Chapter 64: Strike First

Largely because he had been reading novels aloud to others for the past few months, Mikhail felt that by now his recitation skills had improved greatly; he understood well how to grasp the flow of a text and how to intensify or restrain emotions at appropriate points.

To be honest, if he continued to improve in this manner, Mikhail thought he might even try giving speeches.

This time, as Mikhail read "The Chameleon" with vivid expression, the atmosphere was not heavy and silent as before; quite the opposite, the small living room was filled with a cheerful air, and bursts of laughter erupted again and again as the story unfolded through its introduction, development, climax, and conclusion.

In fact, regarding tragedy and comedy, since ancient times tragedy has often been regarded as a more Gao Ya art form, while comedy has always occupied a relatively humble position.

However, one phenomenon has been very common throughout history: ordinary people often prefer happy-ending comedies and works that bring laughter, allowing them to briefly forget the hardships of reality.

This is certainly not hard to understand; for ordinary people, the weight of reality is already hard enough to bear, so why continue to experience pain in an Illusory world?

Indeed, those so-called tragedies, compared to their own lives, might not be all that different.

Of course, it is equally worth noting that when laughter becomes too loud, it inevitably degenerates into vulgarity, and a vulgar society and populace are often what some people hope to see.

Therefore, true comedy has never been vulgar frivolity; rather, amidst seemingly ridiculous stories, it rings with many harsh laughs that mock vulgar social habits while also lashing out at systems and human nature.

Returning to Mikhail's recitation, it was clear that "The Chameleon" had greatly lifted the spirits of the audience present; for them, while previous stories were good, they left a feeling of heaviness in the heart, but this novel made people feel much happier as they listened.

Thus, when Mikhail finished reading the novel, the audience present erupted into enthusiastic applause, then began talking incessantly with those beside them:

"Strange, though it is merely a character in a novel, I feel as if I have seen him somewhere before."

"I love this novel so much, I even want to run off and read it aloud to others!"

"How ridiculous! Even God, upon hearing this novel, would surely burst out laughing!"

Some were discussing the novel, while Mikhail's mother, Priskhoriya, with tears glistening in her eyes, looked proudly at Mikhail, who was surrounded by people, and then said to her daughter beside her:

"Look, Duniya, people are all gathered around him; everyone likes Misha's novels! How could he not achieve something great? Perhaps very soon, even in our place, people will hear Misha's name!"

"This novel is truly excellent; the previous ones were good too, but listening to them made one feel almost breathless! Tell me, won't Misha soon rise to prominence? He will surely be living a good life very soon, won't he?"

Facing her mother's question, the slightly thin young girl fell silent for a moment.

If it had been before, she would have nodded without hesitation and agreed, sharing the same excited feelings as her mother.

But in the days since arriving in St. Petersburg, she had taken time to finish reading all of Mikhail's current works; moreover, she had indeed received a good education from the Lianghaode Sect and had come into contact with some of the most cutting-edge books.

Under these circumstances, the young girl vaguely felt that her brother seemed to be writing something somewhat unconventional.

Whether he will rise to prominence is another matter; she only hoped it would not affect her brother's career.

Though she thought this, when faced with her mother's question, the young girl paused for a moment, then finally nodded and, taking her mother's hand, said, "Mother, Misha will surely be a great writer."

Some laughed loudly upon hearing this, some felt a vague worry, but others felt somewhat uncomfortable; for instance, our old friend, the little merchant Versilov, had been laughing heartily at first, but once he came to his senses, his eyes suddenly began to wander.

It feels as if he is writing about me.

No, no, my name is Versilov; the character in the novel is called Ochumelov, so how could that person possibly be me?!

Oh God! I have been too harsh on myself!

Although he had convinced himself in his heart, Versilov was after all a little merchant; for someone in his profession, without some skill at reading people's expressions, one truly could not survive.

But thinking that he himself might sometimes be so ridiculous, Versilov still felt his face was slightly tarnished.

Moreover, even more importantly, in this apartment he indeed had a bitter rival; they had often criticized each other in daily life. Although he was still laughing there now, once he came to his senses, he would likely use this story to mock himself.

Thinking of this, Versilov could not help but look at the little clerk Smirnov; before the other could reveal that damn smile of his, Versilov decided to strike first, speaking loudly: "Oh God, Smirnov, isn't this writing about you? Some of your behaviors are exactly like those of the Mr. in the novel!"

Little clerk Smirnov: "?"

"Are you drunk in broad daylight? Otherwise, how could you utter such nonsense!" Smirnov, who had been laughing heartily, felt insulted upon hearing this and quickly retorted: "Who in the entire apartment doesn't know my reputation? As for you, Versilov, I was just about to make you listen carefully! You are the one who truly resembles the Mr. in the novel!"

"Come on, you—"

Although he had struck first, the little merchant Versilov still had some sense in his heart; while this method slightly saved his reputation, Versilov also made a firm resolve in his heart: in the future, he must not let himself truly reach such a state, otherwise anyone hearing about him would burst out laughing.

Mikhail was completely unaware of Versilov's inner journey; he simply chatted and laughed with everyone after finishing the reading. Once he had a brief moment of leisure, the little landlord Tushenbach, who was temporarily staying in the apartment, approached Mikhail.

As soon as he sat down, Tushenbach could not help but affectionately take the hand of this young man who was often willing to listen to him; he first praised Mikhail's novel this time, and then the old man finally spoke of something he had been considering for a long time.

(End of this chapter)