Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 467 The Vast World, Siberia!
Before Chekhov could react, two thick arms grabbed him from both sides.

He wanted to ask questions, wanted to struggle, but a thick strip of cloth suddenly covered his eyes, making his vision go black and all light disappear instantly.

His mouth was also tightly covered by a large hand, and he could only let out muffled sobs.

Immediately, a warning rang in his ears: "Quiet down, kid!"

He was roughly dragged away, then shoved violently by a force, and crammed into a small space.

This was the carriage. The door slammed shut, and two burly men squeezed between him, trapping him in the middle, unable to move.

The carriage immediately set off.

Chekhov couldn't see anything; he could only feel his body swaying from side to side and bouncing up and down with the carriage.

The wheels rumbled as they rolled over the stone pavement. He tried to remember the direction and number of turns, but his overwhelming fear and confusion quickly disoriented him.

The carriage twisted and turned, heading in an unknown direction.

After an unknown amount of time, the carriage finally stopped, and he was pulled out again and pushed forward until his feet quickly touched the hard stone steps.

Then came the sound of doors opening, one, two, three... He couldn't remember exactly how many.

With each door opening and closing, a loud metallic clanging sound could be heard, cold and hard, each sound like a blow to his heart.

Finally, he was forced to sit on a cold, hard wooden chair, his arms were removed, but the blindfold was still on.

The surroundings were deathly silent. Chekhov could only hear his own heavy breathing and the sound of dripping water coming from somewhere.

A chilling cold seeped up from the chair and the floor, making him tremble uncontrollably.

Time passed slowly in the darkness, each second stretching out several times over, fear gripping his heart tighter and tighter.

He thought of his family, his medical studies, the manuscripts he hadn't finished, and Mr. Lionel Sorel...

Do they know where they are?

Finally, he heard footsteps, the door opened again, and someone came in and sat down opposite him.

The cloth covering Chekhov's face was suddenly ripped off.

The sudden light made him squint, and it took him a while to adjust.

He found himself in a windowless room, with only a kerosene lamp in the center of the ceiling casting a dim, yellowish light that barely illuminated himself and the person who had come in.

Opposite him was a wooden table with only four legs, and behind the table sat a man.

The man was around forty years old, wearing a dark uniform trench coat. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, and thin lips that were pressed into a straight line.

What's most unsettling is his eyes—

The color was very light, like faded glass, devoid of any warmth, staring calmly at Chekhov as if he were an inanimate object.

The man spoke, his voice flat and monotone: "Anton Pavlovich Chekhov."

I am Major Grigory Ivanovich Smirnov of the Third Division of the "Okrana" command.

He gave a department and a name without any explanation, because that identity spoke for itself.

Major Smirnov opened a folder and slowly flipped through the papers inside, making a soft rustling sound.

"Second-year student at the Medical School of Moscow State University. Born in Taganrog. Father Pavel Yegorovich, formerly a grocer who went bankrupt and now lives by doing odd jobs and his son's writing fees. Mother Yevgenia Yakovlevna. Elder brother Alexander, idle and an alcoholic. Younger brothers Ivan and Mikhail, younger sister Masha. Living with family in a cramped apartment on Sadovaya-Kudlinskaya Street."

He looked up and said, "I've been working fairly hard in my studies. In my spare time, I write humorous short pieces for several tabloids, such as Alarm Clock, Fragments, and Joke Report."

Major Smirnov closed the file: "Am I right, Mr. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov?"
Or should I call you 'an honest Muscovit'?

Chekhov's heart pounded in his chest. He could only force himself to hold his breath. Although he was still afraid, anger began to rise within him.

"Major Smirnov, I don't understand. Why were I brought here? What law have I broken?"

Major Smirnov did not answer directly, but instead took a stack of newspapers from under the table and threw them on the table.

The masthead of the top-of-the-line newspaper was none other than "The Joke Report".

The major casually picked up a document: "Why?"

He flipped through it a few times, then read aloud: “An official complained, ‘People these days have no patience! The widow applying for relief outside my office starved to death after only five days in line!’”

He paused here, looked up at Chekhov: "Mr. Chekhov, your writing is good, and the story is quite witty. You seem to be a clever man!"

Chekhov still tried to argue: "Major, it's just a joke. Many writers write similar things; it's everywhere in the Joke Daily."

Major Smirnov scoffed: "A joke? Yes, a joke. Mocking the inefficiency of government officials, satirizing the rigidity of the bureaucracy."

Oh, and there's also mocking the church and questioning faith... I don't need to read them all out, do I?
Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Chekhov, but it seems you've misused your intelligence.

Chekhov stared stubbornly at the other person: "I don't understand what's wrong with this! These are just reflections of real life, can't we even accept a little criticism?"

"Besides, what evidence do you have that I wrote these? I have classes and experiments every day, when do I have time..." Major Smirnov interrupted him with a sneer: "Criticize? Who gave you the right to criticize? Who do you think you are? You're just a poor student!"

You've been accepted into Moscow State University, with a bright future ahead of you, yet instead of studying diligently, you're spreading discontent and inciting conflict!

He abruptly swept the newspapers aside, then pulled a stack of papers from his file folder and threw them in front of Chekhov.

Those were photocopies of several royalty payment receipts, with Chekhov's signature on them.

Major Smirnov said coldly, "These are the evidence! Even without this evidence, we can find enough reasons to take you to court."

Do you think our 'third office' requires a very complicated procedure?

Chekhov's face turned pale.

The figures on the receipts, representing his meager earnings from working late into the night, word by word, have now become irrefutable evidence against him.

But he quickly recalled Lionel Sorel's composure and reasoned argument when facing charges in Paris, and a surge of courage sustained him.

Chekhov imagined himself standing before hundreds or thousands of people at the Moscow courthouse, saying, like Mr. Sorel, "I plead guilty!"...

He was so excited that he blurted out, "Then take me to court! Let the judge decide whether what I wrote constitutes a crime!"

Major Smirnov looked at him like he was an idiot, then slowly said, "Court? Public trial? Mr. Chekhov, who do you think you are?"
Are you Sir Tolstoy? Are you Mr. Turgenev? Someone like you doesn't deserve that kind of 'treatment'.

He paused, then leaned forward: "According to the emergency decree, we can put you directly on a train bound for Siberia."

There's a need for manpower to mine and build roads. The vast open space, the many fellow inmates—enough to help you think things through.

I believe that in less than six months, you'll be just like Mr. Dostoevsky, learning to praise His Majesty!

Siberia! This word shattered Chekhov's newly mustered courage.

There, hard labor, bitter cold, disease, and death all occurred silently.

His family will be completely deprived of its pillar; his dreams and his literary career will come to an abrupt end.

Fear overwhelmed him instantly; he felt dizzy and his body began to stiffen.

Major Smirnov watched Chekhov's reaction with satisfaction.

He didn't urge him, but waited patiently, allowing the fear to fully ferment in the young soul.

After a while, Chekhov's breathing calmed down a little, but his mind was still in a state of panic and helplessness.

Major Smirnov spoke again, but his tone suddenly became earnest: "Anton, you are still young and very talented."

Whether you study medicine or write, the future should be bright. It would be such a pity to go astray and ruin yourself.

Your family needs you too, doesn't they?

Chekhov looked up at him warily, not understanding what he was trying to say.

Major Smirnov lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret: "Actually, there is a way to get you out of your current troubles."

It could even improve your life and that of your family.

Chekhov's heart skipped a beat; a sense of foreboding gripped him.

Major Smirnov continued, "You are a top student at Moscow State University, you know many classmates and have access to all sorts of people."

There are always some restless individuals in universities, some young people who are misled by dangerous ideas. They gather together, read banned books, and make dangerous remarks.

The most dangerous thing is that someone might plot something that could endanger the safety of the Empire and His Majesty.

Chekhov shuddered; he understood what the other party wanted him to do.

Major Smirnov's voice was seductive, and his eyes warmed: "We need someone to help us, to help us understand the movements of these people."

Who is organizing the party? Who is distributing dangerous printed materials? Which professors are spreading poison in the classroom?

It's very simple: tell us what you see and hear regularly.

You don't need to do anything dangerous, just report some situations.

He paused, observing Chekhov's expression, before throwing out the final bait: "If you agree, then everything that happened before will be wiped clean."

You will not be exiled, and your file will be cleared. Moreover, you can receive a fixed allowance from us every month.

Twenty or thirty rubles—enough to pay your rent, feed your family a little better, and let you go to the theater occasionally.

A small effort yields a huge reward. What do you think?

Major Smirnov's eyes lost their warmth again, and he stared intently at Chekhov like a snake.

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(End of this chapter)