Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 71 Studying medicine won't save Russia!
Lionel had many more surprises this week.

Not only did the royalties from Le Parisien and Chronicle of the Fatherland arrive in full, but several other newspapers also sent invitations to reprint and commission articles, with some even offering to pay in advance.

Looking at the 420 francs in his hand and the numerous letters of commission, Lionel finally felt relieved.

Although he still writes his weekly column "An Honest Parisian" for Le Bourgeois as promised, it's no longer his only source of income.

Another surprise was that the Paris police finally got word: an officer named Claude met with him at a café and provided an update on the conman.

“According to information gathered by police stations across the country, cases of marriage fraud like the one that happened to your family have been occurring frequently recently, and we suspect it’s the work of the same person. We’ve also confirmed that he is not the manager of ‘Orby Trading Company.’” Inspector Claude presented several portraits to Lionel.

Although the details of the people in the portraits are different, their eyebrows, eyes and outlines are largely unchanged, and the faint, flirtatious smiles around their mouths are more representative.

Lionel pointed to the portrait: "It should be him—was it painted by victims from other places?"

Inspector Claude took a sip of coffee: "Yes, first Nice, then Marseille, then Lyon... He always goes around the small towns and villages around the big cities."

This way, one can easily escape using the well-developed road network and transportation system of a major city.

Lionel keenly noticed something: "Nice—Marseille—Lyon…Is he in Paris now?" These cities are geographically closer to Paris, hence his question.

Inspector Claude shrugged. "Maybe. After all, all the con artists in France... no, all of Europe, ultimately aim for Paris. It's their holy city!"
A conman arrives in Paris, like a drop of water merging into the sea…

Lionel was somewhat confused: "So you're telling me all this because...?"

Inspector Claude put down his coffee cup, leaned closer to Lionel, and forced a sincere smile: "Mr. Sorel, you see, we will do our best to solve the case, but after all, he hasn't committed any crimes in Paris yet."

So there's nothing we can do about it!

Lionel certainly didn't expect the Paris police to catch the conman anytime soon; his aim was simply to attract attention.

Without the mediation of the Paris police, local police stations in France at that time would never have combined cases, nor would they have been aware that a conman was roaming around who specialized in making money through marriage.

Lionel picked up the portrait again and gave his suggestion: "Actually, you could use this portrait to issue warnings to police stations in other parts of France, so that the noose around the swindler's neck will tighten even more."

Inspector Claude quickly replied, "Of course, we will. But all of this takes time. So we need to wait patiently..."

But if those damned reporters find out too early, and it gets in the newspapers, the swindlers might just go into hiding.

Lionel remained noncommittal: "Maybe it will expose this fraudster sooner? Who knows what will happen."

But don't worry, as long as I can get updates from you from time to time, I won't say anything to Le Parisien..."

Inspector Claude cursed inwardly as "a troublesome brat," but said politely, "Of course! I'll let you know if there's any progress in the case."

Lionel was in a good mood after saying goodbye to Inspector Claude at the coffee shop.

While it was still early, he decided to go to "Orby Trading Company" to tell Sophie Deneuve about the progress of the case.

Well, I'll also treat her to afternoon tea to thank her for her help.

------

While Lionel and the beautiful Sophie Deneuve enjoyed exquisite desserts at the Café de la Seine in the Parisian spring breeze, far away in Taganrog, a port city in southwestern Russia, the cold winds blowing from the Sea of ​​Azov were still biting. Under the dim, flickering light of a kerosene lamp, a 19-year-old young man huddled in the cold attic, wrapped in his thickest old coat, his breath condensing into white mist in the frigid air, his fingers already stiff with cold.

But he was completely oblivious, his entire attention focused on the crumpled magazine in his hand—"Chronicles of the Motherland".

This magazine, edited by the great Mr. Mikhail Romanovich, was not only an important intellectual stronghold for progressive Russian intellectuals, but also a window for this young man to glimpse the wider world.

Tonight, what caught his eye was a French novel, "The Old Guard," by a new and unfamiliar French writer—Lional Sorel.

The glow of the oil lamp flickered on the rough pages as the young man read slowly and carefully.

At first, he was drawn to the rough, life-filled details of the tavern in the small town at the foot of the Alps in the novel; then, the "out-of-place" protagonist—the old guard in his worn-out imperial uniform—appeared.

The young man's heart was immediately gripped. He read the detail of the old guard laying out nine coins, the old guard's blushing embarrassment as he argued that "taking spoils isn't stealing" amidst the laughter of the crowd, and the old guard's clumsy tenderness as he hurriedly covered the last olive after the children surrounded him...

These details, like cold needles, pierced his sensitive soul.

The young man seemed to see the hunched-over, cloudy-eyed veterans on the streets of Taganrog, the poor man in his father's grocery store who haggled over a few kopeks and left empty-handed, and his fellow countrymen struggling with poverty and alcoholism.

However, what truly delivers a devastating blow to the young man's soul is the narrator, "I"—the tavern waiter. His almost cold, calm narration, his indifference to the old guard's suffering, and his silence that even participates in the "happy atmosphere"!
This sent a chill through the young man, a coldness that seemed to penetrate time and space and reach the Russian land where he was.

“He saw it…he recorded it…but he was unmoved…” the young man murmured, his fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the magazine. “This is more terrifying than a direct description of suffering! This numbness…this habitual cruelty…I’m like that too…”

The image of the old guard crawling away with his muddy hands in the cold winter became the last straw that broke the camel's back, crushing a certain belief in the young man's heart.

The young man recalled that he had once been a "shop assistant" in his family's grocery store, watching poor people lay out coins in his shop to buy insignificant little things, and watching his father write names on the blackboard for those who bought on credit...

He had read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Gogol, Pushkin, and Mikhail…

But no other novel has touched upon one's own soul like this!

He closed the magazine, leaned against the cold wall, his chest heaving violently, overwhelmed by a profound sense of desolation and powerlessness. The light from the kerosene lamp flickered in his eyes, but it couldn't dispel the gloom in his heart.

"Russia is sick!" This thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, cleaving through the fog of his mind.

Unlike the disease in France, Russia was burdened by the heavy shackles of serfdom, the suffocating Tsarist autocracy, the numbness and apathy of church fatalism, and the deep-seated "Oblomov" inertia within its body!
Countless souls wither and perish silently on this vast, cold, and seemingly unchanging land!
“Studying medicine won’t save Russia!” The young man slammed his fist against the wall. This summer, he was graduating from high school, and based on his grades, it was almost certain that he would be admitted to the medical faculty of Moscow State University, which was also the wish of his family.

But his thinking has completely changed now!
He took out a sheet of paper, spread it out on the table, and then dipped his worn-out quill pen in ink and began to write with great enthusiasm:
[Dear Mr. Lionel Sorel:]
Please forgive my still-developing French; I am learning and hope to one day master this elegant language. I am writing to you with the intention of expressing my respect. "The Old Guard" is an unparalleled masterpiece…

…………

I eagerly await your next work!

After finishing writing, the young man checked it repeatedly, and only after confirming there were no problems did he sign it at the end of the letter.

[Your faithful Anton Pavlovich Chekhov]

　*Oblomov* is a novel by Russian critical realist writer Ivan Alexandrovich Goncharov, first published in 1859. The novel tells the story of Oblomov, a landowning intellectual who lives a life of luxury and views labor and public office as unbearable burdens. Despite envisioning grand plans, he is incapable of accomplishing anything and ultimately spends his days lounging on the sofa, becoming a complete lazy bum and a useless person.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)