Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 485 Yes, Your Majesty!

Vladimir Ivanovich Serebryakov sat behind a large desk, holding two documents in his hands, his brow furrowed.

One of them was a telegram sent this morning from Paris, a personal invitation from Henri Patan, Dean of the Faculty of Arts at the Sorbonne.

This great French university invited Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, a medical student from Moscow State University, to participate in this year's "Poetry Festival" at the Sorbonne.

The other document was a notice sent by the Ministry of Internal Affairs a month earlier, informing the school that the student was about to be exiled to Siberia and requesting that the school expel him.

The sky outside the window was overcast; there wasn't much sunshine in Moscow in February. The firewood in the fireplace was burning brightly, but Serebryakov still felt cold.

He is 58 years old and has been in this position for six years; in those six years, he has seen too many students arrested and exiled.

Some were genuine revolutionaries, while others had simply read books they shouldn't have read and said things they shouldn't have said.

He had never heard of Chekhov before.

A medical student, average grades, doesn't cause trouble, and occasionally publishes humorous vignettes in the school magazine—that's what his file says.

How did such a student get involved in a political case?
Serebryakov picked up the telegram and read it again.

Henry Patan's words were formal yet enthusiastic; he said Chekhov's works had caused a "huge sensation" in France.

The Sorbonne University hopes to invite this "rising star of Russian literature" to Paris for an exchange program, covering all expenses and awarding him the title of "honorary student".

Honors student... Sorbonne University... these words swirled in his mind.

It is an honor for the university and for the rector of Moscow State University to be invited by one of the oldest universities in Europe.

Under normal circumstances, he would immediately copy the telegram to the Office of the Inspector General of Education and also have the school magazine write an article to publicize it.

But this is not a normal time!
Serebryakov put down the telegram and picked up the notification from the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

The notice was brief, lacking details and evidence, stating only that "according to the Okrana investigation, the student participated in illegal organizational activities and committed the crime of inciting subversion."

He knew those people in the Ministry of the Interior, and he knew what the "Okrana Investigation" meant—sometimes it was real, and sometimes it was just a matter of grabbing someone to make up the numbers.

Which type is Chekhov?
Serebryakov didn't know, nor did he need to know—the Ministry of Internal Affairs' notification was the final decision, and the university had no choice but to comply.

But now we have this Sorbonne telegram.

What would the French think if he replied to the Sorbonne University saying that Chekhov "could not go for some reason"?
They'll keep asking why, and once they start asking, the news will spread.

A young writer who had just finished serializing his novel in Le Figaro for a week and was praised by Zola and Turgenev suddenly found himself unable to travel abroad.

Even a fool would know there's something wrong with this!
What will the Parisian newspapers say then? What will Le Figaro say? What will the French writers say?
"The Russian Empire couldn't even tolerate a single university student."

"The Tsar was afraid of the pen."

"Siberia has gained another literary ghost."

Serebryakov could imagine those headlines; he wasn't a politician, but he knew the power of public opinion, especially in Europe, in France.

His Majesty Alexander III had been on the throne for less than a year and had not even been formally crowned, making this a very sensitive time.

His father was assassinated last year, and the new Tsar is extremely wary of any “destabilizing factors.”

At a time like this, if a scandal involving the persecution of young writers in Russia were to break out...

Sweating began to appear on Serebryakov's forehead. He had to consult his superiors; this was a decision he couldn't make alone.

He spread out the letter paper and began to write a report to Count Dmitri Tolstoy, the Inspector General of Education.

He copied down the contents of the Sorbonne's telegram, briefly explained Chekhov's situation, and concluded by writing:
[Given the student's current special circumstances and the potential international repercussions of this matter, we respectfully request His Excellency the Governor-General's instructions on how to respond to the Sorbonne University's invitation.]

After finishing writing, he summoned his secretary: "Send it to St. Petersburg immediately, to be received by Count Tolstoy personally."

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The Shcherbatov Prince's Palace, on the banks of the Moika River, St. Petersburg.

Prince Vladimir Sergeyevich Shcherbatov sat in his study, holding a newly arrived letter.

The letter was sent from Paris by his daughter, but it was undoubtedly instructed by his wife, Baroness Alexievna.

The letter was long, a full four pages, and the Duke read it very carefully.

After reading it, he put the letter down and remained silent for a long time.

It was evening in St. Petersburg outside the window; the sky darkened quickly, and the Winter Palace on the opposite bank of the river was already lit up.

The lights appeared hazy in the cold mist, like distant stars.

Prince Sherbatov is 62 years old and has Rurik dynasty blood.

He lived through the era of Nicholas I, experienced the reforms of Alexander II, and now faces the conservative resurgence of Alexander III.

He knew that times were changing, or rather, that times were moving backward.

He had actually had a premonition about what his wife was talking about in the letter.

He was not the first nobleman to transfer his assets abroad, nor would he be the last.

Russia is becoming suffocated, both for ordinary people and for nobles.

The new Tsar disliked Westernization, liberalism, and anything that might undermine his autocracy.

Old noble families like the Shcherbatov family had to maintain their status in the country while also having a way out for themselves.

Now, his wife had presented him with a dilemma: save a university student, a medical student arrested for writing satirical sketches. Prince Shcherbatov rubbed his temples. His wife's letter had made it clear that saving this young man was in exchange for a promise from Lionel Sorel.

The Duke knew Sorel, and all of Europe knew him; that French writer had become incredibly popular in recent years, and everything he wrote became a hit.

More importantly, Sorel was not only a writer, but also a businessman with close ties to the Rothschild family.

Such a person's promise is certainly valuable; but no matter how valuable it is, you still need to be alive to enjoy it.

Saving a political prisoner, even a "potential political prisoner," is risky, especially at a time like now.

The Duke stood up and walked to the window, where the lights of the Winter Palace flickered in the mist.

He had to come up with a plan—he couldn't just plead for leniency directly, that would be too stupid! Those people in the Ministry of Internal Affairs have very keen senses; they can tell you have an ulterior motive just by smelling it.

We need to take a roundabout approach, to make this seem less like "saving people" and more like "maintaining the face of the empire."

The Duke returned to his desk, sat down, took out a piece of paper, and began writing a list.

The names written on the paper were not those of high-ranking ministers, but rather the Tsar's close advisors, his attendants, his stewards, and his brothers.

These people have more influence than ministers because they are not involved in political affairs, but only in "family matters."

The Duke thought for a moment, then wrote down two names on the paper:

Pyotr Alexandrovich Cherevin, he was the chief aide-de-camp to the Tsar.
Vladimir Fedorovich Messersky, editor of the conservative newspaper Citizen, was also a close friend of the Tsar.

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Two days later, in St. Petersburg, at the Winter Palace.

Alexander III sat in his study, surrounded by a thick stack of documents, looking somewhat weary.

He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a thick beard.

He ascended the throne only six months after his father, Alexander II, was assassinated.

In the past six months, he has done a lot: he withdrew his father’s reform bill, strengthened censorship of books and newspapers, and expanded the powers of the secret police.

He wanted to get Russia back on the "right track," back to the right track of Tsarist autocracy, Orthodox Christianity, and the Slavic people.

There was a knock on the door, and the Chief of Staff of the Imperial Guard, Cherevin, pushed it open, holding a folder in his hand: "Your Majesty, this is today's briefing."

Alexander III nodded: "Put it there."

Cherevin placed the folder on the table but did not leave immediately.

Alexander III looked up: "Is there anything else?"

Cherevin said, "There's a small matter, Your Majesty. You might be interested."

"explain."

“Recently, a young Russian writer has become very popular in Paris. His novel was serialized in Le Figaro for a week, and the French are all talking about him.”

Alexander III frowned: "A Russian writer? In a French newspaper?"

"Yes. His name is Anton Chekhov, a medical student at Moscow State University. He said he wrote about the lives of ordinary Russians, which is quite interesting."

Alexander III's interest was piqued: "Write about Russia? The French like that?"

"I like him very much. Zola, Turgenev, and even that popular French writer Sorel all wrote articles praising him."

The Sorbonne University also sent an invitation, wanting him to attend some kind of 'poetry festival' in Paris.

Alexander III fell into deep thought.

The popularity of Russian writers in France is certainly a good thing. It proves the influence of Russian culture.

But a medical student, writing novels?

Alexander III asked tactfully, "Is there... a problem with what he wrote?"

Cherevin understood the Tsar's meaning: "I've read a few, and they're all about trivial matters."

A civil servant sneezed and the sneezes landed on a general, scaring himself to death. A train station manager was caught having an affair.

These are all ordinary stories from everyday life, not related to politics.

The Tsar repeated, "Not involving politics?"

"At least not on the surface. It's just some humor and satire, a bit like Gogol, even milder than him."

Alexander III relaxed a little.

He had certainly read Gogol; although Gogol satirized bureaucrats, he was, after all, a "master of Russia." If Chekhov was truly like that, it wouldn't be a bad thing.

What did Moscow State University say?

"I'm not entirely sure. But since the Sorbonne has extended an invitation, the school should take it seriously."

Alexander III nodded: "Keep an eye on this. If this young man is really just writing novels and nothing else, then we can encourage him."

Cherevin bowed and withdrew from the study: "Yes, Your Majesty!"

(First update complete, thank you everyone)

(End of this chapter)