Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 584 This is true eternity!
This is the funeral of Gustave Doré. He died three days ago from a heart attack at the age of fifty-one.

Lionel looked at the simple oak coffin in front of him, feeling a tightness in his chest.

He collaborated with Gustave Doré several times—not only on the poster for "Thunderstorm," but also on illustrations from Doré's studio in many of his later works.

This master of illustration and printmaking always manages to accurately capture the emotions in words and transform them into images using lines and light and shadow.

But now, those hands that once drew Dante's Inferno, Don Quixote, and scenes from the Bible can no longer hold a pencil.

Lionel looked around. There weren't many people there, maybe fifty or sixty, mostly from the publishing industry—editors, booksellers, engravers, and illustrators.

He recognized a few faces; they were from "Charpentier's Bookshelf" and "Hachette".

The rest were ordinary citizens, dressed in simple black clothes, holding hats in their hands, standing quietly.

There were no government officials, no members of the French Academy of Fine Arts, and no critics who would pontificate in the salon.

Lionel recalled Doré's comments during his lifetime—"a genius craftsman," "a commercial painter," "too worldly."

From an academic perspective, his paintings were never "pure" or "noble" enough, and were unworthy of appearing at the "Paris Salon".

Because he earns money by illustrating books, and because his works are printed in thousands of books; and because ordinary people can buy those prints and put them on their walls.

But it is these “ordinary people” who have arrived today.

A tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed gray beard walked to the coffin. It was Ferdinand Foch, Doré's good friend and the executor of his will.

Ferdinand Foch began: “We are here today to bid farewell to Gustave Doré. He lived to be fifty-one and painted for forty-one years. He left behind more paintings than most of us have spoken.”

The crowd listened quietly.

"He's unmarried and has no children. His mother passed away four years ago, and he's been living alone in his studio, painting from morning till night. Some say he works too hard, but he knows those stories are waiting to be painted—"

Dante's Hell, Don Quixote's adventures, the miracles of the Bible... he couldn't stop.

Ferdinand Foch paused, looking at the crowd: "According to custom, a renowned painter or official should deliver a eulogy for him. But there seems to be no one here today. So I would like to ask another friend to say a few words—Mr. Lionel Sorel."

He said more than once during his lifetime that Mr. Sorel was his most admired young writer, and that the poster for "Thunderstorm" was the best play poster he had ever designed.

All eyes turned to Lionel instantly. Lionel nodded, and without hesitation, he stepped forward, leaning on his cane, and stood beside the coffin.

He looked at those faces—people from the publishing industry, ordinary citizens, and a few young illustrators, their eyes red.

Dore's coffin was simple, without much decoration, just like his life, pure and focused.

Lionel's voice was somewhat low: "Gustave Doré was not an 'illustrator,' he was a pioneer in telling stories through images. In his fifty-one years of life, he left behind more than ten thousand works—"

This number sounds large, but what's truly large is the flame he ignited in each of our imaginations.

He paused for a moment, and seeing the thoughtful expressions on people's faces, he continued:
"When we open the Divine Comedy, we see the abyss of hell, the mountains of purgatory, and the light of heaven—that is not just Dante's imagination, but something that Doré helped Dante draw with lines and shadows."

When we read *Don Quixote*, we see the skinny knight and the fat squire, we see windmills and flocks of sheep—it's not just Cervantes's story; it's Doré who brought the story to life through his visuals.

"He gave shape to words, color to stories, and outline to imagination."

Lionel turned to look at the coffin: "Many people say his paintings are 'too popular' and 'too commercial.' But I want to ask, if art can't be understood by ordinary people, then who is art for?"

If a painting can only hang in a salon and be critiqued by a few critics, is it truly more noble than an illustration held in the hands of thousands of readers?

Some in the crowd nodded, and many of Gustave Doré's colleagues exchanged glances, seeing the fire in each other's eyes.

"Gustave Doré was a painter of the people. His paintings were not for the 'masters' of the French Academy of Fine Arts, but for everyone who opened a book."

Children who look at his paintings will dream of adventure; the elderly who look at his paintings will recall the dreams of their youth. His paintings live on in every book's pages, live on in every story.

Lionel took a deep breath and said finally:

“There are no important figures or official representatives here today. But you are here—you are the ones who truly understand the value of Gustave Doré.”

"He may not be inducted into the Hall of Fame of the French Academy of Fine Arts. But fifty years from now, a hundred years from now, when people open those classics, they will still see Doré's paintings."

"This is true eternity!"

He finished speaking. No one applauded—applause is not appropriate at funerals. But many people looked at him with approval and gratitude in their eyes.

Ferdinand Foch came up, hugged Lionel, and whispered, "Thank you. You said it for him, even though he couldn't say it himself."

The funeral continued. The coffin was placed in the grave and covered with soil. People left one after another; some would place a flower in front of the tombstone, while others would simply stand silently for a while.

Lionel was the last to leave. He stood before Doré's tombstone, looking at the newly engraved name: Gustave Doré, 1832-1883.

Fifty-one years old. In this era, that's not considered short-lived, but it's not considered long-lived either.

Lionel suddenly remembered the day he was shot. The bullet had pierced his left leg, blood gushed out, and the pain felt like it was on fire.

If that bullet had been slightly off target and hit an artery, he would be lying in a graveyard now.

He was twenty-six years old this year. Doré died at fifty-one, only twenty-five years apart. Twenty-five years sounds like a long time, but it passes in the blink of an eye.

Lionel gripped his cane tightly, the lion's eyes on its tip staring coldly ahead. ——————————

Back at his apartment at 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain, Lionel was sullen for several days.

Sophie noticed. That evening at dinner, she asked, "Are you still thinking about Mr. Dorrey?"

Lionel nodded: "He's only fifty-one. He can still paint many more paintings."

Alice served the soup and said softly, "My grandfather also died at the age of fifty. He had lung disease, and the doctors couldn't do much about it."

That's just how times are. There's only one vaccine available: cowpox. The medications are rudimentary and dangerous; even a minor infection can be fatal.

The same is true for artists—their dissolute lifestyles, irregular schedules, and the terrible air and water quality in Paris mean that many of them don't live past fifty.

Lionel thought of himself. He had been shot and survived, but his body was clearly not what it used to be. The wound on his left leg still ached faintly.

He can't go on like this!
The next morning, Lionel said to Sophie at the breakfast table, "I'm going to start exercising!"

Sophie was taken aback: "Exercise?"

“Yes. Monsieur Doré died at fifty; Monsieur Turgenev is almost there too; Zola coughs all the time; Maupassant… let’s not talk about him. I don’t want that.”

"But how do you 'exercise'?" Sophie was a little unfamiliar with the word.

Lionel also considered this question.

In 1883 Paris, there were no professional sports stadiums like those of today, nor swimming pools—the Seine was dirty and smelly, and no one would swim in it.

There are only a few popular sports: horseback riding, fencing, hunting, rowing, and cycling, which has recently become popular.

He had a bicycle, but it was too cold to ride one in winter, and the road conditions in Paris were not very comfortable for his buttocks, which would also hinder the recovery of his leg injury.

Riding horses in Paris is not as free as in the Alps. Not only do you need to buy a horse, but you also need to rent a stable and hire a groom... It's too much trouble.

Hunting requires going to the mountains or countryside, which can take up several weeks, and he doesn't have that much time.

So the only option left was... Lionel looked at the cane in the corner, inside which was a rapier.

Fencing is a great way to exercise and learn self-defense skills. Plus, Paris has fencing halls everywhere, making it a well-established sport.

“I want to learn fencing,” Lionel said. “I’ll go once my leg heals.”

Sophie asked with some concern, "Are your legs okay?"

"The doctor said I'll be able to move around normally in another month. I can take it slow."

Alice poked her head out from the kitchen: "Leon, are you going to be a swordsman?"

Lionel smiled. "Just learning some techniques. You can't always rely on luck to miss."

He decided that once his leg injury had healed by the end of February, he would find a swordplay school.

But the news of deaths did not stop.

On February 13, 1883, a newspaper published a news item: German opera master Richard Wagner died in Venice at the age of sixty-nine.

Lionel was having coffee with Debussy when he saw the news. The young composer turned pale instantly.

Debussy murmured, "Wagner...is he dead?"

Lionel pushed the copy of Le Figaro toward him: "It's written in the newspaper."

Debussy quickly finished reading, put down the newspaper, and remained silent for a long time. He was only twenty years old, and Wagner had a great influence on him—

Although he has always wanted to break free from this influence and find his own voice.

Debussy concluded by saying, "I haven't heard Parsifal yet. I was in Paris when it premiered last year, and I didn't go to Bayreuth."

"There will be other opportunities to hear about it in the future."

Debussy shook his head and sighed: "It's different now. When a composer dies, his work is frozen in time. There will never be another."

Lionel understood what he meant. Wagner's death marked the end of an era. The golden age of German opera may have ended with him.

The two finished their coffee in silence. When Debussy left, his figure looked somewhat desolate.

Lionel returned to his apartment and sat at his desk. He remembered hearing Wagner's music—not in this era, of course.

Those grand musical movements, those mythological themes, those innovations in harmony. Now, the people who composed that music are gone.

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But death is like a shadow, always following us.

One afternoon in mid-March, Paul Lafargue arrived.

(First update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets!)
(End of this chapter)