Bit toothless and rote for Dostoyevsky, though I appreciate why he’d be wary at this time of his writing life.
Some of the social farce works, but it lacks Dostoyevsky’s usual pathos. There’s arguably some development of archetypes Dostoyevsky is honing here, but all the rug-pulling dulls much consistent development.
Enjoyable enough, but inessential. Three letters, and some French-speaking serfs.
