Just half a month ago, shortly after Lionel finished his written exams for the Sorbonne academic year, a 19-year-old Russian youth graduated with excellent grades from his hometown middle school and came to Moscow to reunite with his family.
But a fierce quarrel also erupted in this poor little family—
"What?! Give up medicine? To study literature? Philosophy?" Pavel Yegorovich could barely believe his ears.
His face, wrinkled from years of toil and unfulfilled aspirations, was now flushed red with anger and disappointment.
He slammed the teacup in his hand onto the table: "Anton! Are you mad?! What have we, the whole family, been scrimping and saving for? For you! For you to get into medical school, to become a respectable doctor in the future! To escape this damned poor hovel! To show those who look down on us!
Literature? Philosophy? Can that feed you? Those are things for gentlemen and young masters to do when they're bored! Do you want our whole family to keep wallowing in this mud pit?"
Yevgenia Yakovlevna, the mistress of the house, wept silently beside him. She understood her youngest son's love for books but was even more aware of the harsh reality. She stammered, "Anton, a doctor… a doctor is a respected profession… studying literature is too… too unreliable…"
The eldest son, Alexander, just woke from a hangover, rubbing his bleary eyes, his tone a mix of his usual cynicism and a hint of jealousy: "Ha! Our little philosopher is about to be born? Do you want to be Count Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?
Wake up, Anton! Look at reality! Without rubles, all ideals are nonsense! Studying medicine will at least keep you fed and clothed. Writing those things…"
He curled his lip disdainfully: "…how many kopecks will that earn you?"
The younger brothers, Nikolai and Ivan, were still small, looking blankly at their agitated family.
The only daughter, Masha, looked worriedly at her brother, whom she had idolized since childhood. She vaguely sensed Anton's persistence and pain.
Facing the almost unanimous opposition from his family, Chekhov, at the center of the storm, appeared unusually silent and resolute.
He didn't crack a few jokes as usual to ease the tension, nor did he vehemently argue back.
He just said calmly but unmistakably: "Father, Mother, Alexander, I understand your expectations, and I understand what studying medicine means for our family. But, please, look outside!"
He pointed to the gloomy streets of Moscow outside the window: "Look at this land! It's sick, very sick!
Not a physical illness, but a spiritual one! It's the spiritual numbness, hypocrisy, laziness, and silence in the face of injustice!"
His voice began to grow agitated: "As a doctor, perhaps I can save a few people, dozens of people. But I feel a more urgent calling! With the pen! With ideas!
To expose the tumors that sicken our nation, to awaken slumbering souls, to sting the indifference that has become commonplace!
Didn't Gogol and Mr. Shchedrin do just that? Isn't this more important than merely treating physical wounds?
Isn't this a deeper 'healing'?"
Pavel roared, interrupting him: "Nonsense! What soul? What tumor? Is that something you can manage? That's for His Majesty the Tsar and his ministers to deal with!
You, the son of a petty citizen, becoming a doctor and living a stable life, is the greatest contribution you can make to the whole family!
Stop dreaming those impractical dreams! You must report to medical school!"
Chekhov looked directly into his father's angry eyes, unflinching: "Father, I'm not dreaming. I know this is difficult, and I know it will disappoint the family.
But I can no longer turn my back on everything I feel!
If, merely for 'stability,' I ignore the groans of the entire nation and the degradation of its soul…
Then even if I wear a white coat, my heart will never be at peace. Please… understand me."
Pavel suddenly stood up, pacing restlessly in the small room: "Understand? I can't understand! I only know that without bread, all nobility is empty talk!
Do you want to starve yourself? Do you want the whole family to go hungry with you? Literature? Philosophy? Those are castles in the air! They are harmful things!"
…
The family meeting eventually ended in discord, and Chekhov locked himself back in his cold room.
His family's opposition and financial pressure suffocated him.
He knew his father's words made sense; studying medicine was indeed the most secure ladder to change the family's and his own destiny.
Outside the window, the gloomy Moscow sky and the dilapidated streetscape seemed to confirm his father's worries.
However, the open copy of Chronicles of the Fatherland on the small attic table, and the story of the old guard, burned in his heart like an unquenchable flame.
And of course, the latest piece, my uncle jules, also revealed how fragile kinship can be when distorted by money—this was also a chronic problem in Russia.
He seemed to hear the silent cries of countless souls from the depths of the Russian land, and saw the mental illness pervading the entire society that needed to be "cured."
Compromise meant betraying his inner calling, meant becoming another "little shop assistant," witnessing suffering in numbness yet remaining indifferent.
Resistance, on the other hand, meant a break with his family, meant a path full of thorns and an uncertain future.
Chekhov sat by the cold window, caught in an unprecedented state of confusion and struggle: Medicine? Literature? Bread? Ideals? Family expectations? The suffering of the nation?…
These weighty questions clashed fiercely in his 19-year-old mind.
The cold night was long, and the flickering light of the kerosene lamp cast wavering shadows on Chekhov's young and serious face. He finally made up his mind:
To Paris, to follow the mentor in his heart, Mr. Lionel Sorel!
—
"So, that's why you came to Paris?" Lionel looked somewhat speechlessly at Chekhov, who was currently devouring sausages and jam bread.
The two were sitting in the "Grand Café" on Boulevard des Capucines near the opera house—one of the few cafes and restaurants open until the early hours, mainly serving actors and audiences after the opera.
Chekhov ate heartily, intermittently recounting his experiences—family disputes, stealing money and running away, taking a train to St. Petersburg, then a ship across the Baltic Sea to Hamburg, Germany… where he was then pickpocketed of all his money.
He could only use every means possible, hitching rides on trains and carriages, walking… until he finally reached Paris.
Chekhov wiped food residue and onion soup from his mustache: "Mr. Sorel, I've made up my mind. Although my family opposes it… I must, like you, become a writer who dissects Russian society, though I know it will be very difficult…"
Lionel silently thought, "For him, it might not be too difficult…"
But he asked aloud, "So you came to find me for…?"
Chekhov's eyes lit up: "To follow you!"
Lionel: "…"
Chekhov was caught up in his own emotion: "Could you let me stay in the room closest to you?
Just watching you write, listening to what you say and do every day, I would feel incredibly happy."
Lionel shivered and quickly waved his hand: "I only have two rooms in my house right now, and they're both occupied… I see you're tired. Let's stop here for tonight.
I'll take you to a hotel."