Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 466 "You're 'an honest Muscovit'?"

December 28, 1881, Moscow.

Winter dusk comes early. Just past four o'clock in the afternoon, the sky had already darkened and was polluted by coal dust, looking like a dirty rag.

The cold wind, carrying fine snowflakes, lashed at the faces and bodies of pedestrians, each gust urging them to return to the warmth of indoors as soon as possible.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov wrapped his old overcoat, worn smooth at the elbows, tighter around his neck, and hurried across Tverskaya Street with his head down.

He had exhausted himself in his anatomy class at the Moscow State Medical School and now just wanted to get home as soon as possible.

As he passed the Bolshoi Theatre, he couldn't help but stop again and turn to look at the magnificent columns—a gesture he had repeated countless times this month.

Outside the theater, a huge poster was displayed, standing out prominently under the arc lights.

The poster's color scheme is a deep, dark green and dark gold, with the following words written in ornate cursive French letters at the top:

"A sensation in Paris! Lionel Sorel's epic drama 'Thunderstorm' premieres at Christmas!"

Below is a group portrait of the main characters in the play, with exaggerated brushstrokes and full of tension:
A noblewoman dressed in aristocratic attire, her face contorted, her eyes filled with madness and despair;

The young man beside her was pale, as if some shameful secret had just been exposed;

Above the two of them were the dignified yet furious eyes of a man...

The background shows the outline of a manor amidst thunder and lightning, as if it were about to be destroyed at any moment.

In one corner of the poster, it was specially marked in slightly smaller font: "Stunning effect, the first appearance of an electrified stage!"

Chekhov's steps seemed to be nailed down—that was Mr. Lionel Sorel.

The floodgates of his memory opened instantly.

Two years ago, that impetuous nineteen-year-old boy, harboring an unrealistic literary dream, went through countless hardships and traveled alone to Paris like a pilgrim...

He seemed to see again Mr. Lionel's always gentle, smiling face, and hear his calm yet wise voice.

He remembered Mr. Lionel leading him through the streets and alleys of Paris—

The Champs-Élysées, a paradise of prosperity, the dilapidated suburbs of Saint-Antoine, the hawking of vendors in the central market, the bewildered homeless on the banks of the Seine...

Mr. Lionel said, "Anton, literature must heal the soul, and first it must see clearly these souls struggling in the mud."

He recalled that unforgettable night at Monsieur Zola's Villa Médan. The flames in the fireplace danced, illuminating the faces of several literary masters.

Zola's melancholy, Maupassant's elegance, Huysmann's aloofness... and Monsieur Lionel's story of "Old Man Milon".

The silent old French farmer's revenge for the stolen hay, cows, and son utterly shook his soul.

That was not an empty patriotic slogan, but an action rooted in the land and in one's blood.

Mr. Lionel said: "To love France is not to love the Napoleons, not to love the Louis..."

For the 'Old Man Milon's', what he loves is his family, what he loves is his farm…

Those scenes are so vivid, as if they happened yesterday.

These experiences, like a guiding light, illuminated his path afterward, and he was no longer the frivolous young man who was content to mock a certain group.

He took a deep breath and his gaze returned to the ornate poster, where the ticket price was displayed in the lower right corner: balcony seats, 3 rubles.

3 rubles...

He touched the few cold coins in his coat pocket again; they added up to less than 2 rubles.

After buying ink and paper tomorrow, I won't even have 1 ruble left.

The longing in his heart burned like fire; he desperately wanted to see "Thunderstorm"!

He wanted to see how the morally corrupt family of the French capitalist, as depicted by Mr. Sorel, would be portrayed and destroyed on stage.
He also wanted to see how the legendary electrified stage could present a realistic thunderstorm effect, with lightning and thunder, making it feel like he was actually there.

This was more than just a play; it was a pilgrimage to his spiritual mentor Lionel, and a precious learning opportunity.

It is impossible to fully appreciate Mr. Sorel's ingenious ideas simply by relying on the retellings of critics in "Chronicles of the Fatherland" or "European Communications".

But after standing there for a while, he finally lowered his head, tightened his coat collar, and dragged his heavy, leaden steps into the crowd.

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As soon as Chekhov opened the door, familiar sounds and smells rushed towards him.

The father, Pavel Yegorovich, was always complaining and cursing in a rough voice, and would occasionally slam his fist on the table;
Mother Yevgenia Yakovlevna was always busy in the kitchen, with pots and pans clanging and clattering incessantly;

Alexander, the older brother, always reeked of alcohol and was always muttering something impatiently, even when no one asked him to do anything.

Pavel lifted his eyelids and glanced at him: "You're back? Why are you so late today? Haven't you finished your medical school assignments yet?"

Don't forget you still have those little tidbits to write! Your payment for the *Joke Report* should be due soon, right?

Chekhov responded softly, "Yes, I just finished my dissection exercises." He took off his coat and hung it on the hook behind the door.

Dinner was simple as always: black bread, potato soup, and a little bit of pickled herring.

The conversation at the dinner table always revolved around the lack of money.

Yevgenia said worriedly, "The landlord came again today to collect the rent, saying that if it's not paid by next week, he'll call the police..."

Pavel tapped the rim of his bowl with his spoon in frustration: "Hurry! Hurry! All you ever do is rush! In this world, everything is expensive!"
What can I do with the little money I earn from odd jobs?

Alexander took a swig of cheap vodka and scoffed, "Enough for you to go to church every day, and still have time to brag to your old buddies."

Pavel's face turned red with anger: "You!" Chekhov silently ate his bread, listening to his family's argument, and the thought of "Thunderstorm" resurfaced in his mind.

He mustered his courage, put down his spoon, and spoke softly, but everyone at the table could hear: "Father... Mother... I... I want to buy a ticket."

The table fell silent for a moment. Everyone looked at him.

Pavel frowned: "Tickets? What tickets?"

Chekhov tried to keep his tone calm: "At the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, Mr. Sorel's 'Thunderstorm' is available for as little as 3 rubles."

Pavel, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, exclaimed: "Three rubles?! Are you crazy, Anton? Three rubles! That's enough for our whole family to buy so many loaves of black bread!"

How many days' rent is that enough for? You're going to see a play? Who do you think you are? A master or a young master?

Yevgenia shook her head repeatedly: "Anton, my dear child, you know our family's situation. Watching plays is not something we should be thinking about."

Alexander burst out laughing: "Oh, our great writer is going to see some high-class stuff from Paris? 3 rubles?"

How many jokes do you need to write to earn 3 rubles? 50? 100? With that spare money, you'd be better off buying me some wine!

Only his younger sister, Martha, glanced at her brother silently, her eyes filled with sympathy, but she dared not speak.

Chekhov's cheeks flushed slightly, but he did not argue, knowing that arguing would be pointless.

In this household, any expenditure that cannot be converted into bread and rent is considered sinful.

Dreams? Spiritual nourishment? That's too much of a luxury.

He lowered his head silently, stopped talking, and quickly finished the remaining potato soup in his bowl.

After dinner, the family members went their separate ways.

Pavel continued to complain about the state of the world, Alexander went out to have some fun, and his mother and sister cleaned up the kitchen.

Chekhov retreated to the quietest corner of his house, to his little desk.

The table was piled high with medical school textbooks, notes, and a stack of yellowed manuscript paper.

He needs to write something—jokes, short stories, anything.

Although The Joke Report doesn't pay much, at least it's a cash payment, and they seem to really like his satirical sketches lately.

He rubbed his fingers, which were a little stiff from the cold, picked up his pen, and began writing a short joke—

The priest preached: "Poverty is God's test for you. Only by enduring the hardships of this world can you enter heaven."

A ragged farmer asked in a low voice, "Father, do they collect taxes in Heaven?"

The priest solemnly replied, "In Heaven, there are only offerings, not taxes."

The farmer sighed, "It seems the officials and police won't be getting into heaven."

Chekhov's feelings were complex when he wrote these words.

On the one hand, he needed these "trinkets" to make money; on the other hand, he tried to make his writing go beyond superficial humor.

He remembered that Lionel had said in the letter:

"The highest level of satire may not lie in who we are mocking, but in how we use mockery to let readers see the pathetic nature behind the ridiculous."

He's trying to do that!

The few kopeks earned from each manuscript would be carefully saved by the mother and used to pay rent and buy food.

He wanted to squeeze out 3 rubles from the meager royalties, but that seemed so far out of reach.

As the night deepened, a chill crept in through the cracks in the window. Chekhov breathed on his hands and continued writing furiously at his desk.

Moscow outside the window slept soundly, the occasional sound of a horse-drawn carriage and the chiming of church clocks reminding him that it was time to rest...

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The next morning, Chekhov got up early as usual.

Sleep deprivation caused dark circles under his eyes, but he couldn't miss his medical school classes.

He hurriedly drank some tea that his mother had heated up, ate a bite of black bread, picked up his schoolbag, and went out the door.

The snow has stopped, but the weather is colder, and the wind is still like a knife.

He hunched his shoulders and walked quickly down the snow-covered street, his mind still replaying yesterday's anatomy class.

Just as he turned a corner not far from his home, three burly men in black coats and round hats suddenly blocked his way.

They were burly and imposing.

Chekhov was startled and looked at them in astonishment: "Who...are you? What do you want?"

The burly man at the head of the group expressionlessly pulled a wallet from inside his coat and waved it in front of him; the cover featured a double-headed eagle emblem.

His voice was deep and carried an unquestionable air of authority: "We are 'Okrana.' You're just 'an honest Muscovite'?"

Chekhov's heart sank. This was the pseudonym the editor of "The Joke" had given him, not "Antosha Chehont" as he used when submitting articles to other newspapers.

"Okrana" was the Tsar's secret police. How did they know that "an honest Muscovite" was himself?

The burly man stared into his eyes: "It seems so. Come with us!"

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