1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Michelle quickly found the landlady.

Not far from the apartment entrance, the landlady's burly figure was blocking the way, hands on her hips, spitting as she spoke to a vendor trying to buy on credit. Her signature loud voice was loud enough for half the street to hear.

Normally, Michelle would have run away without a word upon seeing her landlady. Only after the landlady returned to her room would she dare to sneak back home. But now, with an advance on her writing, Michelle no longer has to hide from her landlady like a mouse.

As Michel approached, she immediately turned her gun on him, her shrewd eyes scanning him up and down, like a policeman who had finally found a fugitive.

"Oh, what a rare guest! Isn't this our esteemed college student? I thought you were planning to spend the winter hiding out here." The landlady's tone was full of sarcasm.

Michelle ignored her taunts and walked straight up to her. She took out a small wad of cash she had prepared beforehand, and handed it to her.

"Mrs. Marshall, here's a partial refund of your rent."

"God above, thank you for your leniency." Michelle said sincerely, expressing her heartfelt gratitude.

He had no intention of showing off or humiliating anyone. Although the landlady was sharp-tongued, in this day and age, the fact that she had waived so much of the rent for Michel was already quite generous. Michel knew that you shouldn't judge a person by what they say, but by what they do. From that perspective, the landlady had been more than 'kind' than expected.

As for why she didn't pay it off all at once, it's because Michelle wanted to keep some funds available for future use.

The landlady's sarcastic tone abruptly ceased. She looked suspiciously at the money in Michel's hand; the gleaming silver and copper coins stood out starkly against the gloomy sky. She snatched the money, examining each coin carefully, even biting them to confirm their authenticity.

"At least you still have some conscience. To be honest, I've been planning to report you to the police these past few days." Her expression softened considerably, though her tone was still far from friendly, at least it wasn't as aggressive as before. "What's the rest? Don't tell me that's all you have."

"I have a novel published in the London Express, and I will give you the rest by the end of this month at the latest," Michelle said with a gentle smile.

"Published a novel?" The landlady was startled; this college student from the countryside had such ability.

But no trace of it showed on her face; she simply stuffed the money into the large pocket of her apron. She glanced at Michelle again, as if wanting to say something more, but ultimately just waved her hand: "For God's sake, I'll give you a little more time. If you still can't come up with this by the end of the month, you and your lousy books are fired!"

After saying that, she turned around and swayed her strong body back to her room on the first floor, slamming the door shut.

Michelle breathed a sigh of relief; the crisis was temporarily averted, and she could finally relax.

Michelle put away the remaining money in her pocket and stepped up the narrow, dark staircase of the apartment building. With each step, her feet creaked under the weight of the stairs.

As he passed the second floor, a strong smell of cheap alcohol hit him. At the same time, a muffled sob and a man's rough growl came from under the door.

"Cry! What are you crying for! You good-for-nothing! If it weren't for you, I would have already..."

Then came the girl's terrified scream and the sound of a heavy object falling to the ground.

"grass"

"Domestic violence is a thing that should be condemned to death."

Michelle's light steps came to an abrupt halt, the noise coming from the Green family who lived on the second floor. A gambling-addicted husband, a submissive wife, and a broken daughter who lived in constant fear. Such scenes were all too common in the original owner's memories.

He remembered that the Green family's youngest daughter was named Emily, with fair skin like a lovely porcelain doll, and she would always sweetly call him "Mr. Michel" whenever she saw him...

"How could you bear to hurt such a lovely daughter?"

Michelle clenched his fists, wanting to rush over, smash the door open, drag the man out, and punch him a few times. But he knew he couldn't. What right did he have to interfere in someone else's family affairs?

In this day and age, a husband beating his wife and children is a private family matter; outsiders interfering will only cause trouble. Besides, his own situation isn't much better...

"This damned era!"

The excitement of receiving the advance payment vanished instantly, replaced by a sense of powerlessness. Michelle loosened her fists, quickly walked past the second floor, and fled up the narrow staircase leading to her attic.

The attic was as cold and cramped as ever, like living in a coffin. Michel closed the door, shutting out the noise from the outside world. He took a few deep breaths of the cold, murky air, finally breaking free from that feeling of powerlessness.

The attic where he now lives is perpetually dark, with green mold covering the walls and a pervasive smell of rotting wood. The only saving grace is that, being on the third floor, he can't smell excrement...

So, if he weren't homeless, Michelle wouldn't want to go back to this attic at all, not only because of the terrible environment, but also because it had no windows—the whole room was practically a black coffin. For someone who used to love good ventilation, this was pure torture.

Not only was his room windowless, but the entire three-story apartment building only had two small windows symbolically placed on the ground floor where the landlady lived for ventilation. As for the original windows, they had all been sealed off with red bricks long ago.

You could say this three-story building is like a stuffy can, filled with stale air.

How did things come to this? This brings us to the bizarre tax levied by Great Britain – the window tax.

In 1696, the British Parliament swiftly passed a bill to begin levying a window tax, with the initial threshold being relatively low. However, within a few decades, the government ran out of money again, and in 1747, the tax law was directly amended, cutting the threshold from 10 windows to 7 windows. They didn't let any window tax slip by, and even broke down the tax rate into smaller, more detailed categories, essentially "peeling off the skins" at every level.

7-9个窗，每窗 6便士；10-14个窗，每窗 9便士；15个以上，更是高达每窗 1先令 3便士。

This is practically a tax on sunlight and air...

However, the most ingenious aspect of the British window tax is not how much money it collected, but that it pushed the British people's tax evasion ingenuity to the extreme, while also creating a unique phenomenon in Britain.

The first thing to be affected was the wave of window sealing: no money to pay taxes? Simple, just brick up the windows. Michelle's apartment building is a perfect example...

What's worse, this tax has inadvertently accelerated the spread of the disease.

After the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century, London was already crowded with people and houses were very close together. In addition, the windows were sealed tightly, making the indoor environment dark and damp enough to grow mushrooms. Germs such as tuberculosis and cholera spread like wildfire, like a party.

Not to mention anything else, the cholera outbreak in 1848 alone killed 14 Britons.

Looking at the mold on the wall, Michelle made a silent decision: for the sake of her own life, she must move as soon as she has some savings.

Just then, he noticed a letter on the door. The edges of the envelope were worn, and the postmark indicated that it had been mailed a few days ago. Perhaps the landlady was in a slightly better mood today, so she brought it up for him.

The handwriting on the envelope was familiar; it was written by his mother.

A sense of foreboding suddenly welled up in my heart...

In my memory, although my family wasn't wealthy, we ran a family-run handmade wool sock workshop. My father was in charge of purchasing raw materials and overseeing production, my mother was in charge of the dyeing process, and my older sister also helped out. We were considered a respectable family in our small town. They scrimped and saved to send me to study in London. My mother would only write to me when absolutely necessary, so as not to add to my psychological burden.

Upon opening the envelope, I found my mother's delicate yet slightly flustered handwriting on the letter. There were also traces of dried water stains in the center of the paper; I could imagine that she had written this letter while crying...

"My dearest Michelle, please forgive me for having to bother you with this letter. During this time, some unfortunate events have occurred at home..."

"You should suspend your studies and find your own way to make a living..."

The text is short but packed with information, making it a truly powerful opening statement.

This also brought back many memories for Michel. No wonder the original owner not only suspended his studies but also owed his landlady several months' rent. The main reason was that Michel's family had stopped supporting him a few months ago.

Just a few months ago, the Bolton Steam Textile Mill in Manchester began dumping large quantities of wool socks at low prices in the surrounding towns in an effort to expand its market.

The Michel family's traditional handmade wool sock workshop crumbled before the steam loom.

Machine-made socks cost only two pence a pair, while Michel's handmade socks sold for six pence a pair.

The output of a single steam-powered spinning machine in one day was equivalent to the output of the entire Michelle family working themselves to the bone for three days. Not to mention that the imported wool that the factory purchased in bulk was 20% to 30% cheaper than what the Michelle family bought from farmers. The industrial raw materials used for dyeing were also much cheaper than the natural plant dyes used by the Michelle family.

Michelle's father hadn't yet realized the gravity of the situation. He was still trying to save the workshop, but the losses were mounting, and he even incurred debt.

Until a few weeks ago, when the funding chain was on the verge of collapse, they were forced to admit defeat.

In short, their family not only lost all their savings, but also incurred huge debts!

The debt was as high as one hundred pounds, equivalent to the wages of an adult worker in that era who did not eat or drink for five years.