Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 490 In my motherland, everyone seems to be trapped in a shell...

The large dining room at Meitang Villa was brightly lit.

Two long tables were joined together and covered with a snow-white linen cloth; a silver candlestick stood in the center, its flame flickering on the glass.

The firewood in the fireplace was burning brightly, crackling and sending warmth to every corner.

Émile Zola stood at the head of the table, raising his glass high, his face beaming: "Friends! Let us raise a glass—"

Welcome back to Paris, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, and back to Médan!

Everyone stood up, raised their glasses, and the wine shone brighter than the flames in the candlelight!
Chekhov's seat was to the right of Émile Zola, right next to Lionel.

He stood there, his voice trembling slightly: "Thank you! Thank you everyone!"

Then the glasses clinked together, making a crisp sound, and the wine swirled in the glasses, red like blood and white like light.

The banquet began, and waiters carried silver platters among the guests.

The first course was fresh oysters, served on a large platter covered with crushed ice, their shells slightly open to reveal the plump meat inside.

Next came the soup, a thick creamy mushroom soup topped with chopped parsley.

Then came the fish, a whole large sea bass grilled to a golden brown, drizzled with lemon juice and butter.

The main course is roasted lamb leg, with a crispy skin and rich, juicy meat that flows out when cut open; it is also served with roasted potatoes, carrots, and peas.

The salad bowls, containing fresh lettuce, tomatoes, and boiled eggs, are passed around the table, drizzled with vinaigrette.

The bread basket is always full: baguettes, round loaves, rye bread... crispy on the outside and soft on the inside.

The butter cubes were served in a chilled dish, specially shaped like seashells.

When the cheese platter was served, cheers erupted—Camenbell, Brie, Rockford Folk, Comte… were arranged in a circle, accompanied by walnuts and figs.

Finally, there were desserts: apple tarts sprinkled with powdered sugar, and chocolate mousse served in glasses.

In addition, there was a large plate of fruit—cut oranges, pears, apples… the translucent flesh glistening in the candlelight.

The wine supply was never lacking: red wine from Burgundy, white wine from the Loire Valley; and fine champagne, with bubbles rising in the glass as soon as it was poured.

The sounds of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of cutlery mingled together, filling the room with a lively atmosphere.

Turgenev sat opposite Chekhov. He still looked unwell and was still wrapped in a shawl, but he seemed to be in good spirits.

After having a couple of drinks, he specially cut a large leg of lamb from the platter and handed it to Chekhov: "Eat more, Anton. You need to gain the weight back."

Chekhov nodded, picked up a piece of meat—it tasted delicious—and ate slowly, chewing each bite carefully, while listening to the others chat.

Alphonse Daudet and Edmond de Goncourt debate the future of theater.

“I’m telling you, Edmund, the future of theater lies in the people’s theater, not in those gilded boxes of the opera house!”

"Here you go again. Art needs a threshold, dear Alphonse. Take Racine to the street, and what does that become? A circus act?"

The two argued heatedly, their faces flushed, but both had smiles on their lips.

This is the norm in Meitang; debate is fun, not hostility.

Maupassant had drunk quite a bit; his cheeks were flushed, and his voice was louder. He was making fun of Huysmann—

"That guy, really, forgot his briefcase at the brothel! He only discovered it the next day at work; there was even a report for the colonial governor inside!"

Amid the laughter, Maupassant turned to Chekhov and said, "Anton, your piece 'The Stationmaster' is brilliant."

I never imagined a story about a train station conductor having an affair could be written like that. It's both funny and... how to put it, it sends chills down your spine.

Chekhov put down his fork: "Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Maupassant."

Maupassant waved his hand: "Call him Guy. We're all friends here. Seriously, how did you come up with these stories?"

That junior civil servant who sneezed and scared himself to death—good heavens, I almost spat out my coffee while reading that.

Chekhov thought for a moment: "That's it... what I saw. There are people like that everywhere in Moscow."

They are afraid of their superiors, afraid of power, and afraid of people of higher status than themselves.

A single glance, a single word, can keep them awake for days.

He paused, then continued, "Actually, many times, I am like that myself..."

There was a moment of silence around the table.

Émile Zola raised his glass at the opportune moment: "A toast to truth! A toast to writers who dare to write the truth!"

Everyone raised their glasses and clinked them together. After finishing their drinks, Zola looked at Chekhov and said, "Anton, do you know how much effort Leon went through to get you out?"

Chekhov glanced at Lionel, who was carefully slicing a leg of lamb beside him: "I know something. Masha told me on the way; this has alarmed a lot of people."

And the short story in Le Figaro… I received my royalties, three hundred and fifty francs. I never imagined I could earn so much money from just a few stories!”

Chekhov looked at Lionel, who finally put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth.

His voice was calm: "It's not as complicated as Martha makes it out to be. The key is that your work is good enough, otherwise no plan will be of any use."

Le Figaro won't publish it, Zola won't write a review, and Mr. Turgenev won't translate it... I've only set up the platform." He looked at Chekhov: "There's something I need to apologize to you for. I didn't write to your family or send a telegram the entire time. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but that I couldn't."

Okrana would inspect all letters sent to the families of political prisoners, and if they discovered that the French were organizing a rescue operation, the whole plan would be exposed.

We must pretend we know nothing about your imprisonment and that we were simply moved by your novel, so that the Russian authorities can save face.

"Oh, so this young man is a genius writer. It must have been a misunderstanding," rather than "the French interfering in our internal affairs."

Chekhov nodded: "I understand. In prison, I actually guessed it. Suddenly changing cells, suddenly having good food, the guards' attitudes changing all the time..."

I know something must have happened outside, but I don't know exactly what. You don't need to apologize; you saved my life.

Lionel shook his head: "It was your own talent that saved your life, and of course, your courage."

Zola leaned closer to Chekhov: "Anton, Martha doesn't know much about what you've been through these past two months."

Chekhov nodded, took a deep breath, and then began to speak.

From being dragged into the interrogation room in Okrana, to disrupting the Okrana arrest operation, to being arrested and imprisoned, and finally being acquitted...

He spoke calmly, each sentence short and without much embellishment, but every word sounded weighty to these French writers.

After saying this, Chekhov looked up at the people at the table: "It's not that I'm so brave, but that I know that once I become an informant, my life is over."

Not physically, but here—

He pointed to his heart: "I will always remember what I gave up to survive, something far worse than being exiled to Siberia."

The restaurant was completely silent.

Turgenev spoke first, his voice tinged with cough: "You did the right thing, Anton! There are only two kinds of betrayals: zero times or countless times!"

Zola slammed his glass down: "Those bastards! They want you to do the dirtiest deal in the world!"

Maupassant stared at Chekhov: "So you'd rather die? Going to Siberia is probably no different from death."

Chekhov shook his head: "It's not that I'd rather die, it's that I'd rather not live like that."

Lionel let out a long sigh: "If you really become Okrana's informant, once word gets out, your name will be completely ruined."

In literary circles, informers are more despicable than murderers, and they would make our rescue plan a complete joke.

Chekhov gave a helpless look: "I didn't think that much at the time, I just felt that some things couldn't be done and some documents couldn't be signed."

Turgenev nodded: "Instinct based on conscience is often more correct than calculation based on self-interest."

Seeing that the atmosphere was getting a bit heavy, Zola clapped his hands: "Alright! Let's leave this topic at that!"

"Anton is here now, free and healthy, and that's the most important thing!"

He gestured to the waiter to refill the glass, and the cork was popped open again, the foam gushing out and hissing as it poured into the glass.

Mrs. Alexandrine and the cook began serving the second round of dishes!

Zola raised his glass once more: "Let's toast to Anton's health! And to all those who dared to say 'no'!"

The glasses clinked together, this time with a louder, more joyful sound, as if all dreams had come true.

After a few rounds of drinks, the conversation turned back to literature, which is the domain where writers feel most comfortable.

Maupassant stood up, a little drunk, swaying as he tried to steady himself on the table: "I have to tell you the truth! Before reading Anton's novel—"

In the realm of short stories, there is only one young writer whose talent I truly admire, and that is Lionel!

Then he pointed at Chekhov: "Now there's one more of you, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov."

He walked over and put a hand on Chekhov's shoulder: "Two years ago, you sat by the fireplace in Médan, listening to us tell stories. And now?"
You wrote "The Death of a Junior Civil Servant," "The Station Master," and "The Fat Man and the Thin Man"...

Maupassant shook his head, his tone full of amazement: "Do you know what this means? It means you've grasped the essence of the short story—"

To contain the richest humanity in the smallest pocket. This can't be learned; it's a talent—Leon has it, I have it, and you have it too!
Seeing the manuscript translated by Ivan reminded me of three years ago, when Léon recited "My Uncle Jules" on the ferry..."

Chekhov blushed; he was a little unaccustomed to such direct praise.

He organized his thoughts before speaking: "I... I was able to write these things because I heard your stories and was taught by Mr. Sorel."

While in Moscow, I often thought of those nights in Mettang, and how everyone made those wonderful stories flow out..."

He looked toward the fireplace, as if he could see that summer night two years ago: "Those stories taught me one thing: literature doesn't necessarily have to tell grand stories."

Within each and every authentic detail lies a powerful force—a rebellious old farmer, a patriotic prostitute, a fearful junior civil servant.
"Writing these things clearly is enough for a writer to fulfill their mission."

He paused, his voice lowering: "Moreover, this arrest, imprisonment, threats, and then release..."

This process has given me a clearer understanding of many things. My motherland, my compatriots, and those ubiquitous…

He paused, seemingly searching for the right words; the restaurant fell silent, with only the flickering candlelight and shadows swaying on the walls.

Chekhov raised his eyes, looked around at the people at the table, and slowly uttered those words:
"In my motherland, everyone seems to be trapped in a shell..."

(First update, please vote with monthly tickets)
(End of this chapter)