Chapter 22: The Stingy Yet Generous Master

Mikhail read with deep immersion, so much so that he barely looked at his audience, lost in the emotions of the story, recounting his own experiences and longing for home with a childlike innocence, yet in certain parts, this narration inevitably carried a heavy weight.

After all, such things were indeed happening across Russia today, mostly unknown to others, like grains of sand—when the wind of history blew gently, they vanished without a sound.

Mikhail’s recitation carried strong emotional force, and as the story slowly unfolded, the previously noisy dining table suddenly grew quiet.

The petty merchant Versilov, who had earlier seemed impatient, now looked far more serious, occasionally shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting everywhere, unsure where to rest.

Smirnov, the fourteenth-rank clerk, had originally prepared to burst into loud laughter, eager to encourage the young man and share with him his experience telling humorous stories.

So at first, Smirnov had even put on a smile and cast an encouraging glance toward Mikhail.

But now, Smirnov’s smile had frozen; his upturned lips slowly sank, until his face was twisted in visible pain.

Even the elderly landowner Tushinbach, who had persistently shoveled food into his mouth, suddenly stopped at some point, lifting his head to stare blankly at Mikhail’s recitation.

Unconsciously, the old man’s eyes had filled with tears.

Even Nastasya, the old maid who had begun only seeking entertainment, her eyes gleaming with greed, now stood frozen in place, the green glint gone, replaced by a cold, dull gloom like the weather of Shengbidebao.

As for Pavlovna, the empress of this small apartment, a woman as heavy and unyielding as a mountain, who had originally been indifferent, her eyes fixed only on her precious samovar, she gradually puckered her lips, her fierce face crumpling as if suddenly enraged at someone unknown.

And when Mikhail’s story reached its end:

“He settled down with hopeful thoughts; an hour later, he fell asleep…”

When the story finally ended, Pavlovna, the empress of the small apartment, was the first to move. She slowly walked to Mikhail’s side, took his empty teacup, and immediately refilled it to the brim.

As she placed it before Mikhail, the empress of the apartment spoke in a tone he had never heard before—gentle, slow: “A wonderful story, respected Mikhail. You wrote it beautifully. Drink some tea. Drink more.”

With Pavlovna’s words, the silence shattered. The elderly landowner Tushinbach was the first to break into sobs:

“Poor child! He is so much like my little grandson. Just as innocent, just as deeply devoted to his grandfather—but he passed away from typhoid years ago! At least he didn’t suffer much, yet such a small life—yesterday he was smiling at me, climbing onto my knees to play—how could he be gone so suddenly?”

As he wept, the old man turned to Mikhail and asked:

“What happened next, respected Mikhail? Did the poor child get taken in by his grandfather? Could he return to his former happy life?”

“Of course, dear Tushinbach,” Mikhail replied gently, seeing the old man lost in painful memories. “He will soon escape his suffering and reunite with his grandfather, living a life better than before.”

“Oh, may God bless him!”

But that’s not right?

Though the clerk longed to ask this, he glanced at the weeping old man, then at Mikhail’s gentle face, and suddenly understood—he couldn’t help but exclaim:

“Incredible writing, Mikhail! No wonder you’re a university student! This is the best story I’ve ever heard in my life—it’s more powerful than a hundred jokes! I never thought Russia still had novels like this!”

As he spoke, Smirnov also remembered the petty merchant Versilov beside him, and quickly turned to ask his opinion:

“What do you think, Versilov? Do you understand it? What do you make of this story?”

“It’s well written,” Versilov muttered, though his pride was wounded. “But what good is a story like this? How can it be worth more than a ruble? People just glance at it and forget.”

Because his words were mumbled, most people in the noisy room didn’t catch them. After muttering a while, Versilov suddenly looked up at the time, then panicked:

“Good heavens! I still have a business deal to attend to—how did it get so late? I must leave.”

Though he immediately rose to go, before departing, the petty merchant Versilov tipped his hat to Mikhail:

“Dear Mikhail, will you keep reading? Do you have more works beyond this one?”

“There’s another, Mr. Versilov. But time is running out, and everyone has matters to attend to. If there’s another chance, and you’re willing to listen, I’ll read the second story sometime.”

“That’s perfect! I’m off, I’m off!”

With that, Versilov hurried past Smirnov, who seemed ready to say more, and headed straight downstairs.

To save time, Versilov quickly flagged down a carriage, gave the driver the address and time, then leaned back, sighing in relief as he waited for the carriage to reach its destination.

But for some reason, Mikhail’s story still echoed in Versilov’s mind. To shake it off, he unconsciously glanced at the driver ahead.

A tattered coat, a young face still bearing traces of youth but already roughened, cheeks reddened by the cold.

Yet strangely, the boy didn’t look tired—he seemed almost excited.

Versilov didn’t know why he noticed these things he’d normally ignore, but when they arrived, looking at the young face, he hesitated a long while before reluctantly handing over the fare.

“An extra kopeck, sir!”

“Take it, take it. Go buy yourself something to eat, young man.”

Oh God! I must be mad!

With a pained wave of his hand, Versilov quickened his pace, eager to leave this place of sorrow.

After watching Versilov depart, the young coachman hurried back into his seat, ready to find another customer as fast as possible.

Today was an extraordinary day!

The young gentlemen of Shengbidebao were acting like madmen today!

They were giving extra kopecks left and right—some even gave rubles!

Undoubtedly, today was a lucky day to try one’s fortune.

But such luck almost always came from young gentlemen; Versilov, an old man with such a sharp, stingy demeanor, had also given extra—something the young coachman had never expected.

Still, it was stingy enough—typical of such a man…

(End of Chapter)