Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 135 Whose Country Do You Love? (Bonus Chapter for 1000 Votes)
Lionel's reply was rather cold: "Emile, gentlemen, my story is only meant to tell one thing—why did an old country farmer who may never have shouted 'Long live France' kill those Prussians?"

Is it for the 'glory of France' or for the 'pride of the Gauls'?
Did 'Old Man Milon' hate the Prussians because they defeated the French army?
Or was it because our 'honorable' emperor was captured? Or because our capital, Paris, was breached, turning those noble and respectable people into stray dogs?

A barrage of questions silenced the room.

In Zola's "The Battle of the Mill," the outsider Dominic picks up a gun because the French rearguard has used the mill as a stronghold.

Maupassant's "Boule de Suif" creates an extremely strong sense of irony through the stark contrast between the status and morality of a "prostitute" and a "respectable person".

Both stories are excellent, especially Maupassant's "Boule de Suif," in which the protagonist, despite her humble origins, possesses a strong sense of patriotism and refuses to submit to the invaders.

However, Lionel's account of "Papa Milon" completely deconstructs the halo of "patriotism."

The protagonist, "Old Man Milon," never utters a single noble word; from beginning to end, he's just a calculating old farmer keeping accounts.

His father was killed by the Prussians, his son was killed by the Prussians, and he was robbed of fifty écuates of hay, as well as his cows and his sheep...

He didn't even know where the Prussians came from, and he probably never left his village in his entire life.

But "Old Man Milon" still raised his sickle...

He killed lone Prussian soldiers as if he were doing some kind of job, one, two, three... until the sixteenth, when he was captured.

But he had no regrets, and was even able to smile when he accepted his death sentence.

The entire story is filled with a powerful and chillingly poetic quality.

It has no heroic cries, only the silent hatred of the land and the stubborn reckoning of the peasants.

Maupassant murmured, "Sixteen...like bookkeeping...Good heavens..."

Zola slowly exhaled: "Therefore, without a specific object to protect, 'Long live France' is just an empty slogan."

To love France is not to love the Napoleons, not to love the Louises, and not even to love the current republican government.

For the 'Old Man Milon's', what he loved was his family and his farm, and the Prussians had taken them away, so he wanted revenge.

This is the foundation of all patriotism; there is no more fundamental or sufficient reason.

His gaze toward Lionel was filled with unprecedented admiration.

César, Alexis, Maupassant, and others were also captivated by the story's unique thematic presentation and depth.

Chekhov was moved to tears—he felt that on the Russian land, there were countless peasants like "Old Man Milon," silent but one day they would unleash an unstoppable force…

---

Over the next few days, Lionel wrote for three hours every morning on "The Curious Cases of Benjamin Buton," and continued his tour of Paris with Chekhov every afternoon.

They no longer simply seek out the most glamorous or most gloomy corners to experience emotional impact; instead, they become part of the daily lives of Parisians.

The bustling Central Market, filled with the shouts and sweat of vendors; the cafes along the Seine, where artists chat and share inspiration; and the coachmen outside the buildings in the Saint-Germain district, their idle conversations while waiting always revealing some of Paris's secrets...

Lionel guided Chekhov to observe all sorts of people—workers, clerks, artists, housewives, vagrants—to observe their joys and sorrows, their struggles and their small hopes.

Chekhov gradually came to understand that to understand the world, one must first accumulate countless subtle observations of people and things, rather than being prejudiced and using grand sentiments to bind oneself.

In the evenings, without fail, they would go to Médan to participate in "Médan Night," where Chekhov would also listen to the remaining stories:

Huysman tells the absurd story of a reluctant soldier caught up in the chaos of war, filled with a desperate depiction of bureaucracy and the insignificance of the individual;
Henri Saar revealed a corruption scandal during the Siege of Paris in which a high-ranking French officer was seduced by his mistress and neglected his duties.

Léon Eunis depicts a group of Prussian soldiers, fueled by alcohol and rumors, descending into a collective frenzy and massacring a brothel. Paul Alexis tells the story of a noblewoman who, while searching for her deceased husband's remains on the battlefield, develops a morbid love affair with a wounded soldier she encounters.

Each story reflects the absurdity of war, the complexity of human nature, and the pathology of society from different perspectives.

Chekhov absorbed it greedily, and his worldview was constantly being washed away and reshaped.

Finally, on the night Paul Alexy finished telling his story, Lionel made a suggestion: "Gentlemen, we have talked about war and about humanity."

The atmosphere is just right tonight, so why don't we talk about ourselves? Let's talk about what we were doing before we picked up a pen and became 'writers'.

And what was the simplest reason that initially drove us down this path?

As he spoke, he glanced at Chekhov, and everyone laughed in unison.

Zola spoke first, with a self-deprecating tone: "Ha, before becoming a writer? I was a packer and advertising salesman at Hachette Publishing House! Dealing with ledgers and flyers all day long."

Why write? Maybe it's because I'm too poor, and I think that writing something might earn me a few more francs so that my mother won't have to worry about making ends meet anymore..."

His reasoning was so simple that it surprised Chekhov.

Maupassant took a swig of wine and said with a grin, "Me? A lowly clerk in the Ministry of Education! All day long, just copying and writing, utterly boring. Writing? Initially, it was purely for picking up girls! You know, reciting a love poem or writing a romantic little story for the ladies in the salon is far more effective than sending flowers!"

He made no attempt to conceal his initial "vulgar" motives, which drew a burst of laughter.

His gaze became more serious: "But later, I discovered that observing people and telling stories is full of fun, a million times more interesting than those official documents. Especially those lovely girls, they themselves are the best source of stories!"

Huysman picked up the thread: “He was in the Ministry of Education, I was in the Ministry of the Interior. A suffocating place. Writing? Initially, it was to escape that deathly silence and hypocrisy. Surrounded by piles of documents, I felt like I was rotting…”

After everyone had spoken, all eyes turned to Lionel.

Lionel smiled slightly: "Me? I'm not afraid to tell you—it's because I'm poor! I started writing to pay my rent and to stay in Paris for one more day. I wrote a story about an old...old guard."

Of course, as I wrote, I discovered that the pen could not only earn me bread, but also make sounds, sting things, and connect with souls… This was probably the unexpected gain.

Chekhov sat in the shadows of a corner, his heart pounding. These literary stars he admired had such humble, even "humble," origins—for bread, for women, for escaping the dead silence, for satisfying curiosity…

No one initially proclaimed that they wanted to "save the soul of the nation"! Although their works all achieved this.

Something stubborn within him shattered and crumbled into pieces...

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 following day, at the Saint-Lazare station in Paris, Lionel saw Chekhov off on the direct train to Moscow and slipped 100 francs into his pocket, enough for his expenses along the way.

Chekhov's eyes welled up with tears: "No, Mr. Sorel, this is too much..."

Lionel interrupted him, his tone leaving no room for refusal: "Take it, Anton, this is not charity! I believe that in the future, there will surely be a star in the sky of Russian literature that belongs to you."

Consider this money as my advance royalty payment. Go become a good doctor; the rigor of medicine will hone your observation skills, and when the time comes, you'll naturally know what to write!

With a long whistle, the train slowly started moving. Chekhov leaned out of the window and waved vigorously at Lionel on the platform until the tall figure became a tiny dot in his field of vision and finally disappeared.

He sat back in his comfortable seat, his fingers tightly gripping the precious ticket and envelope, his mind no longer filled with confusion.

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.

Lionel returned home after seeing Chekhov off, feeling relieved. Just then, Alice handed him a newspaper: "Leon, look, you're in the newspaper again!"

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