Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 148 Hope is neither something that exists nor something that doesn't exist.
The next morning, Lionel borrowed the family's gentle packhorse from his father and headed to "Rorschach Farm" along the mountain path he remembered.

That's Alice's house.

Lionel did not rush to finish writing "Hometown"; he needed to deepen his feelings about this land.

The two-hour ride was filled with magnificent mountain scenery and fresh air, but the mountain roads were rugged and uneven. Lionel also saw abandoned fields and deserted farmhouses, which made him feel increasingly heavy-hearted.

Rorschach Farm, nestled on a sunny hillside, was even more dilapidated than Lionel remembered.

The stone walls need repair, the wooden fences are leaning precariously, and even a corner of the cowshed roof has collapsed.

Étienne Rorschach was milking cows when he heard the sound of horses' hooves. He looked up, his face filled with surprise: "Lional? The son of the Sorel family?"

He stood up and wiped his hands on his coarse cloth trousers: "I heard you've made a name for yourself in Paris."

Mrs. Rorschach came out of the house at the sound, her apron covered in flour. When she saw Lionel, she hurriedly tidied her hair and clothes, as if a nobleman had suddenly come to visit.

Lionel dismounted, exchanged a few brief pleasantries, and then the topic turned to Alice—he did not rashly reveal that Alice was with him.

Mrs. Rorschach's tears fell silently: "It's been more than half a year! Not a single word! That damned parish priest!"
They said the Virgin Mary miraculously cured my illness and insisted that we send one of our daughters to become a nun...

We were completely bewitched! We thought it was God's will!

Etienne clutched his hair in anguish: "Something bad must have happened to her, otherwise why would she disappear without a trace... or... or maybe she simply..."

He couldn't continue; the speculation that his daughter might be dead or had fallen into prostitution terrified him so much that he lost his voice.

While offering kind words of comfort, Lionel observed the expressions of the two, and then said sincerely, "Mr. Rorschach, Mrs. Rorschach, please don't despair completely."

I know some people in Paris; perhaps…perhaps I can find out some information. I will do my best to find Alice's whereabouts.

These words were like a ray of light, instantly illuminating the couple's ashen faces: "Really? You...you're really willing to help?"

Lionel nodded solemnly. "I will do my best. However, to make it easier to find her, I need some documents that can prove Alice's identity, such as her birth certificate, baptism record, and so on."

The more detailed the better. With this information, it will be easier to ask around.

Etienne quickly replied, "Yes! Yes! I'll go get it for you right away!"

He quickly came out carrying an old wooden box, inside which were carefully Alice's birth certificate and baptismal certificate.

Etienne carefully handed the documents to Lionel, as if he were entrusting his daughter's future to her.

Etienne's voice was filled with humility and pleading: "Please, Lionel..."

Lionel solemnly accepted the box, nodded, mounted his horse, and, not daring to look any longer at those two expectant eyes, rode away.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Lionel needed Alice's identity documents; they were obviously very useful.

But today's visit to Alice's house stirred up his memories again—not only was the farm dilapidated, but Alice's two older brothers and one younger brother were all not at home.

The farm was still fertile, but it could no longer support a family of six.

Almost all the boys went to the "city"—the furthest was in Lyon, and the closest was in Gapob.

Lionel experienced France beyond Paris more concretely.

Once they left the plains, life became exceptionally difficult for the farmers; these places, as the mayor put it, were "dying."

Therefore, the tone of "My Hometown" gradually shifted from the joy of childhood to a somber and melancholic one.

My heart was pounding, but I didn't know where to begin. I could only manage to squeeze out, "Ah! Luntu!—It's you! You've come..."

I immediately wanted to ask about those past events: trout, mushrooms, badgers, wild boars, grapes... but all the words were stuck in my throat, churning in my mind, and I couldn't utter a single one.

He stopped, a mixture of joy and sorrow on his face; his lips moved a few times, but he remained silent.

Finally, his attitude became respectful, and he clearly called out, "Master..."

A chill ran down my spine; I knew then that a pitifully thick barrier had separated us. I couldn't utter another word.

Although Luntu called himself "Young Master" yesterday, in the context of the novel, "I" am older and in my prime, so "Master" is more appropriate and impactful.

He turned around and shouted at the person behind him, "Pierre, come here and greet the master!"

Then he pulled out a child who was hiding from behind.

That was exactly like Luntu from twenty years ago, only his complexion was more sallow and haggard, and he no longer had that small bronze statue of the Virgin Mary around his neck.

"This is the fifth child. He's never seen much of the world and always looks so timid and hesitant..."

If there's anything about "My Hometown" that fills you with both despair and hope, it's the children.

The older generation instills strict hierarchical concepts in their children; however, there is still a lot of genuine affection between the children.

That's why we need to "save the children".

Even in Paris, where republican ideals are strongest, many people in France today still aspire to aristocracy.

In rural areas, many gentlemen whose names contain the character "德" (virtue) still hold important positions.

Only through the subtle influence of each generation can these ideas gradually fade away.

Luntu just shook his head silently; the deep wrinkles on his face, etched by the fire, the mountain wind, and his sorrow, were like stone.

He probably only felt bitterness, but couldn't find any words to describe it.

After a long silence, he pulled out the short clay pipe from his waist and began to smoke silently.

……

Luntu took his leave with the child. My mother and I couldn't help but sigh at his plight.

“Sigh… He’s had one child after another, but there’s only so much land, and it’s getting thinner and thinner with each division; last year’s rye harvest was already bad, but the interest on the mill’s loan was outrageously high; the government’s tax bills keep coming, with more and more categories; I heard they’re going to conscript new soldiers again, I wonder if it will be his eldest son’s turn… And that new tax collector is even more demanding than before… These things, one after another, are really tormenting him like a soulless puppet.”

The mother spoke softly, her eyes filled with pity and helplessness.

The cause of Luntu's suffering was the Parisian "gentlemen"—arrogant, haughty, and incompetent... who then lost the war and made a mess of the country.

But in the end, it is these silent farmers who bear the consequences.

Lionel sighed, then suddenly thought of the recently passed education bill, the still-debated bill for free compulsory primary education, and Alice, whose eyes lit up at the mention of women's normal schools...

Suddenly, I felt that the future wasn't so bleak after all.

But how long will the night last before the light arrives?

Lionel flicked his quill and wrote the final few lines—

In my hazy vision, a hillside of terraced vineyards unfolded before me, with a golden full moon hanging in the deep blue sky above.

I think: Hope is neither something that inherently exists, nor something that inherently doesn't exist. It's like a path on the ground; originally, there was no path, but as more people walk on it, it becomes a path.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The next morning, Lionel took two envelopes to Larangue and prepared to send them to Paris by the fastest postal courier.

The thick letter was for Alice in the "Meitang Villa". I believe that after copying the contents of this letter, she will feel much more at ease.

The other thin letter was for Sophie, who was still working at "Orbi Trading Company." She would surely be happy to see it...

As for Lionel, he hired a guide to take him to a remote place where the oldest monastery in Larané—the Notre-Dame de la Lour.

That's where Alice "became a nun".

　I've always believed that plagiarism shouldn't be done out of thin air, so these chapters about "My Hometown" had to be written in conjunction with Lionel's observations and experiences in his hometown. Furthermore, all the rural and peasant issues in France in 1879 are not fabricated; they all have sources. Surprisingly, this fits "My Hometown" perfectly.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)