Lionel's reply was somewhat cold: "Émile, gentlemen, this story of mine is only meant to convey one thing — why would an old country farmer, who perhaps never once shouted 'Long Live France' in his life, kill those Prussians?
Was it for 'the glory of France' or for 'the pride of the Gauls'?
Did father milon hate the Prussians because they defeated the French army?
Or because our 'esteemed' Emperor was captured? Or because our capital, Paris, was breached, turning those noble, respectable people into homeless dogs?"
A series of questions made the scene even quieter.
In Zola's the attack on the mill, the outsider Dominic picked up his gun because the French rear-guard unit had used the mill as a stronghold.
Maupassant's dumpling created an extremely strong sense of irony through the double contrast of the "prostitute" and "respectable people" in terms of status and morality.
Both stories are excellent, especially Maupassant's "dumpling." Although she had a humble status, she possessed a strong sense of patriotism and was unwilling to yield to the invaders.
However, the "father milon" told by Lionel completely deconstructed the halo of "patriotism."
The protagonist, father milon, never uttered a single noble word; from beginning to end, he, as a petty old farmer, was calculating accounts—
His father was killed by the Prussians, his son was killed by the Prussians, fifty écus worth of hay was stolen from him, as well as his dairy cows, his sheep…
He didn't even know where the Prussians came from, and he might never have left his village his entire life.
But father milon still raised his scythe…
He killed isolated Prussian soldiers as if completing a task, one, two, three… until the sixteenth, when he was captured.
But he had no regrets, even smiling as he faced execution.
The entire story was filled with a shocking power and a chilling, stark poetic quality.
There were no heroic shouts, only a land-like silent hatred, a farmer-like stubborn reckoning.
Maupassant murmured, "Sixteen… like keeping a ledger… My God…"
Zola slowly exhaled, "So, without a specific object to protect, 'Long Live France' is just an empty slogan.
To love France is not to love the Napoleons, not to love the Louises, and not even to love the current Republican government.
For the father milons, what he loves are his family, his farm. If the Prussians take these away, he will seek revenge.
This is the foundation of all 'patriotic sentiment'; there is no more primitive or sufficient reason than this."
His gaze towards Lionel was filled with unprecedented admiration.
Céard, Alexis, Maupassant, and others were also impressed by the unique thematic presentation and depth of this story.
Chekhov was even moved to tears—he felt that on the Russian land, there were countless farmers like father milon, silent, but one day they would erupt with an unstoppable force…
— — —
Over the next few days, Lionel spent 3 hours each morning writing "the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button," and continued to tour Paris with Chekhov every afternoon.
They no longer just went to extremely glamorous or extremely gloomy corners to experience emotional impact, but entered the daily lives of Parisians—
The bustling central market, with the hawkers' shouts and the smell of sweat; the cafes along the Seine River, where artists chatted and found inspiration; and the carriage drivers outside the buildings in the Saint-Germain district, whose idle conversations while waiting often revealed some of Paris's secrets…
Lionel guided Chekhov to observe all kinds of people—workers, clerks, artists, housewives, tramps—observing their joys and sorrows, their struggles and small hopes.
Chekhov gradually understood that to comprehend the world, one first needs to accumulate countless subtle observations of people and things, rather than being prejudiced and binding oneself with grand sentiments.
In the evening, they unfailingly went to Médan to participate in the "Médan Nights," and Chekhov also listened to the remaining stories:
Huysmans recounted an absurd journey of a reluctant soldier caught in the chaos of war, filled with despairing depictions of bureaucracy and individual insignificance;
Henri Céard exposed a corruption scandal during the Siege of Paris, where a high-ranking French officer was seduced by his mistress and neglected his duties;
Léon Hennique described a troop of Prussian soldiers, incited by alcohol and rumors, falling into mass hysteria and slaughtering a brothel.
Paul Alexis narrated a story of a noblewoman who, while searching for her deceased husband's remains on the battlefield, developed a morbid romance with a wounded soldier she encountered.
Each story, from different angles, reflected the absurdity of war, the complexity of human nature, and the pathology of society.
Chekhov absorbed it greedily, his worldview constantly being washed and reshaped.
Finally, on the evening Paul Alexis finished his story, Lionel made a suggestion: "Gentlemen, we have spoken of war, and of human nature.
The atmosphere is just right tonight, so why don't we talk about ourselves? Let's talk about what we were doing before we picked up a pen and became 'writers.'
And what was that most simple reason that first drove us down this path?"
As he spoke, he specifically glanced at Chekhov, and everyone else also smiled knowingly.
Zola was the first to speak, with a hint of self-deprecation: "Ha, before becoming a writer? I was a packer and a GG salesman at 'Hachette Publishing'! Dealing with ledgers and flyers all day long.
Why write? Perhaps because I was too poor, thinking that writing something might earn a few more francs so my mother wouldn't have to worry about bread anymore…"
His reason was so simple that it surprised Chekhov.
Maupassant took a swig of wine and said with a grin, "Me? A small clerk in the Ministry of Education! Copying and writing all day, utterly boring. Writing? At first, it was purely for chasing girls! You know, reciting a love poem or writing a romantic short story for the ladies in the salon worked much better than sending flowers!"
He made no secret of his initial "vulgar" motive, drawing a burst of laughter.
His eyes became a little more serious: "But later, I discovered that observing people and telling stories themselves were full of fun, a thousand times more interesting than those official documents. Especially those lovely girls; they themselves are the best source of stories!"
Huysmans took over: "He was in the Ministry of Education, I was in the Ministry of the Interior. A suffocating place. Writing? Initially, it was to escape that dead silence and hypocrisy. In the piles of documents, I felt like I was rotting…"
After everyone had spoken, all eyes fell on Lionel.
Lionel smiled slightly: "Me? I'm not afraid to make you laugh when I say it — because I was poor! To pay the rent, to stay in Paris for one more day, I started writing, writing a story about an old… the old guard.
Of course, as I wrote, I discovered that the pen could not only bring bread but also make a sound, sting some things, connect some souls… This was probably an unexpected gain."
Chekhov sat in the shadows of the corner, his heart pounding. The starting points of these literary stars he looked up to were so ordinary, even "humble"—for bread, for chasing girls, for escaping dead silence, for satisfying curiosity…
Not a single person initially shouted about wanting to "save the national soul"! Although their works all achieved this.
Something stubborn within him cracked, shattering into pieces…
— — — —
The next day, at Paris's "Saint-Lazare Station," Lionel saw Chekhov off onto the direct train to Moscow, and slipped 100 francs into his pocket, enough for his expenses along the way.
Chekhov's eyes welled up: "No, Mr. Sorel, this is too much…"
Lionel interrupted him, his tone brooking no refusal: "Take it, Anton, this is not charity! I believe that in the future sky of Russian literature, there will certainly be a star belonging to you.
Consider this money as my advance payment for 'royalties.' Go be a good doctor; the rigor of medicine will sharpen your observational skills, and when the time comes, you will naturally know what to write!"
The whistle blew loudly, and the train slowly started. Chekhov leaned his head out the window, waving vigorously at Lionel on the platform, until that tall figure became a small dot in his vision, finally disappearing.
He sat back in the comfortable seat, his fingers tightly clutching the precious train ticket and envelope, no longer feeling lost.
— — — —
Lionel returned home after seeing Chekhov off, feeling lighthearted. Just then, Alice handed him a newspaper: "Leon, quickly look, you're in the newspaper again!"