Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 322 Unexpected Visitor

Lionel stood in the cold air of the Tikhvin cemetery, facing countless pairs of sorrowful eyes gazing at him.

Although he had no paper in his hand, all his words were contained within his chest, rising and falling slightly with his breath.

He spoke, and his voice was exceptionally clear in the silent cemetery.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I stand here on behalf of Mr. Ivan Turgenev in Paris, and my fellow French literary colleagues, to offer my final and deepest condolences to Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky."

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the simple coffin, as if he could see the resting soul inside.

"Just three days ago, in my apartment in Kuznetsky Lane, I witnessed the passing of a great life."

It will be a permanent regret of mine that I did not have the honor of having a conversation with Mr. Dostoevsky.

But I witnessed the final moments of his life—from the beginning filled with the torment of illness to the solemn and peaceful end.

Death, when it befalls such a giant, represents more than just the end of a life; it's like drawing a heavy period to an era.

Lionel raised his eyes, looking at the crowd and the black ocean before him.

"At this moment, here, I don't want to repeat too much about Mr. Dostoevsky's life and the 'suffering' that is omnipresent in his works."

—Although he took the term to an extreme, even describing writing as a 'laborious task.'

It was only then that the others at the Tikhvin cemetery realized the unusual nature of Lionel's eulogy.

If we mention Dostoevsky but don't talk about "suffering," then what should we talk about?
Lionel's voice echoed through the cemetery—

"The Russian writers of this era, whether it be the great Count Leo Tolstoy or Mr. Turgenev who commissioned me to come..."

Their works all explore the contradictions of Russian society and question the fate of the Russian nation; however, Dostoevsky is different.

He wasn't asking 'Where is Russia headed?' but rather 'people,' isolated and helpless people, standing on the edge of an abyss of nothingness, what will they rely on to survive?

He transcended national borders, ethnicities, and even eras, touching upon the deepest anxieties and emptiness of the human soul.

The cold wind swirled snowflakes, rustling through the pines and cypresses of the cemetery, as if echoing his words.

"In this era of 'great development,' humankind has gained unprecedented freedom through the telegraph, trains, ships, political systems, and tools of thought."

The authority of the past—whether religious dogma or the will of leaders—is being questioned and shattered one by one.

This is an era of liberation, an era that celebrates freedom!

However, after we broke these shackles with our own hands, we also encountered the deepest confusion—

Without those definite meanings, can an individual still find a solid reason for their existence?

We entered a vast, desolate wilderness, penniless, experiencing boundless loneliness and a sense of meaninglessness.

Lionel's gaze swept across the crowd, noticing thoughtful and resonant expressions on many faces.

"We are increasingly caught in a huge paradox—"

The newspapers delivered to us every day have already had their news selected by the editors;

The crisscrossing railway network and timetables help us plan our journeys and destinations;
The dazzling array of shop windows and trendy magazines have defined for us what happiness is;
……

We enjoy unprecedented material freedom, but unknowingly, we are also relinquishing the freedom of independent thought.

This paradox was precisely what Dostoevsky discerned and revealed.

The characters he depicts often struggle painfully in this torn relationship between freedom and constraint, resistance and submission.

This dilemma, in different forms, is troubling everyone living in modern civilization today.

It will never go out of style; on the contrary, it becomes more prominent and more piercing to our numb senses as human society becomes increasingly complex.

He paused briefly to allow the people present to digest these somewhat advanced ideas.

"Even so, we can always glimpse a glimmer of light in Dostoevsky's works."

He told us that what truly sustains people through the void is kindness, understanding, and love—like Sonia's sacrifice, Alyosha's sincerity, and Prince Myshkin's compassion.

The power of emotions cannot eradicate the suffering in the world, but it is enough to become a lifeline when an individual is on the verge of collapse.

Dostoevsky never attempted to give us a one-size-fits-all answer, but he made us believe that even in the deepest darkness, salvation still exists.

He never offers readers cheap comfort; instead, he forces them to examine themselves most severely.

When all external meanings, beliefs, and principles collapse and crumble, what can 'I', as an independent individual, rely on to continue to survive?
The tormented souls he depicted—

Dmitry's torment, torn between passion and conscience; Ivan's struggle between reason and faith; Alyosha's faith yet confusion.

"They are not just Russians, but every one of us."

Lionel's speech was nearing its end, but it also seemed to mark a new beginning, a beginning that would prompt the world to re-examine Dostoevsky.

"As time goes by, many writers will either be enshrined in a shrine or placed on a bookshelf, simply for people to admire and collect."

But Dostoevsky will be laid bare forever, because he is like a mirror, faithfully reflecting the human soul.

Fyodor Mihajlovic, may you rest in peace.

Your battle is over, but your battle will never end!

Lionel finished his speech, bowed slightly, and took a step back.

A brief silence fell over the scene, as if his eulogy had emptied the surrounding air.

Immediately, hushed whispers spread like a tide, and many people showed expressions of shock on their faces.

At this moment, Anna, who had been suppressing her grief, slowly stepped forward.

With tears in her eyes, she grasped Lionel's hand tightly and shook it vigorously: "Thank you, Mr. Sorel."

This eulogy... is the best summary of Fyodor's life's work that I have ever heard... He would be pleased if he were alive.

You truly understand him…

Lionel grasped her cold hand and whispered, "Madam, please accept my condolences. Take care of yourself; the children need you."

The funeral continued in a solemn and sorrowful atmosphere until the black soil completely buried the coffin.

The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving this great writer in his eternal resting place.

------

Back in his hotel room, Lionel felt a deep exhaustion, not only physically but also mentally.

Dostoevsky's death, the grand funeral, and the brief eulogy all greatly drained his energy.

He just wanted to stay quietly and wait for the train leaving St. Petersburg in two days to take him back to "warm" Paris.

There are no endless social obligations and flattery there, and you can even enjoy Petty's oxtail soup...

However, things didn't go as planned. Around dusk, there was a knock on the door.

Lionel frowned, thinking it was another invitation from the Alexandrin Theatre to attend some kind of dinner party.

He stood up wearily and opened the door.

A strange man stood outside the door. He was around fifty years old, with a strong build, wearing an expensive mink coat, a velvet top hat, and holding a silver-tipped cane.

Upon seeing Lionel, he greeted him with, "Good evening, Mr. Lionel Sorel!"

Lionel nodded. "It's me. And you are?"

He remained blocking the doorway, showing no intention of inviting the other person in.

The man smiled slightly: "I am Adolf Theodore Márquez."

(End of this chapter)