Happy New Year! đ
It's officially 2026 for the GMT+ side of the world! Whether you've already started your celebrations or are still waiting for the clock to strike midnight, I hope you enjoy this first chapter of the year!
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After settling Chekhov into the "Spanish Hotel" at five francs a night, Lionel returned home, where it was already almost two in the morning.
Petty had long been asleep, but Alice was still waiting for him in the living room.
Seeing him return, Alice asked with concern, "What happened with that young man?"
Lionel rubbed his face wearily.
"An overly enthusiastic young Russian, full of fantasies, who traveled from Moscow to see me. He hasn't had a decent meal in two days."
Alice was still a little worried.
"How did he find this place?"
Lionel spread his hands.
"He must have gone to Le Petit Parisien and used a bit of ingenuity... my address isn't a secret there."
Alice was troubled.
"How will you arrange things for him?"
The thought of it made Lionel's temples ache.
He waved a hand.
"Let him stay at the 'Spanish Hotel' for now. Let's go to sleep; we'll talk about the rest tomorrow."
Although this was Lionel's first time encountering such a situation, it didn't particularly surprise him because it was a common occurrence in the nineteenth centuryâthe only surprise was that the visitor was Chekhov, who had just graduated from secondary school.
At this time in European literary circles, it was not only commonplace but even an obligation for renowned writers to be surrounded by fervent admirers, devout followers, and even eccentric "parasites."
This wasn't mere vanity, but a byproduct of literary prestige.
Young souls yearned for guidance, the disheartened sought solace, and opportunists coveted connections.
Writers, especially those who took it upon themselves to focus on society and humanity, often found it difficult to rudely dismiss these figures.
Warmly entertaining, answering questions, and offering guidance to enthusiastic supporters who sought them out were all part of a famous writer's daily life.
Many literary favors and resentments were quietly forged in these complex relationships, which were sometimes like teacher and student, sometimes like host and guest.
When Balzac was hiding from creditors, he often fled to his friend Mérimée's house, eating crushed sardines on bread with cheese to stave off hunger, and collapsing into sleep once full;
He would wake up and furiously accuse Mérimée of disrupting his "grand endeavors," then depart in a huff; only to return disheveled a few days later...
This cycle repeated for several years, and Mérimée always showed tolerance, their friendship remaining unchanged.
Other examples include Alexandre Dumas' "ChĂąteau de Monte Cristo," where celebrations lasted until dawn, year-round, and Zola's "MĂ©dan Villa," where friends were always welcomeâall products of this literary ethos.
Of course, Lionel wouldn't actually take Chekhov in as a retainer, but how to send him back to Moscow without hurting his feelings was an art in itself.
ââââ
The next morning at nine o'clock, in the living room of 64 Rue Laffitte, fragrant with coffee, the young Russian, refreshed after a night's rest, looked radiant.
Having shaved off his scruffy beard at the hotel, he revealed a rather handsome appearance.
Chekhov excitedly expounded upon his literary ambitionsâ
He wanted to use his pen as a knife, just as Lionel exposed the ills of French society, to expose Russia's chronic illsâthe brutality of serfdom, the corruption of officialdom, the apathy of the common townspeople!
He wanted to awaken the entire nation!
Carried away by his fervor, Chekhov waved his hands:
"Monsieur Sorel, the satire of apathy in The Old Guard, the portrayal of money twisting family affection in Uncle Jules, these are everywhere in Russia! I want to be the 'conscience' of Russia, just like you!"
Lionel listened patiently, but his brow furrowed slightly.
Chekhov's enthusiasm was sincere, but he was immersed in the grand narrative of the "national soul," his feet seeming to float on clouds, oblivious to the weight of reality.
The "Russian illness" he perceived seemed more like abstract concepts drawn from books and indignation, rather than roots dug out by hand from the mire of life.
Lionel set down his coffee cup.
"Anton, a mountaineer needs to see the path beneath his feet first. Possessing only the passion to gaze at the peak will only lead to falling into an abyss."
Seeing Chekhov's confused look, Lionel decided on a different approach.
"Come, Anton. Paris itself is an open book. Today, we won't have a literature lesson, but a life lesson."
For the next half-day, Lionel took Chekhov through the lights and shadows of Paris.
They strolled along the Champs-ĂlysĂ©es, admiring the magnificent grandeur after Baron Haussmann's renovations; in the elegant cafes lining the boulevards, well-dressed men and women chatted and laughed; on the shop shelves were luxury goods from all over the world.
Chekhov was deeply awed by the prosperity, his eyes filled with longing.
"This is Paris, Anton, the world's display window," Lionel said calmly.
For lunch, Lionel took him to a rather famous restaurant in the Latin Quarter.
Tender grilled lamb chops, drizzled with rich sauce, served with seasonal white asparagus and truffles, accompanied by red wine from the Left Bank of Bordeaux.
Chekhov had never tasted such delicacies before; each bite made him feel dizzy with happiness.
"This is also Paris, Anton, a feast of art, a delight for the senses,"
Lionel said, cutting his lamb chop, his tone still subdued.
However, the afternoon's itinerary took a sharp turn.
Lionel led Chekhov across the Seine and into the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
Narrow, dirty streets were lined with crowded, dilapidated houses.
The air was thick with the foul stench of garbage, cheap alcohol, and sweat.
Sewage flowed in the gutters along the roadside, and pale, sallow-faced workers dragged their weary bodies past, their eyes hollow.
Ragged children chased and played in the mud, their faces bearing a weariness beyond their years.
Chekhov's smile froze on his face; the filter of prosperous Paris shattered instantly.
The scene before him was so similar to the slums of his hometown, Taganrog, and perhaps even more shocking.
"This... this is also Paris?"
Chekhov's voice was a little dry.
"Yes, Anton, this is the larger foundation of Paris, or more precisely, the foundation of this world."
Lionel stood beside a reeking pile of garbage, his gaze still calm.
"Beneath the shining shop windows and exquisite restaurants are countless silent lives, struggling for survival.
What you call the 'Russian illness'âapathy, poverty, injusticeâalso flows through the veins of this city.
For literature to heal the soul, it must first truly see, understand, and respect these souls struggling in the mud, rather than merely treating them as symbols of some 'disease.'
Grand slogans about saving the nation cannot feed a hungry child."
Chekhov fell silent.
For the first time, he so clearly felt the bottomless chasm between ideals and reality.
His passionate discussions about the "national soul" seemed so pale and hollow in the face of the real suffering before him.
In the evening, Lionel, accompanied by a pensive Chekhov, took the train to MĂ©dan Villa.
Everyone found it amusing that he had brought a "youngster."
He explained Chekhov's backgroundâa young admirer from Russia, full of literary ideals.
Zola and the others laughed, warmly welcoming the foreign youth.
Maupassant even joked,
"Ha! Another lost lamb attracted by Lionel's 'conscience'? Welcome to the 'Médan Soirée,' Monsieur Chekhov!"
Chekhov, with a mix of trepidation and excitement, looked at Ămile Zola before him and Lionel Sorel beside him.
He felt like a speck of dust drifting into a brilliant galaxy.
(End of this chapter)
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