Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 133 The Duties of Literary Masters
After settling Chekhov in the "Spanish Hotel" where it cost 5 francs a night, Lionel returned home, by which time it was almost 2 a.m.

Patty had already gone to bed, while Alice was still waiting for him in the living room.

When he returned, Alice asked with concern, "What happened to that young man?"

Lionel rubbed his face wearily: "A young Russian man, overly enthusiastic and full of fantasies, came all the way from Moscow to see me and hasn't had a decent meal in two days."

Alice was still a little worried: "How did he find this place?"

Lionel shrugged: "He must have gone to Le Parisien and used a little trick... My address isn't a secret there."

Alice was troubled: "What are you going to do with him?"

Lionel's temples throbbed at the mere mention of it. He waved his hand dismissively, "Let him stay at the 'Spanish Hotel' for now. Go to sleep, we'll talk about the rest tomorrow."

Although this was the first time Lionel had encountered such a situation, it was not particularly surprising to him because it was common in the 19th century—the only surprise was that the person who came was Chekhov, who had just graduated from high school.

At that time in the European literary world, it was not only the norm, but even an obligation, for established writers to be surrounded by fervent admirers, devout followers, and even strange "parasites."

This is not simply vanity, but a byproduct of literary prestige.

Young souls yearn for guidance, the disillusioned seek solace, and speculators covet connections.

Writers, especially those who take it upon themselves to focus on society and humanity, often find it difficult to forcefully drive away these figures.

Warmly welcoming, answering questions, and offering guidance to fans who come to them are all part of the daily life of a famous writer.

Many of the gratitude and resentment in the literary world are quietly formed in this complex relationship of being both teacher and friend, host and guest.

When Balzac was hiding from debtors, he would often escape to the home of his friend Mérimée, where he would eat bread with mashed cheese and sardines, and then fall asleep as soon as he was full.

Upon waking, he berated Mérimée for ruining his "grand plans," then stormed off in anger; a few days later, he returned in a disheveled state...

This cycle repeated itself for several years, and Mérimée remained tolerant, and their friendship never changed.

Other examples include the Château de Monte Cristo, where Alexandre Dumas sang and danced all day long, and Villa Médan, where Émile Zola always welcomed friends; these are all products of this literary trend.

Of course, Lionel wouldn't actually take Chekhov in as his retainer, but how to send him back to Moscow without hurting his feelings was an art in itself.

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.

The next morning at nine o'clock, in the coffee-scented living room of 64 Lafit Street, the young Russian man, after a night's rest, was full of energy; he had also shaved his scruffy beard at the hotel, revealing a rather handsome appearance.

Chekhov passionately expounded on his literary ambitions—

He wanted to use his pen as a scalpel, just as Lionel exposed the ills of French society, to expose the deep-seated problems of Russia—the brutality of serfdom, the corruption of bureaucracy, and the apathy of the petty bourgeoisie!
He wants to awaken the entire nation!

When he got emotional, Chekhov waved his hands: "Mr. Sorel, the satire of apathy in 'The Old Guard' and the portrayal of how money distorts family ties in 'Uncle Jules' are everywhere in Russia!"
I want to be the 'conscience' of Russia, just like you!

Lionel listened patiently, but his brow furrowed slightly.

Chekhov's passion was genuine, but he was so immersed in a grand narrative of the "national soul" that his feet seemed to float on clouds, oblivious to the weight of reality.

The "Russian disease" he saw was more like a concept abstracted from books and resentment than a root dug out from the mire of life.

Lionel put down his coffee cup: "Anton, a mountaineer needs to see the path beneath his feet first. Having only the passion to look up at the summit will only lead to falling into the abyss."

Seeing Chekhov's confused look, Lionel decided to try a different approach: "Come on, Anton. Paris itself is an open book. Today, we won't have a literature lesson, we'll have a life lesson." For the next half day, Lionel led Chekhov through the light and shadow of Paris.

They strolled along the Champs-Élysées, admiring the grandeur of the renovations by Baron Haussmann; in the elegant cafes along the boulevard, well-dressed men and women chatted and laughed; and the shelves of shops displayed luxury goods from all over the world.

Chekhov was deeply impressed by this prosperity, and his eyes were filled with longing.

“This is Paris, Anton, the window to the world,” Lionel said calmly.

For lunch, Lionel took him to a well-known restaurant in the Latin Quarter.

Tender roasted lamb chops are drizzled with a rich sauce, served with seasonal white asparagus and truffles, and paired with red wine from the left bank of Bordeaux.

Chekhov had never tasted anything so delicious; every bite made him feel dizzy with happiness.

“This is also a feast for the eyes and ears in Paris and Anton, a feast for the senses.” Lionel cut the lamb chop, his tone still calm.

However, the afternoon's itinerary took a sharp turn for the worse. Lionel led Chekhov across the Seine and into the outskirts of Saint-Antoine.

The narrow, dirty streets were lined with crowded, dilapidated houses, and the air was thick with the stench of garbage, cheap alcohol, and sweat.

Sewage flowed in the roadside ditch, and sallow-faced workers dragged their tired bodies past, their eyes vacant.

Ragged children chased and played in the mud, their faces bearing a weariness beyond their years.

Chekhov's smile froze on his face. The filter of glamorous Paris shattered instantly. The scene before him was so similar to the slums of his hometown, Taganrog, and even more shocking.

"This...is also Paris?" Chekhov's voice sounded somewhat helpless.

“Yes, Anton, this is the greater cornerstone of Paris, or more accurately, the cornerstone of the world.”

Lionel stood beside a stinking garbage heap, his gaze still calm: "Beneath the gleaming shop windows and exquisite restaurants lie countless silent lives struggling for survival."

The 'Russian disease' you mentioned—numbness, poverty, injustice—flows in the same veins of the city here.

Literature must heal the soul, first and foremost by truly seeing, understanding, and respecting the souls struggling in the mire, rather than treating them merely as symbols of some kind of 'illness'.

The grand slogan of saving the nation cannot feed a hungry child.

Chekhov fell silent; for the first time, he felt so clearly the unfathomable chasm between ideals and reality.

His impassioned discussions about the "national soul" seem so pale and empty in the face of the real suffering before him.

In the evening, Lionel took the thoughtful Chekhov by train to Villa Médan.

Everyone found it amusing that he had brought a "little kid" with him.

He explained to everyone the background of Chekhov—a young admirer from Russia, full of literary ideals.

Zola and the others laughed and warmly welcomed the young man from abroad.

Maupassant even joked: "Ha! Another lost sheep lured by Lionel's 'conscience'? Welcome to the 'Médan Night Party,' Mr. Chekhov!"

Chekhov, filled with trepidation and excitement, looked at Émile Zola before him and Lionel Sorel beside him, feeling as if he were a speck of dust drifting into a dazzling galaxy.

(End of this chapter)