Chapter 63: A New Wave in Petersburg

With the release of the New issue of "Otechestvennye Zapiski", besides the visible growth in magazine sales, an undeniable wave began to surge within St. Petersburg: more and more people started using the name "Ochumelov" to describe those they disliked who had chameleon-like tendencies.

Just as when Gogol's "Dead Souls" first appeared, people replaced the word "miser" with the name "Plyushkin".

This is often the treatment reserved for the most classic characters in literature, just like Shakespeare's Hamlet and Charlotte, Cervantes' Don Quixote, Balzac's Grandet, and so on.

And the emergence of this phenomenon undoubtedly meant to others that Mikhail, at his current age, had created a character worthy of being recorded in Russian literary history, causing some in the Cultural Circle to repeatedly exclaim, "Oh God!"

If that were the case, it would certainly be a good thing; this undoubtedly brought the name Mikhail back into many people's hearts, but at the same time, other things naturally happened.

For instance, once, just as Mikhail had come out of Panaev's house and was strolling on the street to aid digestion, he suddenly saw a group of well-dressed young men passing by; the key point was that while they were walking, upon passing a patrolman, presumably due to some past grievance, one of the young men immediately looked at the patrolman and said with a look of contempt:

"Ochumelov!"

Mikhail, who was digesting his food: "???"

I see! Can't young people show some manners?!

And even if you want to curse, you don't have to curse like that, right?

Isn't it more satisfying to just say "F*** your mother" directly?

If the patrolman didn't understand, that would be one thing; he would just think it was strange and not take the young men's words to heart.

But unexpectedly, the patrolman immediately turned red with anger and shouted back: "F*** your mother, you are Ochumelov! Your whole family is Ochumelov!"

After waving whatever he held in his hand to threaten the group of young men, the patrolman's temperature still hadn't dropped, so he kept repeating there: "Oh God! What exactly are these writers, like perverts, writing these days! How dare they insult people's reputations so! They should all be thrown into prison, and let their articles go to hell!"

Mikhail: "………"

First, I really am not a pervert; second, the ones cursing you are them, not much to do with the writers; and finally, I need to slip away.

Pressing down his hat, Mikhail walked forward without showing any emotion.

However, besides this, Mikhail had also seen a few patrolmen who listened to this short story with great joy, gathering together to laugh loudly while saying to those beside them: "Hey! The guy who writes such articles must be a witty fellow! I like his humor! But he'd better not get caught by our Chief of Police, Stanislav, otherwise he will surely make him regret it!"

Mikhail: "………"

Please don't take the work's behavior as the author's own behavior, okay!

Talk aside, joke aside, to speak truthfully, Mikhail didn't care too much about such things; after all, the people around him were currently doing such ruthless things, so being among them, he didn't seem so outstanding.

Leaving others aside, take Nekrasov for example; the poem titled "On the Road" that he planned to include in the "Petersburg Anthology" described the miserable plight of laborers and humiliated women, thereby revealing the painful lives of peasants under serfdom.

Previously, due to the strict censorship system, Russia had never published a work so sharply attacking serfdom; and when Belinsky heard Nekrasov recite this poem, he immediately embraced him and said to him with tears in his eyes: "Do you know that you are a poet? And a true poet."

It is worth mentioning that the inspiration for this poem likely came from Nekrasov's personal experiences and his growing environment, because Nekrasov's father was the kind of beast of a landlord who did nothing but things that were not human, and often beat him and his mother after getting drunk.

In short, Mikhail's mindset was indeed: "Forget it, if we're doing it, let's do it; Nekrasov, Belinsky, Turgenev... they all did it."

And apart from these two minor incidents, after "The Chameleon" was published, Mikhail still followed the usual custom, choosing a time when everyone was slightly free to read his short story to them.

Since he first read two pieces to them, many people in the apartment had developed a considerable interest in Mikhail's short stories; in their words:

"Mikhail, just by listening to your short stories, I know you are still that poor college student; you simply can't write as incomprehensibly as those noble lords! But seriously, your short story is the best one I have ever heard."

"Have mercy, Mikhail, read when I am here. Although I cannot read, I always feel that the things you have read echo in my mind; if I don't listen again, I feel something is missing..."

"Dear Mikhail, what you write is very good, but isn't there a lighter, more humorous story? You almost made me cry my eyes blind!"

Regarding the last point, although the previous "The Poor" still couldn't escape its somber tone, it was ultimately a short story with a relatively warm ending; and after Mikhail read this short story to them, whether it was Mikhail's illusion or not, he felt that the atmosphere in the apartment during that period had improved significantly, as if everyone felt proud of doing good deeds.

Even the dignified landlady Pavlovna was unusually generous during that period, although she often felt heartache because of it.

And today, it was the day for the irregularly held Mikhail reading session; roughly after lunch, the busy people in the apartment had a brief moment of rest.

To be honest, the scene was certainly not solemn enough; those who should be eating were still eating, those who should be tidying up children were tidying up children; some ladies would look up and listen for a while while doing needlework, and some children simply couldn't sit still, and after listening curiously for a while, they might slip away.

And when Mikhail's recitation ended, they wouldn't say anything too beautiful, nor would they use any artistic terms to comment on the short story Mikhail read or express special thoughts; at most, they would shout, "Written really well, Mikhail."

But Mikhail quite liked this atmosphere of chaos with a hint of order.

Perhaps he liked it even more than the gatherings at Panaev's house.

In any case, when everything was ready, the moment Mikhail opened his mouth, the originally somewhat chaotic scene suddenly fell silent; the children were held down by their parents, unable to move, looking only slightly confusedly at the person surrounded by everyone.

Although the ladies doing needlework kept their hands moving, their ears were perked up; and the gentlemen who were speaking vulgarities and witticisms were, at this moment, unusually listening quietly to the short story without being drunk.

Sunlight shone through the narrow window onto Mikhail, spreading outward with his voice.

(End of this chapter)