Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 321 The Death of Dostoevsky (Bonus Chapter 3)

A full half hour passed before Dostoevsky's lips moved slightly twice.

Anna leaned in and put her ear to his mouth; after a moment, she glanced back at Lionel.

Then she began to whisper a few words to her husband. Although Lionel couldn't understand them, he knew that she was introducing herself.

Dostoevsky slowly opened his eyes and looked at Lionel, who was sitting by the bed: "I'm sorry... Mr. Sorel... for making you see me like this..."

I really want to talk to you. I've read your novels... but my time is running out... Death... I can already see him sitting in this room..."

This vivid rhetoric startled Lionel, who immediately stood up.

He leaned closer and said sincerely, "Mr. Dostoevsky, please don't say that."

If there's anything I can do to help, even something small, please don't hesitate to ask.

The writer shook his head slightly, as if he was losing the strength to speak.

He closed his eyes again, rested for a while, and then turned to his wife, beginning to give his last instructions in fits and starts.

Lionel stood quietly to the side; he couldn't understand Russian and could only memorize everything with his eyes.

He watched as this literary giant, whom he had studied and analyzed countless times in textbooks and papers in his previous life, now revealed his final vulnerability without any concealment.

Around 6 p.m., Dostoevsky seemed to be in better spirits.

He called the children to him—his son Fedia and his daughter Lyuba.

With trembling hands, he stroked their hair and prayed for the children as he lay dying.

Then he had Anna bring him a Gospel and open it.

Anna, suppressing her grief, began to read the contents aloud to him.

After listening, Dostoevsky solemnly gave the Gospels to his son Fedia.

However, this brief calm seemed to be an illusion before the storm; soon after, he began vomiting blood again, even more violently than before.

He then lost consciousness.

Around 8 p.m., a priest was invited to give Dostoevsky his last prayers.

At 8:30, death arrived—

Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky stopped breathing.

The room was filled with Anna and the children's suppressed sobs.

Lionel lowered his head silently, his heart filled with indescribable shock and sorrow.

He once again witnessed the end of an era and the passing of a great soul.

Flaubert's death was something he had been mentally prepared for because there had been a "preview" of it.

Dostoevsky's death, however, was completely unplanned.

Lionel certainly knew Dostoevsky's birth and death dates, but who keeps those numbers in mind all the time?
He was experiencing very mixed emotions, unsure whether he should regret his visit.

Until 10 p.m., Lionel helped Anna deal with the initial chaos and comforted the frightened children...

It wasn't until relatives arrived that he left the home, shrouded in immense sorrow, with a heavy heart.

That night, Lionel didn't sleep a wink...

The next day, news of Dostoevsky's death spread like wildfire throughout St. Petersburg and was quickly transmitted by telegram to Paris and the rest of Europe.

The European literary world was shaken, and telegrams of condolence poured into St. Petersburg.

Before long, relatives and friends began to arrive at No. 5-2 Kuznetsky Lane to pay their respects.

The writer's body was placed on a bier in the center of the study, surrounded by an eternal lamp and large candles. On January 30, 1881, the famous painter Ivan Kramskoi arrived and drew a pencil sketch of the deceased, capturing his suffering and grief.

On the same day, photographer Constantine Sapino also took photos of the deceased lying in their coffins.

For three whole days, a steady stream of people came to offer their condolences.

A dense flow of people entered through the main entrance, while another flow poured into the various rooms through the back door, pausing in the study.

Sometimes, the air there is so polluted and oxygen so scarce that the eternal flames and large candles around the coffin go out.

Lionel also visited Dostoevsky's home again, joining the mourners.

He saw officials sent by Tsar Alexander the Great of Russia, who announced that the government would provide funeral expenses and cover the cost of his children's education.

Anna Grigoryevna, however, declined the financial assistance for the funeral expenses, insisting on using the money her husband had earned to bury him and educate their children.

Since Lionel was the only well-known French writer in St. Petersburg at the time, he soon received a telegram from Paris.

The sources, Ivan Turgenev and the French Writers' Association respectively, contain the same content:

He was entrusted to deliver a eulogy at Dostoevsky's funeral as a representative of Turgenev personally and of the French literary world.

This was a heavy honor, and he had to express the sorrow of his French counterpart for this master whom he had long admired but had only met once.

January 31, 1881, a sunny Saturday.

The funeral procession departed from Dostoevsky's home at 11:00 a.m. and headed to the Alexander Nevsky Monastery.

Lionel arrived at the scene early, knowing that this would be a funeral to "canonize" the deceased.

From then on, holding grand funerals for famous writers became a Russian tradition.

He saw that thousands of people had already gathered at the alley entrance and along the streets.

Students held up wreaths tied with black veils, and various crosses and flags waved in the crowd.

People waited quietly, their faces etched with genuine grief and reluctance. Such a magnificent and moving scene was unprecedented in St. Petersburg.

When the coffin was carried out, the crowd stirred, with many people trying to touch it or throw flowers at it.

The funeral procession moved slowly along Vladimir Street toward Nevsky Street.

Lionel walked near the front of the group, where he could hear suppressed sobs and see people peering out of windows of buildings along the way.

Lionel saw all sorts of people: intellectuals, students, workers, lower-middle-class citizens, nobles...

In stark contrast to the affected praise in the salon, this silence is the best evaluation of the writer's life.

The sunlight shone on the snow, reflecting a blinding white light that contrasted sharply with the black funeral procession.

After a slow two-hour journey, the group finally arrived at the Tikhvin Cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky Monastery.

More people have gathered around the tomb, including almost all of St. Petersburg's cultural luminaries, and some have even come from Moscow.

The funeral ceremony was solemn and dignified.

One friend after another gave their speeches, and finally it was Lionel's turn.

Lionel took a deep breath and walked to the front of the crowd.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo, and his tall and straight figure made him stand out among the many Russian faces.

Countless gazes were focused on him, some curious, some expectant, and some scrutinizing.

He glanced around at the somber crowd, then his gaze fell upon the simple coffin, and began his eulogy.

(The late-night update, which I had taken a break from, is now finished.)
(End of this chapter)