Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 489 A Victorious Reunion!

Chekhov at this time was completely different from when he was arrested more than a month ago.

He was wearing a clean, thick coat, his hair was combed, and his face was washed. Apart from looking a little thin, he was fine.

He just stood there, looking at the room full of people with a surprised expression, not knowing what was going on.

There were two other people standing behind him. One was younger, holding his hat in his hand and leaning on a cane; the other was older, with white hair and beard, and wearing glasses.

Both men were wearing dark green uniforms with gold trim on the collars and cuffs; their epaulets were also gold-trimmed, and the stars on them indicated that they were at least level 6 civil servants.

Everyone in the room was stunned. Judicial Enforcement Officer Sokolov was only a low-ranking official at level 10, and Police Officer Gorshkov was only level 13.

Pavel opened his mouth, unable to speak; Yevgenia covered her mouth, tears welling up again; Alexander, Ivan, and Mikhail all stood up, their eyes wide.

Policeman Gorshkov was also stunned. He looked at Chekhov, then at the people behind him, and his smile froze.

Chekhov walked in, his gaze sweeping over the people in the room, over the landlord Popov, over the executive officer Sokolov, and finally settling on Gorshkov's face.

He addressed the patrolman: "Vasily Petrovich, what are you doing here?"

It's obvious why the landlord, Odor Popov, is here; and the patrolman is a wolf, best at sucking the last drop of blood from the poor in his jurisdiction.

Police officer Gorshkov opened his mouth but made no sound; instead, he silently took a step back.

Before he understood the situation, he knew that anything he said could be wrong; and in front of such an important person, one wrong step could lead to his utter ruin.

A younger man walked in, his boots making a loud thud on the floor; he looked around the room and frowned.

His voice was authoritative as he asked, "Is this the home of Anton Pavlovich Chekhov?"

Pavel stammered, "Yes...yes, I, I am his father."

The man nodded, turned to Chekhov, and his voice suddenly became friendly: "Anton Pavlovich, please introduce him."

Chekhov took a deep breath: "Father, Mother, Brothers, Younger Brothers. This is Mr. Ilya Sergeyevich Novikov from the NKVD."

This is Mr. Pyotr Mikhailovich Vlasov, the Provost of Moscow State University.

The house became even quieter, with the patrol officers, judges, and landlord barely daring to breathe.

The words "Ministry of Internal Affairs" and "Moscow State University," along with the visitors' uniforms and epaulets, weighed heavily on their hearts like two stones.

Novikov from the Ministry of Internal Affairs stepped forward: "On behalf of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, I hereby formally inform you—"

An investigation revealed that the accusations against Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, such as "harboring dangerous elements," were all misunderstandings.

All charges against him have now been dropped! He is innocent!

He paused before continuing, "Furthermore, given Anton's exceptional talent and the honors he has won for Russia on the international literary stage—"

After careful consideration, the Ministry of Education and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs officially approved his visit to Paris, France, to represent the Imperial University of Moscow and attend the Sorbonne University's "Poetry Festival".

All expenses will be borne by the Empire's Ministry of Education!

Dean of Academic Affairs Vlasov continued, "Moscow State University is also proud to have such outstanding students."

The university will fully support Anton's trip to Paris and will consider awarding him appropriate honors and prizes upon his return home.

After he finished speaking, no one in the room spoke; everyone thought they were hallucinating.

Pavel stood there, his hands and lips trembling; Yevgenia's tears flowed incessantly, and she choked up, unable to speak.

Alexander, the older brother, stared wide-eyed as if he had seen a ghost; his two younger brothers, Ivan and Mikhail, held each other's arms as if they were seeing their older brother Anton for the first time.

The landlord, Odor Popov, was the first to react, and his expression instantly changed, becoming both respectful and enthusiastic.

He strode up to Chekhov and extended his hand: "Anton Pavlovich! Congratulations! I knew it!"

How could someone as talented as you really commit a crime? It's all a misunderstanding! A misunderstanding!

Chekhov glanced at him but didn't reach out.

Odor Popov wasn't embarrassed. He withdrew his hand and turned to Pavel: "Pavel Yegorovich, look what I just said."

I knew Anton would be fine! That's great news! You can stay here as long as you like, I'm just worried you might not like this shabby place anymore!

Executive Officer Sokolov stepped forward, collected the execution order from the table, and stuffed it back into his briefcase: "Pavel Yegorovich, regarding the debt..."

You see, since you can't come up with the money right now, I think the creditor will understand. I can go back and negotiate with him to apply for an extension.

Or...or perhaps we could just reduce the interest rate. After all, moneylenders like Semyon Petrovich are charging exorbitant interest rates; I'll teach him a lesson!

He spoke quickly and fluently, as if the person who had just spoken with a cold tone was not him.

Finally, it was the patrolman Gorshkov, his face flushing red and then pale, managing a forced smile that looked more like a grimace: "Anton Pavlovich... I..."

I just came to check if there was anything I could help with at home. Hey, Pavel, if you need anything, just call us patrol officers! Don't be shy!

He then turned to Yevgenia: "Madam, please don't cry. This is good news! It's wonderful news!"
From now on, your family will be a model family in our area! I'll definitely take good care of you!

Chekhov looked at them without saying a word, while Novikov from the NKVD coldly said, "Do you have anything else to do? If not, please leave!" The landlord Odor Popov, the executive officer Sokolov, and the patrolman Gorshkov didn't dare to say a word and left with their heads down and backs hunched over.

Then Chekhov went to his mother, hugged her, and whispered, "Mother, I'm back."

Yevgenia hugged him and burst into tears, but this time it wasn't tears of sadness, it was tears of joy.

Pavel walked over, put his hand on his son's shoulder, and, not knowing what to say, just nodded, nodding again and again.

Novikov from the Interior Ministry cleared his throat: "There's one more thing. Starting tomorrow, reporters will be coming to interview him. After all, Anton is a celebrity now."

Please tidy up the house, make it clean and tidy. Also, watch your words; talk more about family support and the importance of education. Understand?

Pavel nodded quickly: "Understood! Understood!"

Vlasov from the academic affairs office added, "The school will also send people to help. In addition, Anton's luggage and clothes for Paris will be prepared by someone, so there's no need to worry."

They exchanged a few more words, then took their leave. As they left, Novikov patted Chekhov on the shoulder: "Prepare well. You are the pride of Russia."

The door closed, and the room became quiet again, but this quiet was different.

The previous silence was a deathly despair; the current silence is filled with the joy of surviving a catastrophe.

Yevgenia touched her son's face: "Anton... are you really alright? Really?"

Chekhov took her hand: "Really, Mother. I'm all right now. And I'm going to Paris."

At that moment, he finally realized that someone was missing from the house and hurriedly asked, "Where's Martha? Isn't she home?"

Just as Yevgenia was about to say something, there was another knock on the door.

The family members inside looked at each other in bewilderment. Except for Anton Chekhov, they all experienced a brief period of stress disorder at the sound of knocking.

Chekhov was the first to react, turning around to open the door—it was a postman carrying a large mailbag.

Is Anton Pavlovich Chekhov home?

Chekhov nodded: "That's me."

The postman took an envelope out of the mailbag: "This is an international money order; it requires the recipient's signature."

Chekhov took it with surprise and found that the amount on it was exactly 350 francs, from the French newspaper Le Figaro in Paris, and marked as "manuscript fee".

After being confused for several days, Chekhov suddenly realized: "Mr. Sorel, it must be Mr. Lionel Sorel!"

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On March 10, 1882, the train, puffing out thick smoke, chugged into the San Lazar station, its wheels screeching as it slowly came to a stop.

Anton Chekhov pressed his face against the train window and saw figures moving on the platform; the air seeped in through the cracks in the window and wasn't very cold.

Unlike Moscow, it's already spring here, spring in Paris!
He picked up his travel bag and got off the train with the other passengers. The voices of people speaking French came from all directions, making him a little dizzy.

Suddenly, he heard someone call his name:
"Anton! Anton Pavlovich Chekhov!"

The voice sounded familiar, and he suddenly looked up, following the sound.

On the other side of the railing, several people were standing there, looking in his direction, and Chekhov's heart skipped a beat.

He saw Émile Zola, Guy de Maupassant, Paul Alexis, Joris-Karl Huysmann…

Of course, Lionel Sorel was also there—the seven men from the “Meitang Group” who used to tell stories to him were all there.

Chekhov was stunned. He hadn't expected anyone to meet him at the station, let alone these people.

Before he could figure it out, his gaze was drawn to a petite figure beside Mr. Sorel.

It was a young woman wearing a dark blue wool dress with a French-style spring coat over it, standing on tiptoe, trying to see this way.

Martha!

It's his sister, Martha!
He saved his sister, Maria Pavlovna Chekhova!

Chekhov felt that the weariness of the journey, the longing for home, and the uncertainty about the future were all relieved at this moment.

He practically pushed his way through the people in front of him, rushed to the railing, and shouted loudly in Russian:

"Martha!"

Maria Chekhova saw him too, her eyes widened instantly, and a big smile bloomed on her face.

She also called out in Russian: "Anton!"

The brother and sister quickly embraced, tears streaming down their faces.

Lionel just watched quietly, feeling that this was the most beautiful moment he had ever seen.

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(End of this chapter)