances, a large number of writers and scholars were persecuted. Some heavily involved writers, like Dostoyevsky, who joined the Petrashevsky Circle in 1847, were arrested in 1849 on charges of 'anti-government activities' for discussing social reform and sentenced to death.
Although he received a pardon from Tsar Nicholas I at the last moment before execution—and the Tsar might not have actually intended to kill him, likely just wanting to scare him—any normal person would have been terrified out of their wits by such an ordeal, never daring to cause trouble again.
Dostoyevsky might not have been an ordinary man, but Mikhail was absolutely as normal as one could be.
In short, starting to write in this period was basically equivalent to joining the Nationalist Army in '49; it was work that could get one's head chopped off.
But if Mikhail were really made to kiss the feet of those noble lords, he probably wouldn't be able to do it.
I am one of the masses!
He didn't want to think too much about the future for now; for the present, he had to write something to earn some manuscript fees for his immediate needs.
Thus, relying on the memories in his head, Mikhail endured hunger and spent nearly a week finally completing the work in his arms.
To finish this novel in peace, Mikhail had spent almost every last kopek in his pocket.
As it stood now, all his hopes rested on this novel.
Writing it was one thing, but how to submit it was another major problem. Fortunately, though the original owner was an unlucky fellow, as a university student of this period, his status was quite high. He had received a higher education and was in contact with the latest ideas; even his classmates might be related to some important figures.
Coincidentally, one of Mikhail's friends knew a poet who seemed to be quite famous and could provide an introduction for him.
So Mikhail walked through this filthy neighborhood, smelling the nauseating stench coming from numerous small taverns, bumping into one drunkard after another, occasionally seeing a prostitute or two listlessly plying their trade.
Mikhail felt the Imperial Russia of 1843, experiencing that harsh winter that had previously only existed in books.