Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 487 "Chameleon" (Part 2)! (20 bonus chapters for 1000 votes in October, all bonus chapters complete!)
This time, when Afanasy brought breakfast, he also handed over an oil paper package and a tin bowl.

The oil paper package still contained white bread, and the tin bowl still held borscht and salted meat. The other inmates were still staring at him.

"Chekhov, finish eating and tidy up."

An hour later, the cell door opened, and Afanasy stood in the doorway.

"come out!"

Chekhov was taken to the solitary confinement cell block again.

But this time it wasn't the same room as last time. This room was bigger, with a real desk, a more decent chair, and even two pencils and some sheets of paper on the desk.

The bedding on the bed was thicker, and the plush on the blankets was denser.

Afanasy said, "You'll stay here. Just tell me if you need anything."

His tone changed again, becoming more respectful.

Chekhov asked, "Why this time?"

Afanasy shrugged: "Orders from above. Oh, right—"

He took a small paper packet out of his pocket and placed it on the table. "Tea leaves. You can make tea with them. I'll bring you hot water in a bit."

After Afanasy left, Chekhov stared at the small paper package for a long time.

Then, he looked at the manuscript paper and pencil on the table, sat down, picked up the pencil and wanted to write something right away, but his mind was full of thoughts and he didn't know what to write.

The dinner delivered by Afanasy in the evening was even more lavish: the borscht had more meat, the bread was fresh and soft, and there was a small dish of boiled beans.

As Afanasy put down the tray, he even smiled and said, "Eat up, great writer."

A great writer? Not a fool anymore?
Chekhov ate slowly. The food was good, but he couldn't taste it because he had only one thought in his mind: What was he being asked to do this time?
The answer came the next day.

It was the same interrogation room, and Major Smirnov was there again. But this time, the major looked worse, and he appeared tired, with dark circles under his eyes.

He pointed to the chair: "Sit."

Chekhov sat down.

Major Smirnov looked at him for a long time, then sighed.

Having had previous experiences dealing with him, Chekhov believed that the sigh was genuine and not feigned.

“Anton Pavlovich, let’s be direct. You don’t want to work for us, fine, I understand.”

Some people just have principles, even if those principles might kill them.

Major Smirnov took a piece of paper from his drawer and pushed it in front of Chekhov.

The paper was blank, with the Ministry of Internal Affairs' emblem printed at the top.

"Write a letter of repentance. It doesn't need to be too long. Just write that you have realized your mistakes, that you were misled by reactionary ideas, and that you are now deeply reflecting on your actions."

Then, he pledged to abide by the law and remain loyal to His Majesty the Tsar. He signed his name and dated the event.

He took out a pen and placed it on the paper: "Write this down, and your case can be reconsidered."

Perhaps you won't have to go to Siberia, perhaps you'll just be placed under house arrest in the suburbs of Moscow, and you can continue your medical studies and graduate.

Chekhov stared at the blank sheet of paper, its whiteness almost blinding.

He asked again, "What if I refuse?"

Major Smirnov's face twitched.

He suddenly stood up, his hands on the table, his expression contorted: "What exactly do you want? Huh? What are you insisting on?"
A letter of repentance! Just a few words! Write it and you live! Don't write it and you die! Is that such a difficult choice?

His roar echoed in the interrogation room, making Chekhov's eardrums ache.

But Chekhov looked up at him, his tone still calm: "I am innocent, why should I repent?"

Major Smirnov glared at him, his eyes practically spitting fire.

After a long while, he suddenly laughed, a sharp laugh: "Good! Good! Good! You have a lot of courage, Anton Pavlovich, you really have backbone."

He rang the bell, and the guard came in: "Take him back to his original cell!"

He then looked at Chekhov and said, word by word, "Enjoy your last few days. Once the train has enough passengers, you can set off."

Siberia is vast and cold; you'll die there, and no one will remember you. Your courage will rot with you in the permafrost.

Chekhov was taken back to the regular prison ward, where he was once again received by Afanasy.

This time, Afanasy's face was even uglier; as he shoved Chekhov into the cell, he practically roared:

"Get in! You fool! Who do you think you are? Huh? A great writer? Bah! You're just a prisoner waiting to die!"

The door slammed shut, and the cell fell silent again.

Sergei moved closer and asked in a low voice, "What's wrong?"

Chekhov shook his head and didn't say anything. He sat down in his corner, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

For the next two days, it was black bread, watery soup, and Afanasy's insults again.

"idiot!"

"idiot!"

"Deserve it!"

Chekhov listened, ate, lived, and thought about Major Smirnov's words: Siberia is vast and cold; you will die there.

He wasn't afraid of dying, but he was afraid of dying in a meaningless way.

He was afraid that Martha would cry, that his mother would fall ill, and that his father would completely break down.

He feared that the stories he hadn't yet written would never have the chance to be written.

On the morning of the third day, things changed again, and this time the changes were even bigger!

When Afanasy arrived, his tone had completely changed; he was not only respectful but even somewhat obsequious: "Mr. Chekhov, please come with me."

They went up two flights of stairs to another area of ​​the prison, where the corridors were boarded up and the walls were whitewashed, making it look much cleaner.

Afanasy opened a door: "From today onwards, you will live here."

Chekhov went in and was stunned—it didn't look like a prison cell; it was more like a small room in a nice hotel.

There's a real bed here, wide enough to turn over in, with a mattress and clean sheets.

There was also a desk, a chair, and even a small bookshelf with Bibles and other religious works on it.

There was a fireplace in the corner, with firewood burning inside, and warmth wafted in. The window was larger, and although it still had iron bars, you could see outside without having to stand on tiptoe.

Afanasy smiled and said, "Please rest first. I will bring your lunch over at lunchtime."

He left, closing the door gently, almost without making a sound.

Chekhov stood in the center of the room, the firelight from the fireplace dancing on his face, warm as springtime—a feeling he had almost forgotten.

In terms of living conditions alone, this room is better than any other room in his house!

At noon, Afanasy arrived carrying a tray covered with a white cloth.

The tray didn't contain borscht, but stew—real stew, with large chunks of beef, carrots, and potatoes, soaking in a thick gravy.

Next to it was a basket of steaming white bread; a small dish of pickled cucumbers and a cup of tea.

Afanasy's smile was warmer than the fireplace: "Enjoy your meal. Call me anytime if you need anything." Then he silently withdrew, like the best waiter in a fine restaurant.

Chekhov stared at the plate of stew for a long time before finally picking up a spoon and taking a bite.

The meat was stewed until very tender, melting in your mouth; the gravy was rich and perfectly seasoned; the bread was also very soft and had a wheaty aroma.

He ate slowly, one bite after another. Halfway through his meal, tears suddenly streamed down his face, dripping into his plate. He wiped his eyes and continued eating.

In the afternoon, Afanasy came again, bringing a clean set of prison clothes: "Please change into this. Give me your dirty clothes, I'll take them to wash."

Chekhov changed his clothes, and Afanasy took away the dirty clothes and asked, "Do you need any books? I can find you a few."

Chekhov thought for a moment, then shook his head: "No need."

Afanasy nodded, said nothing more, and left.

Chekhov paced around the room, which was about ten paces long and six paces wide. The fireplace was burning brightly, and the room was as warm as springtime. There was also a pile of chopped firewood nearby.

He walked to the window and looked out. He was no longer in the inner courtyard of the prison, but could see the outer walls of the prison and the streets outside the walls, and occasionally saw horse-drawn carriages passing by.

This was the first time in months that he had seen the world outside the prison.

As darkness fell, Afanasy Ilyich Kornilov brought dinner, which was more lavish than any meal before:
Fried fish, mashed potatoes, vegetable salad, black bread, and a glass of kvass.

Afanasy's face was plastered with a fawning smile, almost squeezing all his wrinkles together.

He said in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Mr. Anton Pavlovich, are you settling in well? Is the fireplace warm? Is the food to your liking?"
If you have any complaints, please let me know!

Chekhov looked at him without saying a word.

Afanasy didn't seem embarrassed at all and continued to say to himself, "You see, before... sigh, it was all a misunderstanding. I was just following orders and had no choice in the matter!"

"You're so magnanimous, please don't hold it against me! Who are you? A great writer! A man with a bright future! Old Afanasy is just a lowly insect..."

He kept spouting flattery, which made Chekhov feel nauseous.

The person who had called him a "fool" and a "cheapskate" just a few days ago was now like a dog desperately wagging its tail and begging for mercy.

Afanasy finally finished talking and repeatedly assured that he would "take good care of her" before bowing and scraping as he left.

Chekhov did not eat immediately, but continued to sit in the chair by the fireplace, watching the flames dance and feeling the warmth enveloping him.

He should have been very comfortable, but now he only felt uneasy. This treatment was too good, too unreal, too frightening!
This capricious "preferential treatment" is more terrifying than simple abuse.

It's like a soft net that quietly tightens when you let your guard down; or like an absurd drama where you're forced to play a role you can't understand the script.

What do they want him to do this time?
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On the morning of the fourth day, Major Smirnov came again.

This time, instead of the interrogation room, Major Smirnov came directly to his room, even dressed in civilian clothes.

He looked even more exhausted, with bloodshot eyes: "Sit down, Anton Pavlovich."

Chekhov sat down in the chair. Major Smirnov sat opposite him, took off his hat, and placed it on the table.

He rubbed his face and let out a long breath: "Let's get straight to the point. This is the last chance. I'm not going to beat around the bush with you!"

He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table: "Take a look."

Chekhov picked up the paper, which had a large title on it: "The Guarantee".

The content has already been typed; it's only three lines long and very simple:
[I, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, hereby pledge that during my visit to Paris I will not publish any statements or works that would damage the honor of the Russian Empire or His Majesty the Tsar, will not participate in any anti-Russian political activities, will abide by local laws, and will uphold the reputation of my motherland.]

Below are the signature and date fields.

Chekhov read it over and over again, twice, and still couldn't believe it.

He looked up, his voice filled with astonishment: "Paris? A visit? Me?"

(Third update complete, thank you everyone! There were 2 monthly votes for October, which would have been enough for 20 bonus chapters. All bonus chapters have been completed today!)

(End of this chapter)