Chapter 46: Your Name

After the crowd dispersed, Plyushkina and Du Niya, who had been frozen in place, as if waking from a dream, hurried after the others toward the café, and Plyushkina, who had just been gripped by an inexplicable fear, suddenly became agitated:

“Is this magazine really that famous? So many gentlemen came asking for it! But how could it be sold out? I can’t wait to see it!”

“I want to read it too, Mama.” Witnessing the scene, the usually calm girl could no longer contain her excitement, clutching the hem of her dress tightly: “If my brother’s story was published in a magazine like this, how extraordinary must his writing be?”

Carrying this strange excitement, Plyushkina and Du Niya quickly followed the crowd to the entrance of a larger café. There, nearly every person they could see was a well-dressed gentleman; not a single ordinary citizen could be found.

At this moment, these gentlemen gathered here—some passionately discussing issues, occasionally slipping in fluent French phrases; others sitting in corners sipping tea while reading newspapers; most clustered together, and at the crowd’s request, a gentleman skilled in recitation prepared to read aloud from what he held.

Such scenes were now familiar to Mikhail, especially the discussions—he sometimes even felt a sense of kinship, for a hundred years from now, Mikhail would still hear people casually dropping English words into their speech…

But for Plyushkina, this scene was utterly foreign, and seeing the café’s decor, she had no confidence she could afford even a cup of tea here.

For a moment, the old woman and the girl stood frozen at the entrance, their faces slightly pale, unsure what to do.

Fortunately, the gentleman reciting had moved to a spot near the outer edge, surrounded by others; though their voices were chaotic, Plyushkina and Du Niya, standing just nearby, caught the gist:

“What are you waiting for, Alyosha? I swear to God, if you keep putting on airs like that, I’ll shove my fist down your throat!”

“If you’re not going to read it, hand me the magazine! Everyone’s been talking about it these past two days, but I still haven’t seen it!”

“When did The Motherland Chronicle become this popular? It always sold well, but never to this extent.”

“Do you really need to ask? Just think about it.”

“Which story are you reading? I heard there are two excellent ones—one deeply meaningful, the other profoundly moving.”

“The Poor Folk? Or Sleepy?”

“Read The Poor Folk first! I love that kind-hearted couple! If there were more people like them, many of Russia’s problems would solve themselves!”

The discussion was loud, but as soon as the gentleman began reading, the crowd fell quiet. Though Plyushkina and Du Niya had not achieved their goal, out of curiosity, they exchanged glances and decided to stay and listen for a while.

“In a fisherman’s cottage, the fisherman’s wife, San’na, sat by the lamp mending an old fishing net. The wind howled through the yard, the waves crashed against the shore with a roaring sound.”

They had only intended to listen briefly, but when they came to their senses, they realized they had finished the entire story. Plyushkina, who had assumed she wouldn’t understand a word of it, now looked at her equally moved daughter Du Niya with tears in her eyes:

“What kind hearts they are! Du Niya, I wish everyone Mikhail meets were like this! We should be kind too—God will bless us!”

After this story ended, the young man, skilled in recitation, immediately began the second. Plyushkina and Du Niya momentarily forgot their purpose, drawn in by the tale:

“Night. The young nurse Varka, a thirteen-year-old girl, rocks a cradle where a baby lies; she hums a lullaby, so softly it’s barely audible: Sleep, sleep well, I’ll sing you a song.”

After hearing this story, Plyushkina’s eyes filled with tears again, as if she might weep for the poor little girl at any moment:

“Why won’t they let her rest? I’ve seen this myself, dear Du Niya—in our village, so many masters treat their servants as if they weren’t breathing, living people! In their words: horses and donkeys are more precious than humans! They die if overworked, but humans find ways to survive—how is that fair?”

“Sometimes, before God punishes them, their own servants kill them!”

“Yes, Mama.” The girl, filled with sympathy, replied: “How can people be so cruel?”

They spoke for a long while; only when they finally came back to themselves did they remember their purpose.

Plyushkina stared at the crowd packed tightly together, and her heart sank:

“Du Niya, how do we even speak up? How can we get these gentlemen to let us see the magazine? But look at them—they’d rather crawl inside the book than spare us a glance!”

“Still, The Motherland Chronicle truly is an exceptional literary magazine—to hear stories this moving… You know, I rarely pay attention to such things. I can’t imagine what kind of noble, gifted gentleman could write such tales!”

“Mikhail must have worked incredibly hard to be published alongside such men.”

Even though she always had confidence in her son, Plyushkina would never presume Mikhail’s stories were on par with this gentleman’s.

After all, only three or four months had passed since Mikhail first said he’d decided to write—how could he possibly have written something so deeply moving in so short a time?

“Yes, Mama.” Du Niya, sharing the same thoughts, nodded in agreement: “Brother must have worked extremely hard to be published in such a magazine. I believe he’ll write something truly brilliant.”

As they spoke, before the two worried women could decide what to do, a gentleman at a table in the café, who had merely been listening indifferently, suddenly froze in his seat.

When the young men finished reading and began discussing, he struggled for a moment, then finally called out loudly:

“Hey, gentlemen! Could you tell me which magazine you’re reading? Who wrote these two stories? Is it Gogol’s new work? Or the esteemed Count Maxim?”

“Neither, sir.”

Under Plyushkina and Du Niya’s gaze, several young men shouted back, and when they spoke of the authors, their faces glowed with unmistakable pride.

Under everyone’s gaze, they shouted the name aloud:

“His name is Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov!”

Hearing this name, Du Niya Romanovna Raskolnikova and Plyushkina Alexandrovna Raskolnikova stood stunned, as if struck by lightning; then, suddenly, it felt as though a beam of light had fallen upon them, and even their surname began to shimmer.

Thank you to “Huan Ku Su Lyre” and “Book20200810195255706” for your generous tips and to everyone for your monthly votes—thank you so much.

Please increase the support—I can handle it (dog face)

I’ve received several more chapter recommendations from big supporters—thank you to them and to my operations team—I hope I can write even better stories to deserve their help.

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(End of Chapter)