Chapter 46: Your Name

After the crowd dispersed, Priskhriya and Duniya, who had been standing frozen in place, seemed to wake from a dream; as they hurriedly followed the others toward the café, Priskhriya, who had just been enveloped by an inexplicable fear, suddenly grew excited:

"Is this magazine really so famous? So many Mr. s have come to inquire! But how could it be sold out? I can't wait to see it!"

"I want to see Mama too." Having witnessed the scene just now, the girl, who had been relatively calm, could not help but become excited; she tightly gripped the hem of her clothes with one hand: "To publish a novel in such a magazine, just how good must my brother's writing be?"

With this inexplicable excitement, Priskhriya and Duniya quickly followed the crowd to the entrance of a relatively large café; upon arriving there, almost everyone visible was a well-dressed Mr., and it was nearly impossible to find a single ordinary-looking citizen.

At this very moment, these Mr. s gathered here; some were earnestly discussing some matter, occasionally letting slip a phrase of Authentic method French, others sat in corners sipping tea while reading newspapers in their hands, and most were gathered together; at everyone's request, a Mr. quite skilled in recitation was preparing to read aloud from what he was currently holding.

Scenes like this, Mikhail was now very accustomed to; especially those discussing matters, Mikhail occasionally even felt a sense of familiarity, after all, a hundred years later, Mikhail could also hear people, while speaking, suddenly drop in a few Authentic method English words...

But for Priskhriya, such a scene was almost never seen, and looking at the café's decorations, they did not have enough confidence to order a cup of tea in such a shop.

Thus, for a moment, this old woman and this Miss stood frozen at the doorway, their faces slightly pale, and for a moment they did not even know what they should do.

Fortunately, the Mr. reciting something, surrounded by the crowd, also came to a relatively outer position, and although the voices of those around him were very chaotic, Priskhriya and Duniya, standing not far away, still managed to catch the gist:

"What are you still waiting for, Artem? I swear to God, if you keep putting on airs there, I'll shove my fist down your throat!"

"If you're not going to read it, then hurry up and give me the magazine! Almost everyone has been talking to me about this these past two days, but I just can't see it!"

"When did 'Otechestvennye Zapiski' start selling so well? Although it sold well before, it never reached this extent."

"Does this need saying? You just need to think a little to know."

"Which piece shall we read? I heard there are two excellent pieces again; one is very profound, and the other is very moving."

"'The Poor Folk'? Or 'Sleepy'?"

"Read 'The Poor Folk' first! I like that kind-hearted couple! If there were more people like that, many problems facing our Russia could be solved!"

The discussion was quite noisy, but when the Mr. holding the magazine began to read, the surroundings suddenly became much quieter; although Priskhriya and Duniya had not achieved their purpose, out of curiosity, the two exchanged a glance and ultimately stood there, preparing to listen for a while:

"In a hut where fishermen lived, the fisherman's wife Sanya sat under a lamp mending an old fishing sail. The wind howled and wailed in the yard; the waves crashed against the shore, making a roaring sound."

The two had originally intended to listen for just a while, but when they came to their senses, they had actually finished listening to the entire novel; the old woman Priskhriya, who had thought she absolutely would not understand what these novels were writing about, after actually listening to it, looked at her daughter Duniya, who was equally deeply moved, with tears in her eyes and said:

"What kind-hearted people! Duniya, I truly hope that everyone you and Misha meet are such kind people! We should also be kind like this; God will bless us!"

After finishing this piece, it was not over; soon the young man with excellent recitation skills began to read the second piece, and Priskhriya and Duniya also briefly forgot the purpose of their trip, unconsciously captured by this novel as well:

"Nighttime. The little nanny Valka, this 13-year-old Miss, is rocking a cradle in which a small baby lies; she hums a song, her voice so low it is barely audible: Sleep, sleep well, I will sing you a song."

And after listening to this novel, the old woman Priskhriya likewise had tears in her eyes, as if at any moment she would shed a few tears for that poor little girl:

"Why won't they let her rest for a bit? I have seen such things, dear Duniya; we have many such masters there, as if their servants were not breathing, living people! In their words: Horses and donkeys are far more precious than people! If you use them too much, they will die, but people will try every means to keep themselves alive, but where is the logic in that?

Sometimes, before God personally comes to punish them, they have already been beaten to death by their servants!"

"Yes, Mama." The girl, also full of sympathy, replied: "How can people be so bad?"

The two talked like this for quite a while; only when they finally came to their senses did they remember their purpose.

Priskhriya looked at the crowd squeezed together discussing there and immediately became worried:

"Duniya, how should we speak up? How can we get these Mr. s to let us see that magazine first? But look at them; they would rather drill straight into the book themselves, so where would they find the time to pay attention to us?

But I must say, 'Otechestvennye Zapiski' is truly a very good literary magazine; to be able to hear such moving novels, you know, I rarely manage to listen to such things. It is simply unimaginable what kind of noble and talented Mr. could write such novels!

For Misha to be in the same magazine as such a Mr., he must have exerted great effort."

Even though she had always had great confidence in her son, Priskhriya would not be so arrogant as to think Misha's novel was on the same level as this Mr.'s.

After all, counting strictly, only three or four months had passed since Misha said he decided to start writing; how could such a short time possibly produce a novel that would move anyone who heard it?

"Yes, Mama." Duniya, holding the same thoughts, nodded in agreement: "My brother must have undergone very hard work to get into such a magazine; I believe he will also write very brilliantly."

After saying this, before the somewhat worried two could figure out what they should do, at a certain seat in the café, a Mr. who had originally been listening indifferently suddenly froze in his seat as he listened.

And when the young people finished reading and began discussing matters, he struggled for a moment and finally asked loudly:

"Hey, gentlemen! Can you tell me which magazine you are reading? Who are the authors of these two novels? Is Gogol releasing new work again? Or the respected Count Maxim?"

"Neither, Mr."

Under the gaze of Priskhriya and Duniya, several young men responded loudly, and when mentioning the authors of those two novels, a distinct look clearly appeared on the faces of these young men.

Under everyone's gaze, they loudly spoke out that name:

"His name is Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov!"

Hearing this name, Duniya Romanovna Raskolnikova and Priskhriya Alexandrovna Raskolnikova were stunned for a long time as if struck by lightning; then suddenly they felt as if a beam of light had struck them, and even their surnames began to shine.

Thank you to "Huan Ku Su Lyre" and "Shu 20200810195255706" for their Master's article donations and to everyone for their monthly tickets; many thanks.

Please increase the intensity; I can take it (dog head).

I have received Master's article recommendations from several more Masters; thank them and also thank my operations team; I hope I can write better stories and be worthy of their help.

Here I recommend another Master's book again: "I Am Not a Literary Giant".

A literary giant story without literary plagiarism, an urban story without rebirth.

A top-tier Master, again doing original literary plagiarism; no need for me to say much about what kind of strength that is; those interested, gentlemen, can go take a look.

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(End of this chapter)