Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 492 A Battle of Profound Resilience!

Upon hearing Chekhov's words, Lionel put down his knife and fork: "Speak, Anton."

Chekhov took a deep breath: "I would like to ask you for your help in keeping Martha in Paris."

The noise in the restaurant seemed to fade away suddenly, and Lionel looked at Chekhov, waiting for him to continue.

Chekhov's voice was so low it sounded like he was begging: "I will leave her all the 140 francs I earn each month from Le Figaro as her living expenses."

Mr. Turgenev said she could stay at his house temporarily, but I know this isn't a long-term solution, so I'd like to ask you for help in making arrangements..."

He paused for a moment: "I know this request is a bit much, but Martha... she's different, she's smart and talented."

If she goes back to Moscow, she can only work as a governess at best, which is such a waste!

Lionel nodded. "I agree."

Chekhov was stunned: "What?"

Lionel repeated, in a calm tone: "I said I agree, Martha can stay in Paris, I will arrange it."

Chekhov's eyes widened: "You...you just agreed like that?"

Lionel took a sip of his drink: "Why not? After spending time with Martha, I think she is indeed very outstanding, and it would be good for her to stay in Paris."

Chekhov's eyes reddened slightly: "Thank you, Mr. Sorel! You don't know... Masha is actually very talented in literature and art!"

Speaking of Martha, his tone became proud: "She previously attended the Mariinsky Girls' School in Taganrog, which was the best girls' school in town."

The admission requirements are very high, but Martha's grades are excellent. She is good at literature and painting, and her talent in foreign languages ​​and music is also obvious.

My father said she was the "most cultured" among us children.

He then sighed: "But what's the use? In Russia, a girl from a background like hers, no matter how talented, can only work as a governess."

Girls from wealthy families can go to St. Petersburg to attend salons, do charity work, and hold book clubs. But my family… my family can't afford that.”

Lionel listened without interrupting him.

Chekhov continued, "So I wanted her to stay in Paris, where it's better for women, at least she has the opportunity to do something she likes."

The fees from *Le Figaro* should be enough for her to live on. I also have newspapers in Moscow commissioning articles, so I have additional income.”

Lionel shook his head: "You don't need to worry about the money. I'll take care of Martha's life in Paris."

Chekhov opened his mouth as if to say something, but Lionel raised his hand to stop him:
"Let me finish—if Martha is interested in further studies, she can try to take the entrance exams for the Sorbonne or the École Normale Supérieure in Paris."

If she wants to work, Alice's typing cooperative also needs help. In short, you don't need to worry about Martha's life in Paris.

Chekhov's tears finally fell: "Thank you, Mr. Sorel. Really... really thank you."

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand: "When Martha returns to Russia, she can only teach noble ladies to play the piano and merchants' daughters to speak French."

Then she marries a lowly clerk or a fallen nobleman, has a bunch of children, and grows old slowly in poverty and toil—just like our mothers.

His voice choked with emotion: "I don't want her to live that kind of life. She deserves better!"

Lionel was silent for a moment before speaking: "I understand. You don't need to worry about Martha; but Anton, I'm actually more worried about yourself."

Chekhov looked up, his eyes still red, and there was confusion in his gaze.

Lionel looked at him: "When you return to Moscow, will you be monitored again? Although Okrana released you, they won't really give up."

"You've attracted so much attention this time, and you're so famous in Paris; they'll be watching you closely."

Chekhov nodded: "I know. But Mr. Sorel, rest assured, I have already seen their methods."

I'll be more careful from now on, so they can't find any fault with me.

Lionel shook his head: "That's not enough, being careful isn't enough! Anton, you need to learn a new way of fighting!"

Chekhov frowned: "What kind of fighting style?"

Lionel's voice was calm: "Learn to fight deeply and resiliently, not the kind of spectacular battles that end quickly."

He paused, then continued to explain: "It's not about asking you to go out and hold up flags, it's not about asking you to join an underground reading group, and it's certainly not about asking you to write flyers."

A spirit of self-sacrifice is certainly valuable, but if your talent is interrupted because of it, then it has been wasted.

Chekhov listened attentively, but there was still a hint of confusion in his eyes.

Lionel continued, “What you have to do is write. Use your pen to write those true stories, but write them cleverly and skillfully.”

You must ensure that the Tsar's censors can't find any fault with you, but that the readers can see everything clearly.

He looked Chekhov into the eyes: "Just like your 'The Death of a Government Clerk.' You didn't directly criticize despotism, you didn't shout slogans, you didn't incite."

You just wrote about a little guy who sneezed, his fear, and how he scared himself to death.

But every Russian, and even every Frenchman, will understand what you're saying after reading it.

Chekhov's eyes lit up: "Yes! That's it! Mr. Sorel, you're absolutely right! 'A deep, tenacious battle'!"

He clenched his fist excitedly: "It's not about rushing in to your death, but about living, persisting in writing, and continuing to write. With story after story, tear open those little holes in the 'shell,' even if it's just a tiny hole each time, one day..."

Lionel nodded: "Yes, as long as we persevere, one day we will tear open a big hole and let more people escape from this trap."

And Anton, you must remember this: you are more useful alive than dead!

Chekhov paused for a moment.

Lionel put it bluntly: "Those revolutionaries who were exiled to Siberia, those assassins who were hanged, they were brave, but they died."

If you die, you can't do anything! But if you live, you can write at least two novels every month, that's twenty-four a year, and two hundred and forty in ten years.

How many people can these 240 short stories influence? How many hearts will they sow seeds of hope in?

He paused for a moment: "So you have to live, live healthily, and not let Okrana catch you again."

Do not join any organization, do not attend any gatherings, and do not make inflammatory remarks in public.

Your pen is your dagger, your javelin. Assassins only kill the Tsar's body, but you will kill his soul!

Chekhov was stunned, as if struck by lightning. He remained frozen for a long while before taking a deep breath and slowly nodding: "I understand. I will remember it."

Lionel added, "There's one more thing. Now that you're famous in Paris, that fame will be your shield when you return to Moscow."

Chekhov didn't quite understand: "Amulet?"

"Yes. You are no longer an ordinary medical student. You are a 'famous Russian writer in France,' a 'young genius who brings glory to his country.'"

This identity will protect you. If Okrana wants to capture you again, he'll have to consider the consequences.

Lionel took a sip of his drink: "Of course, that doesn't mean you're safe, it just means they'll be more cautious. So you need to be extra careful and not give them any opportunities!"

Please come to Paris whenever you have time; you'll be very welcome.

Chekhov nodded vigorously: "Understood! Mr. Sorel, I understand!"

Looking at his young face, Lionel suddenly felt a pang of emotion; he knew Chekhov would do it.

That's how Chekhov survived and wrote his works in history. Although the process is somewhat different now, the outcome shouldn't be too different.

Lionel suddenly remembered: "Oh right, there's one more thing, about your time in prison. If anyone asks, just say it was a misunderstanding and has been cleared up."

Don't talk about how Okrana treated you, don't mention Major Smirnov's name, don't give any details. The less you say, the better.

Chekhov thought for a moment: "Could I write it? Write it as a novel?"

Lionel was silent for a moment before speaking: "You can write it, but don't publish it anytime soon. Wait until things have calmed down, then you can publish it in a French newspaper first."

Chekhov nodded: "I understand! Actually, I'm already thinking about how to write it. Like that jailer named Afanasy, whose attitude towards me kept changing, just like..."

His eyes lit up: "Like a chameleon!"

Lionel laughed: "Good analogy. 'Chameleon,' write it down, very apt, perfect for use."

Chekhov smiled too, and the gloom on his face dissipated considerably.

He raised his glass: "Mr. Sorel, cheers to the 'deep, resilient battle'!"

Lionel raised his glass: "A toast to living, and living healthily!"

After finishing his drinks, Lionel called the waiter to settle the bill.

When I left the restaurant, it was already late at night in Paris, and the streetlights cast halos of light through the fog.

Chekhov wrapped his coat tighter around himself and looked at the sparse pedestrians and carriages on the street.

He suddenly said, "Mr. Sorel, lately I've sometimes thought how wonderful it would be if I were French."

Lionel looked at him without saying a word.

Chekhov continued, “But now I understand, I must be Russian! Those terrible things destroyed me, but they also shaped me.”

So I'm going back, to keep watching, keep thinking, keep writing, in the way you described—a deep, resilient battle.

Lionel patted him on the shoulder: "Very good, Anton. You've figured it out. Come on, I'll take you back to Mr. Turgenev's house first."

I have things to do tomorrow.

The two walked side by side through the streets of Paris, their footsteps echoing in the quiet night.

--------

Just as Chekhov was causing a minor stir in the Parisian literary scene, readers of Le Figaro discovered a "big news"!
Figaro published a serialized novel entitled "The Sun Also Rises" in its literary supplement.

The author of this novel is Lionel Sorel.

(First update, please vote with monthly tickets)
　Does this count as passing on the mantle of the great master 50 years ahead of schedule?

　　
　
(End of this chapter)