Chapter 21: A Novel for the Public

When Mikhail said those words, everyone in the room fell into an unusually quiet state, all turning to look at him at once—but this silence was quickly broken by Pavlovna.

The stout woman first stared blankly, then immediately beamed and exclaimed: “Oh God! This is a university student! Mikhail, I knew you could do it. How much is the payment? Can you clear the rest of the rent?”

“It might be difficult all at once,” Mikhail said, watching Pavlovna’s dramatic shift in expression, then added: “But it won’t take long—I’ll soon write some new articles, and then I’ll settle everything.”

“I see,” Pavlovna’s smile faded slightly, yet her usually fearsome face still held a touch of warmth: “Then you must work hard. It’s rare to find a job where you only need to move a pen to earn money.”

“Verislov, did you see that? That’s a university student,” the minor clerk Smirnov, after a moment of surprise, quickly recovered and turned proudly toward the small merchant Verislov, reinforcing his point:

“I told you earlier—if you find the right direction, even I could write. How much more so a university student? Oh dear student, what do you write? Jokes or funny stories? Perhaps we could exchange ideas.”

Before Mikhail could reply, Verislov, whose face had grown somewhat displeased, interrupted: “Enough, Smirnov. How could a university student write your nonsense jokes? I know what today’s students write—I’ve heard it several times in cafés. All empty talk, nothing to do with us!”

“That’s not true, Verislov,” Mikhail finally found his chance to speak and smiled: “I write about the most common people and events in today’s Russia—you’ve surely seen these people and these things somewhere.”

“That’s debatable,” the stubborn small merchant Verislov insisted, shaking his head:

“What poetry or novel could be more understandable than figures in a ledger? How could they move the heart better than the ruble? Sometimes just hearing articles in magazines gives me a headache—and yet young people get all excited. I simply can’t understand it.”

“Mikhail,” the old maid Nastasya, who had been listening for a long time, walked over carrying a tray, urging him on: “Why don’t you read us something you’ve written? How good it is—we’ll know once we hear it!”

It was clear Nastasya spoke more out of curiosity for entertainment than genuine interest in Mikhail’s writing.

And indeed, Nastasya’s eyes gleamed with greenish anticipation—after all, what could a country woman like her possibly understand from a university student’s writing?

Mikhail had intended to decline, but seeing the faint, amused interest on everyone’s faces, he hesitated, then nodded: “All right, if you’re interested. The publisher just sent me a magazine—the one Nastasya handed me this morning. I’ll read one piece.”

Although literature sometimes does have barriers, and without certain aesthetic sensibility it’s hard to enter.

But if one writes novels about the people, who else should they be read to but the masses?

Seeing Mikhail nod, everyone in the room was startled, glancing at each other, unsure what to say.

Because of low literacy rates, having someone read letters aloud—or even dictating a reply—was common, but listening to a novel? For everyone here, it was their first time.

And who besides idle noble lords had such leisurely refinement?

Though surprised, most present now turned their eyes toward this rare poor university student in today’s Russia, preparing to listen just a little.

Of course, some were uninterested—like our stern landlady Pavlovna, who had already returned to her samovar, guarding against anyone sneaking a sip.

And the small landowner Tushinbach at the table kept stuffing his mouth, determined not to be distracted by any commotion.

Amid this slightly chaotic atmosphere, Mikhail stood up, holding the newly arrived magazine, flipping to the page containing “Wanka,” and steeling himself for the final mental preparation.

To be honest, though he’d done similar things before, standing before a crowd like this was inevitably nerve-wracking—future Mikhail was just an ordinary university student, the kind who studied for twenty years and graduated with a salary of five or six thousand.

What had he ever done on such a scale?

Of course, he had experience.

The original owner had often stood before university crowds, passionately denouncing the Tsar and nobles, his fiery rhetoric and fervor still making Mikhail’s heart tremble when he recalled it.

And present-day Mikhail wasn’t lacking either—he’d given several group presentations in university, all to audiences who didn’t listen.

Cough, cough.

But mostly, Mikhail had actually studied some public reading—immersing himself emotionally in the text, knowing when to build, pause, turn, and conclude; without this skill, reading a novel aloud would be excruciatingly awkward.

In short, it’s like public speaking—those without technique are treated like flatulence; those with it can try their luck in beer halls.

At this moment, looking at the ordinary Russian citizens before him—so real, so immediate—Mikhail gathered himself and began to read:

“Nine-year-old boy Vanka Zhukov was sent three months ago to work as an apprentice at the cobbler Aryanin’s shop. On Christmas Eve, he did not go to bed.”

Mikhail read slowly, but with excellent rhythm; he showed no shame in injecting emotion where needed, striving only to convey the sorrowful child’s feelings as the story intended.

“Come, dear grandfather,” Vanka wrote next, “I beg you, for Christ’s sake and God’s, take me away from here. Have pity on me, this unfortunate orphan—everyone here beats me, I’m starving.”

(End of Chapter)