Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 488 A Desperate Family!

Sadovaya-Kudlinskaya Street, Moscow.

The February wind was like a knife, sweeping across the narrow streets and swirling up snow and trash.

The apartment Chekhov's family rented was on the third floor, and the windows were so dirty that they were almost completely dark.

But the inside wasn't much better than the outside; the fireplace was cold, the firewood had long since burned out, and the air was thick with the smells of mildew, tobacco, and the sour odor of dirty clothes.

Pavel Yegorovich Chekhov sat at the table, his hands clasped behind his head.

His hair was a mess, his beard hadn't been shaved for days, his eyes were red and swollen, and he stared blankly at the greasy tabletop.

The table was empty except for a few shriveled bread crusts and a cracked earthenware pot.

Since losing the monthly royalties from their son Anton Chekhov, which ranged from twenty to thirty rubles to forty or fifty rubles, the family has become increasingly destitute.

He suddenly looked up: "Where's the money? Yevgenia, where did the money go?"

Yevgenia Yakovlevna stood in the kitchen doorway, wiped her hands on her apron, and whispered, "What money?"

Over the past month, she has lost a lot of weight; her cheeks are sunken and her eyes have dark circles.

Pavel slammed his hand on the table: "Your jewelry! Gold earrings, silver brooches! I saw them all! You hid them at the bottom of the trunk! Where are they now?"

Yevgenia's shoulders slumped, and she opened her mouth but couldn't say a word.

Pavel stood up, waving his hands: "Say something! We don't have a single penny left! We can't even afford bread!"

"Where's your jewelry? Did Martha take it? Huh?"

Yevgenia's voice trembled: "Masha...she had no choice..."

Pavel roared, "No other way? You steal from home because you have no other options? That's the last bit of value you have! Do you know that? Do you know that?!"

His finger almost poked Yevgenia's face, and Yevgenia took a step back, her back pressed against the door frame.

Tears welled up in her eyes: "What can she do? Anton has been arrested! He's in prison! He might be sent to Siberia!"

Martha just wanted to save him! She's a good girl! She…

Pavel interrupted her: "Good boy? Would a good boy steal something and run away without even leaving a word?"

Do you know where she went? Huh? Do you know if she's alive or dead?

Yevgenia stopped talking and just cried. Tears streamed down her wrinkled face and dripped onto her apron.

A snicker came from the corner. The eldest son, Alexander Pavlovich Chekhov, leaned against the wall, took a sip from his flat flask, and wiped his mouth.

He said lazily, "What's all the fuss about? The jewelry is gone, so be it. It won't fetch much money anyway."

Pavel turned to him, his eyes wide: "Shut up! All you do is drink! Have you ever cared about anything at home? Huh?"
Your brother's in jail! Your sister's missing! And you? What can you do besides downing vodka?

Alexander shrugged. "What can I do? I'm a piece of trash. Don't you all know that?"

He raised the flask to his lips again, but Pavel rushed over, snatched the flask, and smashed it to the ground.

The earthenware pot broke, and the little wine left inside spilled all over the floor, instantly filling the room with the sour smell of alcohol.

Alexander stood up, his face flushed: "Are you crazy?"

Pavel roared back, "I'm insane! I'm insane! This family is finished! Completely finished!"

The two men stood facing each other, panting heavily. Yevgenia wanted to pull them away, but she didn't dare.

In the corner, two even smaller boys—Ivan and Mikhail—huddled together, too afraid to make a sound.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door—or rather, a banging, loud, urgent "bang bang bang."

Everyone froze, except for Pavel, who took a deep breath and went to open the door.

But the door was only opened a crack when it was violently pushed open, and the person who squeezed in was the landlord, Fyodor Popov.

He was a short, stout man wearing a thick coat, his face red from the cold, and snow still clinging to his eyebrows.

He took off his hat and said in a very impatient tone, "Pavel Yegorovich, I'm here to collect the rent."

Pavel's face turned pale: "Dear Fyodor... could you... perhaps grant me a few more days this month?"

Popov snorted, "Grace period? I've already given you three weeks' grace period! You always say you'll give me a grace period! I'm not living in this house for nothing!"

Pavel rubbed his hands awkwardly: "I know, I know... but I really..."

Popov finished his sentence for him: "I really have no money! I know, the whole street knows."

Your son messed with Okrana and got arrested. Your daughter ran away. You can't even afford bread anymore.

He paused, looked around the room, his eyes full of disdain: "I don't want to make things difficult for you. But I'm a businessman. I have to rent this house out and collect money."

Yevgenia stepped forward, her voice trembling: "Fyodor, please... give us a little more time... Anton... he might be out soon..."

Popov laughed: "Get out? How many people who go into Okrana prison actually get out? Even if they do, they'll end up in Siberia. Don't dream about it!"

He waved his hand: "Alright then. I won't force you to move out today. The first of next month. You must move out before the first of next month. Not a day more."

Pavel panicked: "Next month? In the dead of winter, where can we move to?"

Popov put on his hat: "I don't care. Anyway, it's the first of next month. If you're still here then, I'll call the police to kick you out."

He turned to leave, then turned back and added, "Oh, and clean up the house before you go, don't leave me with a pile of junk!" Just then, there was another knock on the door. Pavel's face darkened even more, and he simply stood still. Yevgenia had no choice but to open the door herself.

Two people were standing outside the door. The one in front was wearing a dark uniform and carrying a briefcase. The one behind was wearing a thick coat and a leather hat.

The man in uniform asked, "Pavel Yegorovich Chekhov?"

Pavel reluctantly stepped forward: "I am."

The man took a piece of paper out of his briefcase and waved it in front of Pavel: "I am the judicial officer, Nikolai Ivanovich Sokolov."

According to the court ruling, you are required to repay the debt owed to Mr. Semyon Petrovich Ignatiev, totaling 120 rubles.

He placed the paper on the table: "This is the execution order. You made us search so hard, from Taganrog to Moscow, you really went a long way!"

Pavel stared at the paper, his hands trembling: "One hundred and twenty rubles... I... I don't have any right now..."

"I know you don't have it, that's why I'm here," said the executive officer, Sokolov. "According to the law, if you can't repay your debts, you can do so with your labor."

Prisons, labor camps, and farms all need manpower. You'll work there until your wages cover your debts!

Pavel Chekhov was so frightened that his legs trembled and he couldn't utter a single complete sentence.

Sokolov looked around the room: "Or do you have something valuable to pawn?"

Yevgenia burst into tears: "Nothing... nothing at all..."

Sokolov nodded, as if he had expected this: "Then there's no other way. You'll have to come with me now."

Yevgenia rushed over and grabbed his sleeve: "No! Please! Give us a little more time! We..."

Sokolov roughly pushed her hand away: "Madam, this is the law. I'm just doing my job."

Pavel suddenly spoke up: "Wait. My son... Anton Pavlovich Chekhov... He's in the Okrana prison."

If I'm taken away... his mother and brothers... they... they..."

Sokolov shook his head: "That's not my business. My job is to carry out the court's judgment."

"Now, you either give me 120 rubles, or you come with me."

At this moment, the landlord, Fyodor Popov, spoke up: "Sir, if you arrest him, what will happen to my rent?"
If he goes to the labor camp, will the money he earns be enough to pay off the rent he owes me? It won't be much, just…”

The executive officer, Sokolov, frowned. "I only follow court orders. If you want him to pay back the debt, then you should sue him in court."

Odor Popov fell silent, pondering in his mind what would be most advantageous for him.

Yevgenia collapsed to the ground and burst into tears; Pavel stood motionless, like a statue; Ivan and Mikhail also cried, but their voices were very soft.

Amid the crying, the door rang for the third time. This time, before anyone could open it, the door was pushed open.

The person who came in was a patrolman named Vasily Petrovich Gorshkov.

He was a rude, strong man, his uniform unbuttoned, and he wore a fake smile.

He took off his hat, brushed off the snow, and looked at the room full of people: "Wow, so many people here, it's quite lively!"

Pavel looked at him, his eyes filled with despair: "Vasily Petrovich...is something wrong?"

Gorshkov stomped his foot, his boots thumping on the ground: "Of course something's up. Your family's been quite famous lately, huh?"

My son went to Okrana, my daughter is missing, and now there are so many 'guests' in the house..."

He stopped in front of Pavel: "I told you last week, twenty rubles, are you ready?"

Pavel shook his head; his thoughts had almost stopped.

Gorshkov's smile vanished: "Because of your son, I got scolded and had my salary docked! All I ask for is twenty rubles in compensation, and you haven't even offered that?"

Pavel's face flushed red: "We...we have no money...you all ask me for money, but we really have no money left."

Gorshkov leaned closer: "No money? What do you have? Food? Supplies? Or..."

His eyes swept over Yevgenia: "Women can also pay off debts, but you're too old."

"Is your daughter really missing? Or have you hidden her?"

Pavel suddenly looked up, his eyes reddening. Yevgenia screamed and shrank back.

Pavel roared, "You...you get out!"

Police officer Gorshkov laughed: "Get lost? I'm a police officer. I can come and go as I please. It's you guys who..."

He turned to the landlord, Odor Popov: "How long can they stay?"

Odor Popov bowed and scraped: "The first of next month... sir, but this executive officer wants to take Pavel away now."

The patrolman, Gorshkov, looked at the two officers: "What about my twenty rubles?"

Then, turning to the trembling Pavel, he said, "If the executive officer takes you away, what will happen to your wife and children..."

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear. The room fell into an eerie silence, with only the sounds of Yevgenia and the children crying.

Just then, the door opened, and everyone turned around.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov stood in the doorway like a statue, sunlight streaming into the room from his shoulders.

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(End of this chapter)