Chapter 21: A Novel Written for the Masses

After Mikhail said those words, everyone present fell into an unusually quiet state and turned to look at him in unison, but this quiet scene was soon broken first by Pavlorna.

The burly woman first stared blankly, then instantly beamed and sighed, "Oh God! This is what a university student can do! Mikhail, I just knew you could do it. How's the payment? Can you settle the rest of the rent?"

"It might be a bit difficult all at once." Watching Pavlorna's face-changing stunt, Mikhail added, "But it shouldn't take long, because I'll soon be writing some new articles, and by then I should be able to settle everything."

"I see." Pavlorna's smile faded slightly, but overall, that fearsome face still retained some kindness: "Then you must work hard. It's rare to have such a good job where you only need to move your pen to make money."

"Versilov, did you see that? This is what a university student can do." The petty official Smirnov was startled for a moment, then quickly came to his senses, and looked triumphantly at the small merchant Versilov, then continued to emphasize his point:

"I just said, as long as you find the right direction, even I can participate in writing, let alone a university student? Oh dear university student, what do you write? Jokes or funny stories too? Perhaps we can exchange ideas."

Before Mikhail could reply, Versilov, whose face seemed to be looking rather unpleasant, spoke up to retort: "Enough, Smirnov, how could a university student write those off-key jokes of yours? I know what university students write these days, I've heard it several times in coffee shops. All empty talk, nothing to do with us!"

"Not so, Versilov." Mikhail finally found his chance to speak, so he said with a smile: "What I write are the most common people and things in present-day Russia, people and things you've surely seen somewhere."

"Hard to say." The stubborn small merchant Versilov stuck to One's own view, shaking his head:

"What kind of poetry and novels can be more easy to understand than the numbers on a ledger? How can they compare to the ruble in moving people's hearts? No, sometimes I just get a headache hearing those articles in magazines, yet the young people get all worked up over them, I really can't understand it."

"Mikhail." The old maid Nastasia, who had been listening for a while, came over carrying a tray of something, and as she walked she egged Mikhail on: "Why don't you bring over what you wrote and read it aloud! How it actually is, wouldn't we know once we hear it?"

It was clear that Nastasia said this more out of a desire to stir up trouble than out of genuine interest in what Mikhail had written.

And Nastasia, with her eyes gleaming green, did indeed think so—after all, how could a country woman like her possibly understand something written by a university student?

Seeing this, Mikhail originally wanted to decline, but seeing that everyone present showed a little curiosity of the rubbernecking sort, he hesitated for a moment, then nodded and replied: "Alright, if you're interested. The publisher just sent me a magazine, the one you handed me this morning, Nastasia. Then I'll read one piece."

Although literature does sometimes have barriers, and without a certain aesthetic sense it's indeed hard to enter into it.

But a novel written for the people like this—if not read aloud to the masses, then to whom should it be read?

And seeing Mikhail actually nod, everyone present was taken aback for a moment, even exchanging glances, unsure of what to say.

Because of the literacy rate these days, it's common to have someone read one's letters or dictate a line for someone else to write, but listening to a novel—that was a first for everyone present.

Besides, apart from those noble lords who don't have to do any work, who else has such leisure and refined taste?

Though surprised, most of those present at this moment still turned their eyes to this rare poor university student of Russia today, ready to hear what it was like.

Of course, some weren't interested—like our stern landlady Pavlorna, who had already returned to her samovar to prevent anyone from sneaking a sip amid the chaos.

And the small landowner Tusenbach at the table was still diligently stuffing more food into his mouth; no disturbance from outside could sway his resolve.

In such a slightly chaotic atmosphere, Mikhail stood up, holding the newly arrived magazine in his hand. After turning to the page where "Vanka" was, Mikhail was making his final mental preparations.

To be honest, although he had done similar things before, something like showing himself off in front of a crowd like this—being nervous was inevitable. The Mikhail of a later age was just an ordinary university student, the kind who studied hard for twenty years and came out earning five or six thousand.

When had he ever done something this big?

Of course, he did have some experience.

The original host, on the other hand, often held forth at the university, passionately brandishing his words, treating the tsar and the nobles as dung. Just recalling that fervent and agitated demeanor, Mikhail's heart still gave a slight tremble.

And the current Mikhail wasn't bad either—he had done several group presentations at university that nobody listened to.

Ahem.

But the main thing was that Mikhail had actually learned a bit of recitation—putting his feelings into the article he was about to read, and at the right moment delivering a proper opening, development, turn, and conclusion. Without this ability, reading a novel to others would be extremely awkward.

To put it bluntly, it's the same principle as a speech: someone without skill is treated like passing wind, someone with skill can try their hand at a beer hall.

And at this moment, looking at these utterly real ordinary citizens of present-day Russia before him, Mikhail gathered himself, and finally began to read aloud:

"The nine-year-old boy Vanka Zhukov was sent to the shoemaker Alyakhin's shop three months ago to be an apprentice. On Christmas Eve, he did not go to bed—"

Mikhail didn't read too fast, but he kept a good rhythm, and wherever emotion needed to be put in, he didn't show the slightest embarrassment, only striving to convey the feelings of that pitiful child the story sought to portray.

"'Dear Grandpa,' Vanka wrote on, 'I beg you for Christ's and God's sake to take me away from here. Have pity on me, poor orphan, everyone here beats me, I'm starving—'"

(End of chapter)