Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 486 "The Chameleon"! (Part 1)

One morning in mid-February, the familiar sound of chains dragging echoed through the corridors of Butirka Prison.

That was prison guard Afanasy Ilyich Kornilov pushing the food cart.

Every morning at six o'clock, he would distribute food to each cell—if those things could even be called "food".

Afanasy was a short, stocky middle-aged man with a red nose, a face full of fat, and his uniform was always greasy, with buttons that were never fastened properly.

He enjoyed the job, especially watching those once arrogant guys—college students, aristocrats, intellectuals—

The image of him reaching out from behind the iron bars to ask for that piece of black bread.

"Dinner's ready, you pigs!"

His voice was so loud that it made the corridor buzz, and then rustling sounds came from the cells.

Anton Chekhov sat up from his wooden plank bed, but did not rush to the door to beg for food.

He had been in this crammed cell with more than thirty people for over a month and had learned not to expect anything.

He heard Afanasy stop at the door of the cell next door.

"Give me your hand! Hurry up! What are you dawdling for?"

Then came the sound of a hand slapping against the iron bars, and a prisoner's muffled groan of pain.

Afanasy is always like this, finding all sorts of reasons to hit or intimidate people.

Chekhov had a special nickname for him—"the bookworm".

Every time Chekhov reached for food, Afanasy would lean close to the iron bars, his face, reeking of alcohol, almost touching his:

"Now, you bookworm! Eat your fill so you can write your revolutionary slogans!"

Sometimes it's, "Here we go, you nerd! Medical school students should eat this!"

Chekhov never talked back. He knew that talking back would only get him worse treatment—less bread, or soup deliberately spilled on his hands.

Here, the jailer is the Tsar!

"Chekhov!"

It was finally his turn.

Chekhov went behind the railing, stretched out his hand, waiting for the word "bookworm," waiting for the mockery, waiting for Afanasy to deliberately hand out the food slowly.

But not today, and Afanasy's voice sounded a bit strange, not as fierce as before.

He took a paper package from the food cart and slipped it through the window; then he handed in a tin bowl filled with something steaming hot.

"Take it!"

Chekhov was stunned. The oil paper wrapping was soft, not hard bread, and the contents of the bowl smelled of meat.

Afanasy urged, "Hurry up!" but there was no malice in his tone.

Chekhov took the things, closed the small window, and the footsteps continued to the next cell.

Chekhov sat on his bunk, opened the oil paper package, and inside was white bread—real white bread! Soft and still slightly warm from being freshly baked.

He looked again at the tin bowl—borscht, a thick borscht with large chunks of potatoes and carrots, and a few slices of bacon floating on the surface.

The sound of swallowing could be heard around him, and his fellow inmates stared at the food in his hand with wolf-like eyes.

The college student named Sergei leaned closer, his eyes wide behind his glasses: "White bread? And meat?"

Chekhov nodded, hardly believing it himself. He tried tearing off a piece of bread, soaking it in the soup, and then putting it in his mouth.

The taste was so delicious that his eyes welled up with tears! It was the first time in over a month that he had eaten something decent!

Chekhov spent the entire morning wondering what was going on.

A mistake? Impossible. Afanasy called his name, which means it was specifically for him. Then why?
In the afternoon, the answer came—

When the cell door opened, everyone flinched. This usually meant one of three things: interrogation, transfer to another cell, or someone was about to die and being dragged out.

Afanasy stood at the door: "Chekhov, come out."

Chekhov stood up, and his fellow prisoners looked at him with complex expressions—envy, worry, and mostly bewilderment.

Here, any change could be a bad thing.

Chekhov walked out of the cell, Afanasy locked the door, and then tilted his head at him: "Come with me."

As they walked down the prison corridor, Chekhov noticed that Afanasy was walking slowly today and did not scold him.

They went up the stairs and turned into another corridor. Afanasy stopped in front of a door, unlocked it, and said, "Go in."

This is a small single cell, only about five steps long and three steps wide, with a bed, a small wooden table, and a chair.

There were proper bedding on the bed, and even a blanket; the cell windows were no longer high up, and the glass was clean.

"You'll stay here from now on. I'll come over for dinner." Then the door was locked.

Chekhov stood in the middle of the cell, lost in thought for a long time, then walked to the window, stood on tiptoe and looked out—there was the prison's inner courtyard, covered in snow.

Several prisoners were shoveling snow, while the guards stood beside them, their breath billowing out white puffs of air.

Afanasy came again that evening.

This time, the tray he carried contained a bowl of borscht, a piece of white bread, and a slice of fried bacon: "Eat up."

Chekhov looked at him: "Why?"

Afanasy shrugged: "Orders from above. How would I know?"

He paused, then softened his tone, "Eat your food, young man."

Young man? Not a bookworm?
After Afanasy left, Chekhov sat down and slowly finished his meal.

The food was still warm. After he finished eating, he put the dishes by the door and lay down on the bed.

The solitary cell was quiet; there was no sound of breathing, coughing, or mumbling from the thirty other people. He could even hear his own heartbeat.

The next morning, Afanasy brought breakfast again—a large bowl of oatmeal with a small piece of butter. After Chekhov finished eating, he paced around his cell, his thoughts constantly drifting back to that question: Why?
In the afternoon, the answer came.

The cell door opened, and this time it wasn't Afanasy, but two uniformed guards.

"Chekhov, bring him in for questioning."

Chekhov followed them. They went down the same corridor, down the stairs, and into the interrogation area. They stopped in front of a door, and a guard knocked.

"Come in."

It was Major Smirnov's voice.

Chekhov went in, and Major Grigory Ivanovich Smirnov was sitting behind a table, looking exactly the same as when they last met.

A thin face, light-colored eyes, and a crisp uniform. But today his expression was different. Not so cold.

"Sit down, Anton Pavlovich."

Chekhov sat down in the chair, his handcuffs removed, leaving only a red mark around his wrist.

Major Smirnov looked at him for a long time before finally speaking: "How are you doing here?"

Chekhov didn't say anything.

"Are you settling into your single cell? Is the food alright?"

Chekhov asked, "Why?"

Major Smirnov smiled, a faint smile: "You're a smart man, Anton. I've always said that. A smart man knows how to seize an opportunity."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table: "You still have a chance regarding what we discussed last time. So, have you thought it through in the meantime?"

Chekhov knew what he was going to say.

“Work for me, Anton. You go back to Moscow State University, continue your studies, and continue writing your little stories. You just need to tell me things occasionally—”

Which students are organizing parties, which professors are saying inappropriate things in class, and who is reading banned books. It's very simple!

Also, don't try to pull any tricks like you did last time!

Major Smirnov paused. "In return, your case will be dropped. You won't go to Siberia; you'll graduate and get your medical license."

You can even continue writing, publishing, and becoming famous. We will provide you with assistance.

Chekhov looked at him, and Major Smirnov's eyes were calm, as if he were discussing a business deal.

Chekhov asked, "What if I refuse?"

Major Smirnov's smile vanished: "Then you'll go back to that cell of thirty men, and once you've gathered enough people, you'll take the train to Siberia."

Eight years of hard labor, then you'll live in the countryside there for the rest of your life, Anton. Do you know what Siberia is like?

Chekhov certainly knew, as every Russian of this era knew, but he remained silent.

Major Smirnov's voice grew impatient: "Why are you so stubborn? This isn't asking you to kill or commit arson. It's just saying a few words, a few names."

It's easy for you. And it's good for your family too—your father, your mother, your sister.

They'll be proud of you, not waiting for your death in a Moscow slum!

Chekhov thought of Masha, of her intelligent and stubborn eyes, and of how she would look at him if she knew he had become an informant.

More than a month later, his answer remained unchanged: "No!"

Major Smirnov stared at him: "What?"

Chekhov's voice was soft, but firm: "I said no, I won't do it!"

The interrogation room was silent for a few seconds, then Major Smirnov slowly leaned back in his chair.

His face was expressionless, but his eyes turned cold: "Fine, very well!"

He pressed the bell on the table, the door opened, and the two guards stood in the doorway.

Major Smirnov said, "Take him back to his original cell."

As Chekhov was being dragged toward the door by the guards, he heard Major Smirnov say one last thing: "You'll regret this, Anton Pavlovich."

In the icy wilderness of Siberia, you'll regret your decision again and again.

The door is closed.

Chekhov was taken back to that familiar corridor, back to that cell with thirty men.

When Afanasy opened the door, his expression returned to its old one—full of impatience and contempt.

"Get inside, you bookworm!"

The people in the cell watched him return, but no one said a word.

Sergei shifted his position to make room for Chekhov, who then sat down against the cold brick wall.

The next day, his food became black bread and thin soup again.

Afanasy's voice was once again filled with sarcasm: "Eat up, you fool. Tired of white bread? Come back and try this!"

Chekhov broke open a loaf of black bread and soaked it in the soup. The bread was hard, and the soup was warm and tasteless. He ate it slowly, his mind blank.

Two days passed, and everything returned to normal—crowded, dirty, hungry, and cold.

Afanasy would always scold him whenever he came:
"bookworm!"

"You ungrateful wretch!"

"Serves him right for going to Siberia!"

But on the morning of the third day, things changed again.

(One more chapter to go, please vote with your monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)