Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 478 They have to catch someone eventually...

Lionel followed Mr. Bonjaman downstairs.

In the apartment lobby, the fireplace was burning brightly, dispelling the chill of January.

A person was huddled in the corner of the public sofa, wrapped in a tattered, thick coat covered in mud.

The pants on her feet were too short, revealing her ankles, which were red from the cold, and the toes of her shoes were also torn.

His short hair was a messy tangled mess, his face was covered in coal dust and sweat, only his eyes were still shining, but his expression was full of weakness and panic.

The apartment's doorman, Jean, stood to the side with his hands behind his back, watching him warily.

Upon seeing Lionel appear, the person on the sofa suddenly jumped up, staggered, and then regained their balance.

He opened his mouth, and a string of rapid, hoarse syllables burst out. Just as Mr. Bonyaman had said, it was Russian, which Lionel could not understand.

But in those syllables, Lionel heard his own name.

The young man lunged forward, but was stopped by Jean-François.

He struggled, his eyes fixed on Lionel, and shouted a few more times, mixed with more incomprehensible Russian.

Lionel stepped forward: "I am Lionel Sorel. May I ask who you are...?"

The young man was stunned for a moment, then burst into even more excited emotions.

He struggled desperately to break free from Jeanne's grasp, tears streaming down his face amidst the grime.

He reached into his pocket with one trembling hand, pulled out a crumpled envelope, stuffed it into Lionel's hand, and shouted something in a hoarse voice.

The sentence was in French, and although the accent was heavy, Lionel understood it—"Save Anton!"

Then, the young man's taut string finally snapped; his eyes rolled back, and his body went limp.

Rang Nuo quickly supported him, helped him to the sofa, checked his nose, and said, "He probably fainted from hunger, it's nothing serious."

Lionel took the envelope and immediately recognized the handwriting on it—it was indeed his own.

Mr. Bonjaman said from the side, "Mr. Sorel, I would never have let him in if I hadn't seen your own handwriting on the envelope."

He was wandering around the neighborhood early this morning, but couldn't give clear directions when asked, and almost got arrested by the patrol team for being a homeless person.

Lionel clutched the envelope and leaned down to look at the unconscious young man.

He was shockingly thin, with no flesh on his face, prominent cheekbones, and his exposed hands were almost just bones.

“Mr. Bonjaman, Jeanne, help me carry him upstairs.”

The living room on the second floor of the apartment.

Sophie and Alice were startled when they saw Jean and Bonyaman carry the dirty man in and place him on the bed in the guest room.

Sophie asked, "Leon, what's going on? Who is he?"

Lionel shook his head: "It's not clear yet. He fainted downstairs and gave me this."

He waved the letter in his hand: "My letter to Chekhov."

Sophie had never met Chekhov, but Alice had. She covered her mouth in utter surprise: "Chekhov? That young Russian man?"

Lionel nodded, then called over the family cook and said to her, "Heat up some soup, make it light. Give him some water first."

Then, Lionel sat down in a chair by the fireplace and took out the letter by the firelight.

It was indeed written by him; it was the reply he gave to Chekhov, encouraging him not to dwell on shallow satire. Now it was in the hands of a stranger, having traveled from Moscow to Paris.

Lionel folded the letter again, put it back in the envelope, and fell silent.

About fifteen minutes later, the cook came out of the guest room in a panic.

She lowered her voice, her expression strange: "Sir...that guest, she's actually a prostitute! I discovered it when I unbuttoned her coat a little to give her water..."

She cut her hair very short, like a man's, but..."

Lionel was also taken aback, but he quickly calmed down and said to the cook, "Take good care of her first, and we'll talk about it when she wakes up."

Then he turned to Sophie and Alice: "You two go ahead and do your own things. I'll handle things here myself."

Sophie and Alice knew they usually couldn't help with these kinds of things, so they each packed some work documents and left the apartment.

Two hours later, the door to the guest room opened gently, and the cook peeked out: "Sir, she's awake."

Lionel went in, accompanied by a Russian translator he had temporarily hired, named Nikolai, a Russian teacher who had lived in Paris for many years.

The person on the bed had already sat up, wrapped in a blanket.

Her face was washed clean, revealing fair skin and delicate features. She was indeed a young girl, probably seventeen or eighteen years old, but fear still lingered in her eyes.

Lionel nodded to the girl, signaling to Nikolai to translate.

Nikolai spoke a few words softly in Russian. The girl clutched the blanket tightly, her gaze lingering on Lionel's face for a moment before looking back at Nikolai and replying quietly.

Nikolai turned to Lionel: "She said her name was Maria Pavlovna Chekhova. She was Anton Chekhov's sister."

Lionel blurted out, "Martha?"

The girl on the bed suddenly looked up, her eyes widened, and her face flushed red. She whispered something.

Nikolai relayed: "She said that only her family called her that."

Lionel stepped forward, his tone softening: "Anton often mentioned you when he was in Paris; he always called you 'Martha'."

He said you're smarter than him and the most supportive person in the family.

Anyone familiar with Chekhov would know his sister, Maria Chekhova, affectionately known as "Masha." Maria was Chekhov's most trusted family member, without exception, and the two siblings formed a cooperative relationship that bordered on "spiritual companionship."

The Chekhov family went bankrupt in 1876, and the father fled to Moscow. Maria was only 13 years old at the time, and she took on the responsibility of maintaining the household and taking care of her younger siblings.

She remained by Chekhov's side during his creative lows and when his health deteriorated, offering quiet support.

Maria never married. After Chekhov's death, she organized her brother's manuscripts, preserved and categorized his letters, and also participated in the revision of his collected works.

Without Maria, the material about Chekhov that we see today would not be so abundant.

Upon hearing Lionel's words, Maria's tears welled up, but she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand, mustered her courage, and spoke a long speech to Lionel.

As Nikolai listened, his expression grew increasingly serious: "She said, Mr. Sorel, please save Anton, he might be sent to a labor camp in Siberia!"

Lionel was stunned. Siberia? A labor camp? What had Chekhov done?
He recalled that Chekhov had always kept his distance from politics throughout history, and although he was considered a liberal intellectual, he almost never participated in dangerous organizational activities.

The translator, Nikolai, stood up somewhat flustered and said to Lionel, "Mr. Sorel, I'm sorry, my family is still in Russia, I can't..."

Although the words were not finished, the meaning was already very clear.

Lionel didn't press him, and took out a 10-franc note and handed it to Nicolas.

Nikolai waved his hand in a panic: "That's too much, and I didn't do anything."

Lionel insisted, so he had no choice but to accept the money, and then solemnly said to Lionel, "Mr. Sorel, I will not tell anyone."

Lionel waved his hand, and Nicola, feeling as if he had been granted a pardon, jogged away from Lionel's apartment.

At this moment, Maria Chekhova said, in very broken French, enunciating each word clearly, "Mr. Sorel, I can actually speak a little French..."

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Rewind to twenty days ago, in Moscow, Russia.

Early January in Moscow is bitterly cold, and the sky is gloomy. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon, but it was already as dark as dusk.

The wind whipped up the fine snow, lashing against the stone walls of the Anatomy and Medicine Building at Moscow State University.

Because it was the weekend and the weather was cold, even the most diligent students were huddled by the stove studying, so there were very few people coming and going.

In the side wing of the teaching building, there was a storage room filled with old tables, chairs, and experimental equipment, the door of which was carefully closed.

The curtains were drawn tightly, leaving only a small gap.

The faint candlelight flickered in the center of the room, illuminating several young and nervous faces.

Five young people huddled together, with several old newspapers spread on the ground and a book spread out in the middle. The pages were yellowed and the edges were badly worn.

The leader was a tall, thin man named Vladimir Mikhailovich Popov, a third-year law student.

He lowered his voice and read aloud a sentence from the book: "...The power of the Tsar and the chains of the serfs were forged by the same blacksmith..."

The others listened attentively, and a math student wearing glasses kept nodding.

Another young man wearing a thick coat rubbed his hands together, whether from the cold or from excitement, it was hard to tell.

A younger student, who looked like a first-year student, was crouching in the corner. He looked nervous and kept glancing towards the door.

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door, very soft, but very clear: thump, thump, thump...

Everyone froze!
Vladimir quickly blew out a candle, dimming the light in the room, then asked in a low voice, "Who is it?"

A voice came from outside the door: "Anton, Anton Chekhov." The voice was muffled, but you could tell who it was.

Vladimir breathed a sigh of relief and gestured to the person next to him not to be nervous: "It's Chekhov, the one from the medical school. I've tried to persuade him several times, and he's finally come to his senses."

He walked to the door, pulled the latch, and opened it a crack.

Anton Chekhov stood outside the door. He wasn't wearing a hat, his hair was disheveled by the wind, his face was as white as paper, and his lips were blue.

Vladimir smiled: "Anton, you finally—"

Chekhov didn't laugh. He pushed the door open, squeezed in, and then closed it behind him.

He moved quickly, his breathing rapid, and he whispered, "Go!"

Vladimir didn't react: "What?"

Chekhov glanced at the people in the room, his eyes filled with despair: "Go, go quickly!"

The freshman who was crouching in the corner stood up and asked in a panic, "What's wrong?"

Vladimir finally realized what was happening. Without asking any further questions, he waved to the others, "Pack your things! Quickly!"

A flurry of rustling sounds filled the air as books were stuffed into bags, newspapers were crumpled into balls, and the student with glasses blew out another candle.

In the darkness, only heavy breathing could be heard.

Vladimir opened the back door of the storeroom, where there was a hidden exit leading to a maintenance passage, and gestured for the others to go first.

The other students quickly crouched down and slipped out; Vladimir was the last.

He stepped out of the door, glanced back at Chekhov, and found that the other man was still standing there.

Vladimir whispered, "Anton! Let's go!"

Chekhov shook his head, revealing a smile more somber than death: "They have to catch someone... Hurry up, don't look back!"

Vladimir opened his mouth, but said nothing.

He glanced at Chekhov one last time, then turned and disappeared into the passageway.

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(End of this chapter)