Speaking formally, Visarion Grigoryevich Belinsky is "the forerunner of the commoner intellectuals who completely replaced the nobility" and "the pioneer of Russian social democracy."
Put more abstractly, Belinsky was the man who truly launched the Great Keyboard-War era of Russian literature.
After him, if you, an intellectual, didn't dare to "keyboard-war" about politics, what kind of intellectual were you?
He profoundly shaped the atmosphere of the Russian literary world and exerted an immense influence on a whole generation; he deserves the title of white moonlight of Russian letters.
More on that later; for now, even though he already knew Belinsky fairly well, Nekrasov still approached the meeting with the reverence of a pilgrimage.
To Nekrasov, Belinsky was unquestionably his idol, and the literary idol of countless young people of the day.
After all, under Tsar Nicholas I's reign of terror, society was a stagnant, dark pond, and literature remained the only medium where social issues could still be discussed with a modicum of freedom.
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Literary criticism—especially political literary criticism—thus became the foremost vehicle for expressing philosophical and political ideas.
Through literary reviews Belinsky passionately debated every social and intellectual question, and with unwavering courage and a fervor that shattered all barriers, he delivered powerful critiques of the drowsy status quo.
Using literary criticism he attacked the Tsar's rule and the backward Serfs system, ridiculed academic despots, court writers, bureaucratic politicians, and the pedantic bards of trite romanticism; these fresh insights, married to his distinctive style, acted like a sobering draught on Russia's lethargic intellectual scene.
From the 25th of every month, the youth of Saint Petersburg and Moscow waited hungrily for his articles; students dashed into cafés again and again to ask if the latest Notes of the Fatherland had arrived, and when it did they scrambled to devour it.
Once they found his pieces they "read them with feverish sympathy in a single breath, laughing, arguing…"
Nekrasov had once been one of those students; now, through his own efforts, he had managed to meet his idol face-to-face and help birth a new literary current in Russia.
Just thinking of it thrilled him, and the two manuscripts in his hand proclaimed that the leaders of this new trend had apparently appeared.
Lost in these thoughts, Nekrasov entered Belinsky's apartment; after the maid announced him, he soon saw Belinsky at a desk heaped with books and papers, lost in thought.
Though Critics were lionized in Russia's literary world, Belinsky's finances had always been precarious.
His fees were modest and he seldom accepted help from aristocratic friends, so his rooms remained spartan—better than Mikhail's, but only slightly.
Frail and chronically overworked, the man looked gaunt and unkempt, yet his eyes blazed with passion and an indescribable drive.
"Dear Visarion Grigoryevich, you should rest. Were you up all night again? You haven't even changed your clothes." The sight cooled Nekrasov's excitement and he voiced his worry: "You can't keep living like this."
"You can't keep living like this."
"But our cause has only just begun; there's much to do. A little less sleep is no great matter." He waved the concern away, then those luminous eyes fixed on the bundle in Nekrasov's hands: "What have you brought? The maid said it was urgent."
"What have you brought? The maid said it was urgent."
"A new Gogol." Nekrasov drew a deep breath, unable to contain himself. "I spoke with him only briefly, so I can't yet gauge his leanings, but his work speaks for itself. It is a masterpiece rooted in the flesh-and-blood of the Russian people, destined to become a banner for our cause."
"What? Truly?" The haggard Belinsky froze, then sprang up, his wasted face suddenly alight. He hurried over, saying: "Let me see, Nikolai! You know criticism needs first-rate works to convince myself, the readers, let alone those tiresome old fogeys!"
"Let me see, Nikolai! You know criticism needs first-rate works to convince myself, the readers, let alone those tiresome old fogeys!"
"Here—prepare to be amazed."
Handing the manuscripts to the visibly stirred Belinsky, Nekrasov sat quietly aside, waiting for his verdict.
Soon the maid brought tea, and Belinsky began intently reading the first tale: misery.
"To whom can I tell my sorrow?"
Dusk was falling. Wet snow drifted lazily around the newly lit street-lamps, settling softly on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, hats. The cabman Iona Potapov was white all over, like a ghost. He sat hunched on the box, bent as far as a living body can bend; even had a snowdrift collapsed on him he might not have bothered to shake it off… His little mare was white too, and equally motionless.
Dusk was falling. Wet snow drifted lazily around the newly lit street-lamps, settling softly on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, hats. The cabman Iona Potapov was white all over, like a ghost. He sat hunched on the box, bent as far as a living body can bend; even had a snowdrift collapsed on him he might not have bothered to shake it off… His little mare was white too, and equally motionless.
In a few swift strokes the scene conjured a lone winter cabman, and Belinsky at once recalled the haggard drivers he had seen on Saint Petersburg's winter streets.
So what would the story be about?
A cabman waiting for fares on a freezing night, enduring hardship?
That might not be new—Pushkin and Gogol had already painted such scenes brilliantly.
The newcomer might write well, but hardly merited Nekrasov's raptures.
Still, Belinsky, who never rushed to judgment, read on.