Chapter 63: St. Petersburg New Wave

With the release of the latest issue of “The Motherland Chronicle,” beyond the obvious increase in magazine sales, an undeniable wave began to stir in St. Petersburg: more and more people started using the name “Ochumelov” to describe those they disliked—people with a chameleon-like tendency.

Just as, when Gogol’s “Dead Souls” first appeared, people began using the name “Plyushkin” instead of “miser.”

This is typically the honor reserved only for the most classic literary characters—like Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Shylock, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Balzac’s Gobseck, and so on.

To others, this phenomenon clearly meant that Mikhail, at his young age, had created a character worthy of being enshrined in Russian literary history, causing some in the cultural world to repeatedly cry out, “Oh God!”

Still, this was surely a good thing—it once again cemented Mikhail’s name in many hearts—but at the same time, other things had also happened.

For instance, once when Mikhail had just left the Panaevs’ home and was strolling down the street to digest his meal, he suddenly saw a group of well-dressed young men pass by. The key was, they were just walking—yet when they passed a police officer, apparently having some past grievance, one of them immediately turned to the officer and sneered:

“Ochumelov!”

Mikhail, who had been digesting his meal: “???”

I created that! Can’t these kids show some manners?!

And you don’t even have to insult someone like that, do you?

Wouldn’t it be easier just to yell, “Fuck your mother”?

If the police officer didn’t understand, fine—he’d just be confused and ignore the youths’ words entirely.

But to everyone’s surprise, the officer immediately turned red with rage and shouted: “Fuck your mother, you’re the Ochumelov! Your whole family is Ochumelov!”

After waving his club at the young men in warning, the officer’s anger didn’t subside—he kept repeating: “Oh God! What the hell are these perverted writers writing these days?! How dare they slander someone’s reputation?! They should all be locked up, and their writings sent to hell!”

Mikhail: “………”

First, I’m not a pervert. Second, the ones insulting you are them—not the writers. Third, I’m getting out of here.

He pressed down his hat and walked forward without expression.

Yet Mikhail had also seen a few police officers who listened to the story with delight, laughing together and telling others: “Hey! The guy who wrote this must be a clever bastard! I love his humor! But he better not get caught by our chief, Stanislav—or he’ll regret it!”

Mikhail: “………”

Don’t take the work personally, okay?!

Speaking of which, Mikhail didn’t care too much about this. After all, everyone around him was doing equally brutal things—he was just one among them.

Take Nekrasov, for example: the poem he planned to include in “The Petersburg Collection,” titled “On the Road,” depicted the tragic fates of laborers and abused women, exposing the suffering of peasants under serfdom.

Previously, due to strict censorship, Russia had never published a work so sharply critical of serfdom. When Belinsky heard Nekrasov recite this poem, he immediately embraced him, tears in his eyes, and said: “Do you know you’re a poet? A true poet.”

Notably, the inspiration for this poem likely came from Nekrasov’s own life and upbringing—his father was one of those monstrous landowners who did nothing but cruel, inhuman things, often beating Nekrasov and his mother after drinking.

In short, Mikhail’s mindset was simply: “Forget it. Just do it. Nekrasov, Belinsky, Turgenev—they’ve all done it.”

Aside from these two minor incidents, after “The Chameleon” was published, Mikhail still followed his usual habit: he chose a time when everyone was slightly free and read his story aloud to them.

Since he first read them two stories, many in the apartment had grown quite interested in Mikhail’s fiction. In their words:

“Mikhail, just listening to your stories tells us—you’re still that poor student, nowhere near as obscure as those noble lords! But honestly, your stories are the best I’ve ever heard.”

“Please, Mikhail, wait till I’m here to read. I can’t read, but your stories echo in my head—I feel something’s missing if I don’t hear them again.”

“Dear Mikhail, your writing is great—but can’t you write something lighter and funnier? You’re making me cry until my eyes are ruined!”

Regarding the last point, though “The Poor Folk” still carried a somber tone, it ended on a warm note. After Mikhail read it aloud, whether it was his imagination or not, he felt the apartment’s atmosphere improved significantly—everyone seemed proud of doing something good.

Even the stern landlady, Pavlovna, became unusually generous during that time, though she often felt pained by it.

Today, it was once again the irregular day of Mikhail’s reading session—just after lunch, when everyone in the apartment had a brief moment of rest.

To be honest, the scene wasn’t solemn at all: some were still eating, others were tending to children; some ladies stitched while occasionally lifting their heads to listen; some children couldn’t sit still and, after a few minutes of curiosity, slipped away.

When Mikhail finished reading, they wouldn’t say anything elegant, nor offer literary jargon to critique or reflect on his story—most they’d shout: “That was really good, Mikhail!”

But Mikhail actually liked this chaotic yet orderly atmosphere.

Perhaps even more than the gatherings at the Panaevs’.

In short, when everything was ready and Mikhail opened his mouth, the previously noisy room fell silent at once—children were held still by their parents, gazing at the man surrounded by others with vague curiosity.

The ladies sewing kept stitching, but their ears were tuned in; the men who usually swore and cracked jokes now, sober and still, listened quietly to the story.

Sunlight streamed through the narrow window, falling upon Mikhail, spreading outward with his voice.

(End of chapter)