Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 479 The Star-Making Plan! (Seeking votes at the beginning of the month)

Chekhov was the only one left in the storeroom. He walked to the center of the room, pulled over an old chair, and sat down.

He took out his pocket watch, opened the cover, and checked the time; it was 3:20 PM.

He closed the watch case and held it in his hand; it was a gift from his father before he was driven mad by business and alcohol.

Then he waited.

About ten minutes later, chaotic footsteps sounded outside, and soon the door to the storeroom was kicked open.

Three burly men rushed in, followed by Major Grigory Ivanovich Smirnov.

Major Smirnov glanced around the empty room, his gaze settling on Chekhov sitting in a chair, and his face darkened.

Major Smirnov's voice was as cold as ice: "Where are the others?"

Chekhov raised his head, his voice as calm as water: "There is no one else, only me."

The major stared at him for a full half minute, then suddenly laughed: "Anton Pavlovich, I underestimated you."

I thought you'd be a smart, normal person, but you chose to be a foolish hero.

He leaned down, bringing his face close to Chekhov's: "You think you saved them? Let me tell you, they might escape today, but they can't escape tomorrow. And you—"

Chekhov didn't wait for him to finish speaking. Staring into his eyes, he gave a contemptuous smile: "Major, now you can send me to Siberia."

-------

Guest room at 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, Paris.

Maria Chekhova's narration was fragmented and intermittent, interspersed with sobs. Although Lionel struggled to understand, he grasped the general outline.

Although Chekhov's family was poor, they were a typical educated lower-middle-class family. In the urban secondary school system of Tsarist Russia, French was a compulsory subject.

Girls, in particular, often learn French because it is considered a "cultured language".

Maria was educated at the Taganrog Girls' School, where French, like painting, is a core subject in the curriculum.

So, although Maria Chekhova's French was not as fluent as her brother Anton Chekhov's, she could still communicate with some difficulty.

Before, I could only speak Russian downstairs, mainly because I was hungry, tired, and scared, and my brain simply couldn't process much information.

The day after Chekhov was arrested, people from Okrana came to search his home and claimed that Chekhov was involved in an illegal organization and had been imprisoned.

However, Chekhov had hidden his most important manuscripts and letters beforehand, and only his sister Masha knew the location.

“We don’t know where Anton is being held. My father went to the university, but they said Anton was suspected of endangering the country and they couldn’t do anything about it.”

We went to the police station again, and they said the case fell under the jurisdiction of Okrana, and ordinary police officers had no authority to handle it.

Maria's voice choked with emotion: "My brother's classmate, Vladimir Popov, found out that Anton's case has been 'quickly concluded'."

There was no public trial, no lawyer, and the charges were "inciting subversion and harboring dangerous elements." The sentence was eight years of hard labor and exile to Siberia.

Lionel felt a tightness in his chest as he listened.

In Tsarist Russia in 1882, this kind of "judiciary" was all too common: secret arrests, secret verdicts, and then a decree of exile, and a person would disappear.

He asked Maria, "When will the verdict be carried out?"

Maria wiped away her tears: "Vladimir told me that as long as a whole trainload of prisoners is gathered, they will be transported together. The last time was before I set off."

The journey would last a month at the shortest and no more than two months at the longest. They would first take a train to the Ural Mountains, and then hike to their place of exile.

So the latest it can be delayed is the end of February or the beginning of March. I heard that Anton is going to either Vladivostok or the mining area in Nerchensk.

Lionel: "..." These two places do sound familiar.

Maria looked up, tears welling up again: "Mr. Sorel, I have no choice... My father is seriously ill and my mother has to take care of him."

My brother Alexander… he can't do anything but drink and curse. I could only… I could only come to you.”

She struggled to get out of bed, but Lionel stopped her.

“Anton has always said that you are his most important teacher. He said you are influential in Paris and know many people…”

I secretly sold my mother's last decent piece of jewelry, got some money, and bought the cheapest train ticket.

The train arrived in Berlin, then I hitched a ride on a freight car and a passing horse-drawn carriage… I don’t know how long the journey took…

I finally found you at the address on the letter!

She finally broke down, covering her face and sobbing, "Please... save him... save my brother..."

Lionel stood by the bed, looking at the frail girl who had cut her hair short and desperately fled from Moscow to Paris, even in winter.

Lionel could hardly imagine how much suffering and hardship she endured during those twenty days.

He recalled two years ago, when that impetuous yet passionate Russian youth followed him through the streets of Paris, his eyes shining as he asked him questions about literature.

He remembered the exercises Chekhov had sent him and their correspondence.

He also recalled what he had written in his letter:
"The highest level of satire may not lie in who we are mocking, but in how we use mockery to let readers see the pathetic nature behind the ridiculous."

Now, Chekhov himself became part of that "pathetic" part—because he refused to become despicable!

Lionel muttered to himself, "Only one month... one month..."

He then said to Maria, "You should rest first. Anton, I will definitely find a way to rescue him!"

Upon hearing this, Maria's eyes lit up again: "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Sorel..."

Lionel pointed to the small bag that Maria had been clutching to her chest and wouldn't let go of, and asked, "Are all these works by Anton?"

Maria hurriedly pulled them out: "Yes, I was afraid you wouldn't trust me, so I brought them all."

Lionel smiled. "Maria, you are Anton's true savior—can I have these works first?" Maria quickly handed the bag to Lionel. "Of course, Mr. Sorel, anything that can help Anton!"

-------

That evening, at Zola's Villa Médan.

The fireplace in the living room was burning brightly, but the atmosphere inside was heavier than the weather outside.

The long table was full of people.

Zola sat in the main seat, his brow furrowed; Lionel and Maupassant sat on his left and right respectively.

Huysman, Alexis, Seal, and Ennick—all seven members of the "Meitang Group" were present.

At the other end of the table, in an armchair next to the fireplace, sat Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev.

Turgenev looked unwell, his face ashen, wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, a stack of manuscripts on his lap, and he coughed softly from time to time.

The journey from Paris to Médan was grueling for him, but he came immediately after receiving Lionel's urgent letter.

"That's the way it is."

Lionel finished recounting Maria's story: "Anton Chekhov is now sentenced to eight years of hard labor and exiled to Siberia, to depart within a month at the latest."

The room was dead silent.

Then Maupassant slammed his fist on the table: "Damn it! These Tsar's lackeys!"

They still remembered the young Russian lad's awkward appearance when Lionel led him into the Villa Médan two summers ago.

Turgenev coughed a few times and slowly began to speak: "After Alexander II was assassinated last year, the new Tsar became extremely sensitive to any dissent."

The secret police have gained more power; this is quite common now. Once you're in Siberia, it's much harder to rescue people.

It wasn't a prison, it was hell. Cold, hard labor, disease... many didn't survive the first year.

Lionel looked at him: "Do you have any friends in St. Petersburg? People you can talk to?"

Turgenev shook his head: "Yes. But the hope is slim. In cases like this... even the Ministry of Justice can't get involved with the people arrested by Okrana."

Besides, I'm now a 'Russian living in France,' and they don't trust me to begin with. Writing a letter to plead for leniency? That might just harm the child."

Maupassant sat up straight: "Then what about us signing together? We—the French writers."

If Mr. Hugo were still alive, and he took the lead, Emile, Alphonse, Edmund… and of course us, we would all sign.

Let us jointly write an open letter to Alexander III, requesting that he pardon Chekhov. European public opinion will take notice!

Several people's eyes lit up.

But Lionel immediately shook his head: "No."

Maupassant glared at him: "Why? Mr. Hugo spoke out for the Poles, for the Italians, for all the oppressed people in Europe! Even the Pope valued his letters!"

Lionel put it bluntly: "Because it's useless. If open letters from foreign writers were useful, Chernyshevsky would have returned from Siberia long ago."

Hugo, Mitchell, and George Sand all pleaded for him—and what was the result? He spent twenty years in Siberia, and he's still there!

He paused, then continued, "Moreover, Chekhov and Chernyshevsky are not the same. All of Europe knows who Mr. Chernyshevsky is."

But besides us, who knows who Chekhov is? A medical student who hasn't published many works. Would the Tsar care? Would Okrana care?

An open letter might only solidify their belief—look, this 'little guy' has actually alarmed a French literary giant; he must be a dangerous individual!

Maupassant opened his mouth, but no words came out. He leaned back in his chair, dejected.

Zola sighed: "Leon is right. Public opinion pressure has little effect on Russia right now."

The room fell silent again, save for the crackling sound of burning wood in the fireplace.

Seal couldn't help but ask, "Then what can we do? We can't just stand by and watch that child be sent to Siberia, can we?"

Alexis smiled wryly: "What can we do in France? Across the whole of Europe, who can reach into Moscow?"

Lionel didn't reply, but turned to Turgenev: "Ivan, you've read Anton's manuscripts. What do you think of them?"

All eyes turned to Turgenev.

Turgenev coughed a few times before saying, "Quite good. The descriptions are accurate, the observations are meticulous, and the satire is sharp enough, but it goes beyond just being sharp."

Especially this one—

He pulled out a page from the manuscript: "It tells the story of a lowly civil servant who sneezed and splashed a general, scaring himself to death."

Absurd, yet undeniably real. Although some are just drafts, and some lack even a complete structure, it's clear this child has talent.

I mean, 'real talent,' like yours, Leon—if all goes well, he'll definitely become an excellent writer!

Lionel nodded: "How quickly can these works be translated into French?"

Turgenev thought for a moment: "I will come myself and ask a few friends for help. I can give you a French translation within three days."

Lionel said, "Okay, three days it is!"

Zola asked curiously, "Léon, what exactly do you want to do?"

Lionel's voice was calm: "Three weeks."

Everyone looked at him, their eyes full of confusion.

"We will make Anton Pavlovich Chekhov the brightest new literary star in Europe within three weeks!"

(Two chapters complete, thank you everyone)

(End of this chapter)