Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 491 Lionel's terrifying influence!

Lionel Sorel's hand, holding the wine glass, froze in mid-air; he was stunned—"The Man in a Case"?
Of course he knew the story; in fact, he knew it all too well. But wasn't Chekhov supposed to wait until 1898 to write it? That was his most famous short story!
The novel creates a classic character, "Belikov," a Greek language teacher who wears rain boots and carries an umbrella even on sunny days, keeping everything in a case.

But it was only 1882, and Chekhov was only 22 years old; his literary career had just begun.

Because of his own presence, because of that rescue, because of his experience in prison, this metaphor came out of Chekhov's mouth sixteen years ahead of schedule.

Could this be the butterfly effect? ​​A strange feeling welled up in Lionel's heart.

He changed history, not only by saving one person, but also by giving birth to a great work ahead of schedule.

Lionel put down his glass and looked at Chekhov: "A case? That's a peculiar metaphor."

Chekhov's young face looked serious in the candlelight, his eyes burning like two small flames: "It's a case. Not a cage, not a chain."

It's like a sheath, layer upon layer, wrapped around a person. In Moscow, in St. Petersburg, in Taganrog… I've seen far too many people like that.

Then he began to drift into memories, and his voice softened:
"That jailer, Afanasy Ilyich Kornilov; and Major Smirnov, that officer from Okrana..."

Even Sergei, the college student who shared a cell with me, was also trapped in a shell, a shell called 'revolutionary'.

He firmly believed that "the people will awaken," and he chanted those slogans all day long. In that world, things were simple: only enemies and friends, only struggle and victory.

He couldn't see specific individuals, only the symbol of 'the people.'

Chekhov paused, then sighed: "These traps are woven by power. The Tsar, the Church, the bureaucrats, the police..."

They weave all sorts of traps, telling you how to think, how to act, how to live. From the moment you're born, they put one on you—

A peasant's son, a nobleman's daughter, a lower-middle-class citizen, a college student... and then you struggle within that mold your whole life.

He shook his head at this point: "The scariest thing is that many people are not forced into this situation; they crawl into it themselves."

Because it's safe inside a shell, there are rules inside a shell, and you don't need to think for yourself inside a shell.

The restaurant was silent as everyone stared at Chekhov, the twenty-two-year-old Russian who had just emerged from nearly two months of imprisonment.

Lionel remained silent for a long time before speaking: "Anton, you're right. 'Shell' is more accurate than 'cage'."

The cage still has gaps, allowing you to see outside and move around. But the protective covering is tightly pressed against your skin and your mind.

It makes you believe that's your skin, your flesh. You don't feel any constraint, only a sense of 'how it should be.'

Chekhov nodded: "Yes. That's why it's even more tragic. At least the people in the cage know they're locked up, and they still want to get out."

The people inside the shell... they've forgotten what the outside world is like.

Lionel looked at him and suddenly smiled: "Anton, write this down."

Chekhov was taken aback: "What?"

Lionel patted him on the shoulder: “Write this down. Write a story, a story about someone who puts themselves in a shell.”

Chekhov's eyes lit up...

Dinner ended late at night.

Turgenev had already made arrangements; Chekhov and Masha would stay at his villa.

Before leaving Mettang, Chekhov and Masha approached Lionel.

Chekhov grasped Lionel's hand tightly: "Mr. Sorel, I don't know what to say... Thank you. Thank you for everything you've done for me."

Martha bowed as well, her eyes reddening. "Thank you, Mr. Sorel. You saved my brother, you saved our whole family."

Lionel patted Chekhov on the shoulder: "Get some rest. In a couple of days, I'll show you around Paris. You're a celebrity now."

……

The carriage carrying Turgenev and Chekhov drove into the night, and Lionel stood at the entrance of the Villa Médan, watching the carriage disappear at the end of the tree-lined avenue.

Zola walked over and stood beside him: "That child has changed."

Lionel nodded: "Prison changed him."

Zola shook his head: "It wasn't just the prison. Your appearance changed him. Two years ago, when he came to Paris, he was a passionate young man full of dreams."

Now, he has seen the real world and found his own path. Leon, you have created a writer, a brilliant writer!

Lionel laughed: "Writers cannot be created; they simply walk the path they are meant to walk, and I merely gave them a push."

Zola laughed too: "Well, you pushed him hard enough this time, making him the focus of Paris!"

--------

Over the next few days, Lionel took Chekhov around Paris, visiting people who had influence in the cultural world.

Our first stop was the office of the editor-in-chief of Le Figaro.

When Antonin Periver saw Lionel and Chekhov enter, he immediately stood up, beaming, "Mr. Sorel! Mr. Chekhov! Welcome, welcome!"

He walked around the table, shook hands with the two men, and lingered a little longer on Chekhov's hand: "Anton Pavlovich, I'm so glad to finally meet you in person!"
"Your work has increased our newspaper's sales by fifteen percent! We're receiving so many letters from readers we can't keep up!" Chekhov said somewhat awkwardly, "Thank you for publishing my story."

Perrivière gestured for the two to sit down, and then sat back down behind his desk: "It was our honor! To be honest, that week's serialization caused a sensation in Paris."

Even I didn't expect that a short story by a young Russian man could resonate so deeply.

He opened the drawer, took out an envelope, and pushed it in front of Chekhov: "You should have received the 350 francs for the manuscript fee."

But what I want to talk about today is future cooperation.

Chekhov took the envelope and glanced at Lionel; Lionel nodded, signaling him to continue.

Perivier gave a sincere smile: "Anton, I hope you can continue to contribute to Le Figaro, at least two articles a month, how about that?"
A story as short and powerful as "The Fat Man and the Thin Man" would be perfect. Parisians love your novel!

He paused, then announced a number: "Seventy francs per piece."

Chekhov gasped. Seventy francs?

In Moscow, he wrote jokes for the newspaper "The Joke," and at his best, he earned less than twenty rubles a month in total.

Now, Le Figaro is offering 70 francs per article, and 140 francs for two articles a month.

This was enough for him to live a decent life in Moscow, enough to pay the rent at home, and enough to feed and clothe his parents and younger siblings.

He felt his throat go dry: "Seventy francs... one?"

Perrivier smiled: "Yes. Your work is worth the price. Of course, provided you maintain the same level of quality—"

Like "The Death of a Government Clerk," "The Station Master," and "The Fat Man and the Thin Man."

Chekhov then looked at Lionel, who nodded, indicating that there was no problem.

Chekhov breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Periver: "I agree. Two articles a month, I will submit them on time."

Periver was overjoyed and immediately instructed his secretary to prepare the contract.

When it came time to sign, Chekhov's hand trembled slightly—not from nervousness, but from excitement.

At that moment, he truly felt that he was no longer a poor student who relied on writing jokes to supplement his family's income, but a real writer, and even a writer recognized by important European newspapers!
And it all started with Lionel Sorel.

Leaving the Le Figaro building and walking the streets of Paris, Chekhov couldn't help but say, "Mr. Sorel, without you, I..."

Lionel waved his hand: "Anton, remember, it was your own talent that got you to sign that contract. What I did was insignificant."

……

The salons Lionel took him to and the people they met there that followed made Chekhov even more aware of Lionel's terrifying influence in Paris—

Paris's top banker and socialite, the most respected professor at the Sorbonne, France's most sought-after Impressionist painter, the director of the Comédie-Française...

Not to mention the countless writers, poets, playwrights, newspaper editors, and publishing house owners that frequented those salons…

Each of them welcomed him, shook his hand warmly, talked to him, and praised his work, not to mention Lionel.

It seems there's no one in Paris who doesn't know Lionel Sorel!
Anton Chekhov spent the entire week in this dreamlike state.

--------

After dinner in the Black Forest, Lionel asked Chekhov a crucial question: "Anton, how have you been in Paris these past few days?"

Chekhov put down his cup and said sincerely, "Unbelievable, Mr. Sorel. I have seen and learned so much."

The freedom, the vitality, the respect for thought and art here... these are all unimaginable in Moscow.

Lionel looked him in the eyes: "So, have you considered staying? Staying in Paris?"

He asked very directly, and Chekhov was slightly taken aback.

Lionel continued, “Staying in Paris, you can enjoy the relatively free creative environment here, without worrying about Oclana suddenly knocking on your door.”

With your current reputation and your contract with Le Figaro, you could easily live a very good life here and focus on writing.

Mr. Turgenev, Mr. Zola, and I will all do our best to help you gain a foothold. I can even persuade Dean Patan to let you enroll at the Sorbonne.

But once you return to Russia, you're back in the 'shell' again.

Chekhov fell silent, and the restaurant was quiet, save for the faint sounds of knives and forks and whispers in the distance.

After a long while, Chekhov raised his head, his eyes resolute: "Mr. Sorel, Paris is wonderful, truly wonderful. Here, breathing is true freedom."

But I want to go back to Moscow, back to Russia, that's my root! Leaving my roots, I might enjoy temporary glory, but I'll quickly wither away.

Lionel didn't seem surprised by the answer; he simply listened quietly.

At this moment, Chekhov hesitated for a moment, but finally mustered his courage: "However, I have a request..."

(Two chapters have ended. Extra chapters will begin the day after tomorrow. My previous promises of extra chapters for every thousand votes and extra chapters for every patron are still valid. If you dare, get me to add another twenty chapters! Hmph!)

(End of this chapter)