Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 132 Chekhov: I want to watch you...

Just two weeks ago, Lionel had finished his Sorbonne final exams, and a 19-year-old Russian was graduating from his high school with excellent grades and coming to Moscow to reunite with his family.

But a fierce argument also erupted in this poor little family—

"What?! Giving up medicine? To study literature? Philosophy?" Pavel Yegorovich could hardly believe his ears.

His face, wrinkled from years of toil and frustration, was now flushed red with anger and disappointment.

He slammed his teacup on the table: "Anton! Are you crazy?! What are we, the whole family, saving every penny for? It's you! It's you who can get into medical school and become a respectable doctor! Get rid of this damn poor place! Let those who look down on us see!"

Literature? Philosophy? Can you put food on the table? That's just stuff for rich kids who have nothing better to do! Do you want our whole family to keep wallowing in this quagmire?

The matriarch of the family, Yevgenia Yakovlevna, stood silently weeping. She understood her youngest son's love of books, but she was acutely aware of the harsh reality. She murmured, "Anton, a doctor... a doctor is a respected profession... studying literature is too... too unreliable..."

Alexander, the eldest son, had just woken up from a hangover. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he spoke with his usual cynicism and a hint of jealousy: "Ha! Our little philosopher is about to be born? Does he want to be Count Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?"

Wake up, Anton! Look at reality! Without rubles, all ideals are bullshit! Studying medicine at least guarantees you food and clothing, unlike writing those things…”

He curled his lip dismissively: "...How many kopeks can you get in return?"

Nikolai and Ivan, the younger brothers, were still small and looked at their excited family members with blank expressions.

The only daughter, Martha, looked worriedly at her brother, whom she had idolized since childhood, and she vaguely sensed Anton's obsession and pain.

Faced with almost unanimous opposition from his family, Chekhov, at the center of the storm, appeared unusually silent and resolute.

He didn't make any witty remarks to ease the tension as usual, nor did he offer any strong rebuttal.

He said calmly but firmly, "Dad, Mom, Alexander, I understand your expectations, and I understand what studying medicine means for our family. But please look outside!"

He pointed out the window to the gray streets of Moscow: "Look at this land! It's sick, very sick!"

It's not physical ailment, it's spiritual! It's a numbness, hypocrisy, laziness, and silence in the face of injustice!

His voice began to rise with emotion: "Being a doctor might save a few people, a few dozen. But I feel a more urgent calling! With a pen! With my thoughts!"

Go and expose the malignant tumors that make our nation sick, go and awaken the sleeping souls, go and sting the indifference that we have become accustomed to!
Didn't Gogol and Mr. Shchedrin do just that? Isn't that more important than merely treating physical wounds?
Isn't this a deeper form of 'healing'?

Pavel roared, interrupting him: "Nonsense! What soul? What cancer? Is that any of your business? That's His Majesty the Tsar and his ministers' business!"
For you, the son of an ordinary citizen, to become a doctor and live a peaceful and stable life is the greatest contribution you can make to your family!

Stop dreaming unrealistic dreams! You need to go to medical school!

Chekhov met his father's angry eyes without flinching: "Father, I'm not dreaming. I know it's difficult, and I know it will disappoint the family."

But I can no longer turn my back on everything I feel!
If we turn a blind eye to the groans of the entire nation and the decline of its soul simply for the sake of 'stability'...

Even if I put on a white coat, I will never find peace of mind. Please...understand me.

Pavel suddenly stood up and paced restlessly in the small room: "Understand? I can't understand! All I know is that without bread, all nobility is just empty talk!"
Do you want to starve to death? Do you want your whole family to starve? Literature? Philosophy? Those are all castles in the air! They're harmful things!

……

The family meeting ended badly, and Chekhov locked himself in his cold room. His family's opposition and financial pressures suffocated him.

He knew his father was right; studying medicine was indeed the safest way to change the fate of his family and himself.

The gray Moscow sky and dilapidated street scenes outside the window seemed to confirm the father's worries.

However, the open book "Chronicles of the Motherland" on the small table in the attic, and the story of "The Old Guard," burned like an inextinguishable flame in his heart.

Of course, there's also the latest piece, "My Uncle Jules," which similarly reveals how fragile family ties are when distorted by money—a chronic problem in Russia.

He seemed to hear the silent cries of countless souls deep within the Russian land, and to see the mental illness that permeated the entire society and needed to be "cured".

Compromise means betraying the call of one's heart, it means becoming another "little helper," witnessing suffering in a state of numbness while remaining indifferent.

Resistance means breaking with family, and means a road ahead full of thorns and an uncertain future.

Chekhov sat by the cold window, lost in unprecedented confusion and struggle: Medicine? Literature? Bread? Ideals? Family expectations? The suffering of the nation? ...

These weighty questions collided violently in his 19-year-old mind.

The long, cold night, the light of the kerosene lamp casting flickering shadows on Chekhov's young yet serious face, finally culminated in his decision:

Go to Paris to follow his mentor, Mr. Lionel Sorel!
Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

"So, this is why you came to Paris?" Lionel looked at Chekhov, who was munching on a sausage and jam bread, with a hint of exasperation.

The two were sitting in the "Grand Café" on Capsing Avenue near the opera house—one of the few cafés and restaurants that stays open until the early hours of the morning, mainly serving the actors and audience after the opera.

As Chekhov ate heartily, he recounted his experiences in fits and starts—family wars, stealing money and running away, taking a train to St. Petersburg, then a ship across the Baltic Sea to Hamburg, Germany… and then being robbed of all his money by pickpockets.

He had to use every means at his disposal—hitchhiking on trains, hitching rides on horse-drawn carriages, walking—and finally arrived in Paris.

Chekhov wiped the food scraps and onion soup from his beard: "Mr. Sorel, I've made up my mind. Although my family objects... I must become a writer who dissects Russian society, just like you, although I know it will be difficult..."

Lionel silently thought to himself, "It might not be too difficult for you..."

But what she asked was, "So why did you come to see me...?"

Chekhov's eyes lit up: "It's to follow you!"

Lionel: "..."

Chekhov got caught up in self-pity: "Could you let me stay in the room closest to you?"

"Watching you write, listening to what you say and do every day—it's all such a happy thing for me."

Lionel shivered and quickly waved his hand: "I only have two rooms in my house now, and they're both occupied... I see you're tired too, so let's call it a night."

I'll take you to a hotel.

(End of this chapter)