Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 483 Leo Tolstoy: Inquire about this young man...

Moscow, early February 1882.

In an old nobleman's mansion near Voskresensky Alley on Plechastenka Street, Leo Tolstoy sat at the long table in the dining room.

He is 54 years old and still gets up very early.

It was just dawn outside the window, and a thick layer of snow covered the courtyard. The firewood in the fireplace crackled, spreading warmth to every corner of the house.

Tolstoy's breakfast was simple: black bread, butter, honey, boiled eggs, and a pot of hot tea.

He ate quickly, his mind not on the food, but intently flipping through the stack of newspapers beside him—

These were just sent from Europe via the fastest postal service, and their local release time is only a few days apart.

He first flipped through the British newspaper The Times, glanced at a few political comments, frowned, and put it aside.

I picked up The Spectator again and read a few articles about the debates on religion and society, but I didn't really get into them.

He's been preoccupied lately, constantly thinking about his own affairs. He just finished writing his "Confessions," and the questioning of the meaning of life in his heart hasn't subsided yet.

He felt like a lost person, desperately needing to find his way.

Then he picked up the French newspaper Le Figaro.

He read this newspaper often, especially the literature section, since the French literary scene was always bustling with new ideas and new writers emerging one after another.

The "Lionel Sorel" that came out in the last two years is quite interesting.

Although he was often critical of the extravagance of French literature, he had to admit that it was at the forefront of European thought, and he needed to know what was happening there.

He opened the supplement section, his gaze sweeping over the familiar names and headlines, when suddenly his eyes stopped.

There was an unfamiliar name on the page—"Anton Pavlovich Chekhov".

The name is associated with a short story titled "The Death of a Junior Civil Servant".

This is definitely a Russian name, no doubt about it.

How could a novel by a Russian author he'd never even heard of appear in Le Figaro, especially in the front-page literary supplement?

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the translator's name was Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev.

Tolstoy raised his eyebrows, knowing that Turgenev was in poor health and had even been unable to return to Russia last year.

How could he have the leisure to become a translator for an unknown Russian writer? And even recommend him to Le Figaro?

Tolstoy's curiosity was piqued. He put down his teacup, leaned forward, and began to read "The Death of a Government Clerk."

The story is short; it tells of a clerk named Chervyakov who, while watching a play at the theater, accidentally spit on a general in the row in front of him.

He was terrified, fearing he had offended a powerful figure, so he apologized repeatedly.

The general didn't pay attention at first, but later got annoyed by the endless apologies and scolded him.

As a result, the junior civil servant became increasingly frightened after returning home and died in extreme fear and anxiety.

Tolstoy read very quickly, and after finishing, he flipped back to carefully examine several paragraphs.

His face remained expressionless, but a thought stirred within him.

This short story is quite interesting; it's short but powerful.

The author used an exaggerated, even absurd, approach to portray a trivial matter as an overwhelming weight that could crush a person.

The fear of power, the dread of hierarchy, and the humility and trembling of the little people are portrayed vividly.

Tolstoy himself wrote about serfs, nobles, commoners, generals, soldiers, widows...

But he rarely used such concentrated words to pierce through such a humble soul, revealing every corner of it to the reader.

Moreover, the novel is written in a very calm tone, without any excessive sympathy or sentimental exclamations.

It calmly lays bare the process of a pathetic person's breakdown for you to see, even with a touch of humor.

You laugh at his absurdity, at his overreaction, but as you laugh, a chill creeps down your spine.

Tolstoy put down his newspaper, leaned back in his chair, and gazed at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

He thought of his recently written "Confessions" and the "meaning of life" he had been searching for.

Compared to this novel, my questions are certainly much grander, but this novel is as small as a needle, pricking people painfully!
It doesn't discuss God, it doesn't discuss eternity; it only discusses a fear, a fear that is ubiquitous in Russia, a fear powerful enough to warp the soul.

He had to admit that the author of this novel did not seem like a novice at all, but rather resembled the French writer Lionel Sorel, especially in "The Old Guard".

Moreover, Turgenev's willingness to translate it speaks volumes. Tolstoy knew how discerning Turgenev was. Tolstoy then picked up the newspaper again and looked at Le Figaro's introduction of this "Anton Pavlovich Chekhov."

The biography is very short, only stating that he is a young Russian writer currently studying at the Medical School of Moscow State University.

A medical student? Tolstoy was even more surprised. Could a young man studying medicine write something like this?
What surprised him even more was the announcement next to the newspaper: the literary supplement of Le Figaro would be publishing a series of short stories by Anton Chekhov over the next week.

A week? A whole week? Tolstoy knew the weight of Le Figaro in France, and even in all of Europe.

To dedicate an entire week's worth of precious space to promoting an unknown Russian author? This is simply unheard of! Has the editor-in-chief of Le Figaro gone mad?
Tolstoy's first thought was that Turgenev was pulling strings behind the scenes, something he loved to do—but he soon realized how ridiculous that thought was.

Turgenev was indeed very famous in France, but a Russian writer could not possibly have had such a profound influence on Le Figaro.

Tolstoy called his butler over and pointed to the name in the newspaper: "Go and find out about this 'Anton Pavlovich Chekhov'."

Find out who he is, where he lives in Moscow, and what kind of person he is. As soon as possible!

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The same newspapers are now in the hands of high society members in Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Reading French newspapers was a common habit among them, and most of them even learned Russian after learning French.

Thus, the same shock was quietly unfolding in different living rooms, studies, and clubs.

A luxury apartment building on Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg.

Prince Vladimir Petrovich Messersky put down his copy of Le Figaro, his plump face filled with disbelief.

He was a well-known conservative critic and a staunch supporter of the Tsarist regime. He had always disliked literature that criticized reality, considering it too "Westernized."

He muttered, "Absurd! Vulgar!" but couldn't help but watch the passage from "The Death of a Government Clerk" again.

He had to admit that the story was incredibly vicious! The lowly civil servant's disgraceful behavior was a blasphemy against the imperial bureaucracy!

How could a Russian write something like this, and then have it so widely publicized by the French?
Prince Messersky spat out the name with bitterness: "Turgenev!"

It's that old liberal again! Hiding in France, he still doesn't forget to send these "spiritual poisons" back home!
He had to write an article to expose the harmfulness of this kind of literature and to warn kind-hearted readers to be wary of this sugar-coated bullet from France!
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A literary club near Tverskaya Street in Moscow.

Several young intellectuals who often gathered here to discuss literature and current affairs were passionately debating a copy of Le Figaro.

Most of them come from elite families, and some even have aristocratic titles, but they all feel suffocated by living under constant surveillance.

A young man wearing glasses waved a newspaper: "See that? Le Figaro, for a whole week! What does that mean?"
This means that Europe has recognized the new voice of Russian literature!

Another bearded man remarked, "Chervyakov is the shadow of each and every one of us!"
In the face of power, aren't we just like a trembling insect?

The third person added with admiration, "The key is that it was translated by Mr. Turgenev! Even Mr. Turgenev appreciated him, so he must be a genius!"

Someone suggested, "Let's find out, isn't he from Moscow State University? Maybe we can get to know him and invite him over for a talk!"

Everyone echoed their sentiments; this Chekhov who had suddenly appeared was like a ray of light, illuminating their dull daily lives.

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In a luxurious mansion near the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, the living room is filled with furs, silks, and velvet.

Nadezhda Filaretovna von Meck, a wealthy widow known for her patronage of Tchaikovsky, is reclining comfortably in a chaise longue.

Her health wasn't very good, but she still insisted on reading every day, especially foreign newspapers.

Madame von Meck also saw the name and the novel. She read it slowly and carefully. After finishing, she remained silent for a long time.

She wasn't a literary critic, but she had an excellent eye for art. This short story moved her, not with emotion, but with its truthfulness.

She thought of the junior employee in the business world who would tremble with fear whenever he saw her;
It also reminded me of those in social situations who become obsequious and subservient when standing in front of the powerful and influential.

She murmured the name: "Anton Chekhov...and a medical student...no wonder..."

She noticed that the translator was Turgenev, which increased her interest. Turgenev was a true literary master, and his taste was beyond question.

The fact that his work was published for a week in a row means that Le Figaro has high hopes for this young man, and he may really be about to become famous.

She sponsored artists, making Tchaikovsky her pride—so why not sponsor a promising young writer as well?
In the end, it's just a matter of spending a few tens of thousands of rubles to keep those snobbish booksellers from giving him trouble.

She quickly summoned her head maid and asked her to inquire about Chekhov's situation and see if he needed any help.

It's not easy for a talented young man, especially in Russia, to persist in writing!
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Overnight, the name "Anton Pavlovich Chekhov" was firmly remembered by many "big shots" in Moscow and St. Petersburg.

What they didn't know was that in Paris, the name "Anton Pavlovich Chekhov" had already swept through the literary world, becoming a storm!
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(End of this chapter)