Chapter 64: Strike First

Probably because he had been reading novels aloud to others for the past few months, Mikhail now felt his recitation skills had greatly improved; he knew precisely how to grasp the rhythm of a text and when to intensify or suppress emotion.

To be honest, if he continued improving at this rate, Mikhail thought he might even try public speaking.

This time, as Mikhail delivered “The Chameleon” with vivid precision, the atmosphere was no longer heavy and silent as before—on the contrary, the small parlor brimmed with mirth, erupting in waves of laughter as the story unfolded.

Traditionally, tragedy has been regarded as the more refined art, while comedy has always occupied a lower status.

Yet a common phenomenon throughout history is that ordinary people overwhelmingly prefer happy endings, stories that bring laughter and offer brief escape from life’s sorrows.

This is easy to understand: for ordinary people, the weight of reality is already unbearable—why endure more pain in a world of fiction?

Even so-called tragedies, when compared to their own lives, might seem trivial.

Of course, it is equally worth noting that when laughter becomes too loud and excessive, it descends into vulgarity—and it is precisely this vulgar society and crowd that some people wish to see.

True comedy, then, is never vulgar merriment; it is the sharp, piercing laughter within seemingly absurd tales, mocking societal habits and lashing out at institutions and human nature.

As for Mikhail’s recitation, clearly “The Chameleon” had stirred the audience’s emotions intensely; for them, previous stories had been good, but left them feeling weighed down—this one, however, brought pure joy.

When Mikhail finished, the audience burst into enthusiastic applause and immediately began chatting excitedly with those around them:

“Strange—I’ve never met this character, yet I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“I love this story so much, I even want to go read it aloud to others!”

“How hilarious! Even God would laugh out loud hearing this story!”

While some discussed the story, Mikhail’s mother, Pulheria, watched him surrounded by admirers, her eyes glistening with pride, and whispered to her daughter:

“Look, Dunya, everyone is gathered around him—they all love Misha’s stories! How could he possibly fail to make a name for himself? Soon, even in our hometown, people will be talking about Misha!”

“This story is truly excellent. The earlier ones were good too, but they left you gasping for air. Tell me—won’t Misha rise to fame soon? Won’t he soon live a good life?”

Faced with her mother’s questions, the slender young woman fell silent.

In the past, she would have nodded without hesitation, sharing her mother’s excitement.

But since arriving in St. Petersburg, she had taken time to read every one of Mikhail’s works, and having received a solid education and encountered some of the most advanced literature, she now sensed something unusual.

Whether he would rise to fame was uncertain—she only hoped it wouldn’t harm his future.

Still, after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and squeezed her mother’s hand: “Mother, Misha will surely become a great writer.”

Some laughed aloud; others grew uneasy; a few, like the small merchant Versilov, felt distinctly uncomfortable. He had laughed heartily at first, but now, as he came to his senses, his gaze grew distant.

Some laughed loudly, some felt uneasy, and others, like our old friend the merchant Verislov, initially laughed heartily but then, upon regaining composure, their gaze suddenly grew restless.

No, no—I’m Versilov. The character’s name is Ochumelov. How could that man possibly be me?!

Oh God! I’m too hard on myself!

Though he had convinced himself internally, Versilov was still a petty merchant—without the skill to read people’s faces, he could not survive.

Yet the thought that he might one day appear so ridiculous made him feel his dignity slipping.

Worse still, in this building, he had a sworn enemy who constantly spoke ill of him—and though the man was still laughing now, once he realized the story’s target, he would surely use it to mock Versilov.

Thinking of this, Versilov glanced at the minor official Smirnov. Before Smirnov could flash his damned grin, Versilov struck first, shouting loudly: “God Almighty, Smirnov! Isn’t this just writing about you? Your behavior is identical to that man in the story!”

Thinking of this, Verislov couldn’t help but turn to the junior clerk Smirnov; before Smirnov could flash his damned smile, Verislov struck first, shouting loudly: “Good Lord, Smirnov, isn’t this just writing about you? Your behavior is identical to that gentleman in the novel!”

“Have you been drinking at this hour? How could you say such nonsense!” Smirnov, who had been laughing moments before, now felt insulted and retorted sharply: “Who in this building doesn’t know my reputation? It’s you, Versilov—I was just about to tell you to listen closely! You’re the one who resembles that character!”

“Are you drunk in broad daylight? How else could you say such nonsense!” Smirnov, who had been laughing moments before, instantly felt insulted and retorted at once: “Who in this building doesn’t know my reputation? But you, Verislov—I was just about to make you listen closely! You’re the one who truly resembles that gentleman in the novel!”

Though he had launched a preemptive strike, Versilov knew deep down he hadn’t truly escaped suspicion. He had barely preserved his name—but he resolved within himself: never let himself sink to such a state, or everyone who heard of him would burst into laughter.

Mikhail remained unaware of Versilov’s inner turmoil. After finishing, he chatted and laughed with the crowd. When he finally had a moment to breathe, the minor landowner Tursenbach approached him.

As soon as he sat down, Tursenbach warmly grasped the young man’s hand—the one who always listened patiently to his ramblings—and praised Mikhail’s story before revealing a matter he had long pondered.

No sooner had he sat down than Tushinbach warmly seized the hand of this young man who often listened to his talk, praised Mikhail’s latest novel, and then, after a long deliberation, the old man spoke of something he had been considering for a long time.

(End of Chapter)