Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 585 Death will not stop just because spring has arrived!
Paul Lafargue's expression was grave, and Lionel could tell at a glance that he had brought bad news.

"What's wrong?" Lionel asked.

Lafargue sat down and placed the letter on the table: "News from London. Moore has died."

Lionel paused for a moment: "Moore?" Then he realized that "Moore" was the family's affectionate nickname for Mr. Carl.

Yes. I feel it's necessary to tell you this.

Lionel fell silent. He thought back to the turmoil two years ago, when he was unexpectedly "rescued" and taken to London, where he briefly met Karl and Friedrich.

Karl was already ill at that time, and he coughed a lot when he spoke, but his mind was still clear. We talked for a long time about French history and politics.

Now, he's dead too.

Lionel was silent for a moment before asking, "When did this happen?"

Paul Lafargue sighed: "Just yesterday afternoon, March 14th, in London. The funeral is supposed to be the day after tomorrow. I'll be there with Laura tonight."

Lionel hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

Paul Lafargue shook his head: "There's nothing you can do. The British government won't let you in. You're still on their blacklist."

Lionel shook his head helplessly. Yes, he had been expelled and couldn't go to England. He couldn't even attend his friend's funeral.

But he immediately went to his desk, took out a piece of paper, and picked up a quill pen.

Lafargue asked, "Who are you going to write to?"

“Give it to Friedrich. It’s not very useful, but I have to say something.”

He wrote a very short letter:

Dear Mr. Friedrich:
I was deeply saddened to learn of Karl's passing. My brief meeting with you in London two years ago, and the warmth and wisdom you displayed, left a lasting impression on me. His understanding of the world and his pursuit of justice will continue to influence future generations through his works and save countless lives.

Please accept my condolences and take care of yourself.

Your sincerity

Lionel Sorel

He put the letter in an envelope and handed it to Lafargue: "Give this to him for me."

Lafargue took the letter and nodded: "I will."

After he left, Lionel sat alone in the living room, his mind in turmoil.

The streets of Paris outside the window are still bustling with activity, filled with the sounds of horse-drawn carriages, vendors' cries, and people's conversations; life goes on.

But some of them are no longer here.

Doré, Wagner, Marx... In just two months, three masters have passed away.

In April, more bad news arrived—this time it was Édouard Manet.

He had been ill for several years. Syphilis-induced tabes dorsalis had caused paralysis of his lower body, causing him excruciating pain. Doctors were helpless and could only give him opium for pain relief.

Manet passed away on April 30 at the age of fifty-one—the same age as Doré.

The funeral is scheduled for May 3 at Passy Cemetery in Paris.

This funeral was much larger than that of Gustave Doré.

Édouard Manet was, after all, a pioneer of Impressionism. Although he was largely rejected by the "Paris Salon" for most of his life, he had already gained considerable recognition before his death.

Among the attendees were painters, writers, poets, critics, and art collectors.

Lionel went there still in his black suit, leaning on his cane. Zola was there too, along with the poet Stefan Mallarmé.

Several Impressionist painters came—Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Claude Monet, Camille Pissarro, and Edgar Degas.

The coffin was carried by four people—Antonin Proust, Émile Zola, the painter Bottega Veneta, and Claude Monet.

The four people guarded the four corners of the coffin and slowly walked towards the tomb.

Lionel stood in the crowd, watching it all. Édouard Manet's funeral was far more grand than Doré's, with eulogies delivered one after another.

Zola spoke at length, Mallarmé read a poem, and Monet and Pissarro also said quite a bit.

Lionel felt exhausted. Not just physically, but also emotionally. Attending funerals one after another, saying goodbye to people he knew—it was a difficult experience.

He remembered the painting "Bar at the Goddess's Playground," which still hung in the living room of his apartment.

The bar girl in the painting stares blankly ahead, with a blurry crowd of revelers in the background.

Édouard Manet keenly captured the dizzying feeling of modern life, the loneliness amidst the hustle and bustle.

The painting is still there, but the painter is gone.

After the funeral, Lionel did not leave with the crowd. He waited until most people had left before slowly walking to Manet's tombstone.

The engravings on it are still fresh: Édouard Manet, 1832-1883.

He turned fifty-one again. Born in 1832, he died in 1883. Doré was also born in 1832.

Lionel knew that, historically, another master would pass away this year, and he even remembered the exact time…

Suddenly I felt a surge of unease and agitation.

As they left the cemetery, Émile Zola caught up from behind: "Léon, wait."

Lionel stopped, and Zola walked to his side. The two walked side by side on the path in Passy Cemetery.

Zola patted him on the shoulder: “You haven’t looked well these past few days.” Lionel replied honestly: “Too many people have left. Doré, Wagner, Karl, now Manet… one every month.”

Zola sighed: "At our age, we're starting to say goodbye to the previous generation. You already said goodbye to Flaubert and Dostoevsky, and now it's Doré and Manet... and there will be more to come."

Lionel looked sadly at his "brother" in the literary world, who of course knew the time of Zola's death.

In 1898, after defending Jewish officer Dreyfus, Zola was sentenced to a year in prison by a French court and subsequently went into exile in England.

Zola was able to return to his country a year later. But in 1902, he died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his apartment.

Although some suspect that Zola was murdered by his political enemies, there is a lack of evidence.

Lionel nodded. "I know. That's why I feel the urgency."

"urgent?"

Lionel gripped his cane tightly: "Life is too short. Doré could have painted more, Manet could have painted more, but they didn't have time. I don't want to wait until I'm fifty to find that I haven't done the things I wanted to do."

Zola glanced at him: "So you've started learning fencing? I heard in the salon that someone met you at the fencing hall in Mérignac."

"Yes. I started learning in March, and now the master's son, Lucien, is teaching me."

Zola laughed: "I thought you would choose a gentler sport."

Lionel shook his head: "Fencing is the most practical. And it keeps me alert."

Zola nodded and asked no further questions. The two walked to the entrance of the cemetery, where a carriage was waiting for Zola.

Before getting into the car, Zola said, "By the way, Goncourt wants to organize a dinner for just the few of us. It's scheduled for next Friday at his house."

"Okay, I'll go."

Zola got into the carriage and left. Lionel, on the other hand, stopped a taxi and said to the driver, "To Bougeval, Madame Viardo's Lefrene estate."

The coachman nodded; for them, the addresses of most Parisian celebrities were memorized.

The carriage drove through the streets of Paris. Early May in Paris was already springtime; tender buds were sprouting on the treetops, and flower stalls along the streets displayed blooming flowers.

People also took off their heavy coats and put on light spring clothes, full of energy.

But Lionel's mind was still filled with those funeral scenes—Doré's simple grave, Manet's solemn farewell, and Marx's funeral, which he was unable to attend.

Death does not stop just because spring has arrived!
He leaned against the carriage and closed his eyes. Only four months of the year had passed; there were still eight months to go…

The carriage traveled west along the Seine, passing through the Bois de Boulogne, where the fields on either side of the road gradually opened up.

About an hour later, the coachman pulled on the reins: "Sir, we have arrived at Lefrene Estate."

Lionel got out of the car, and the wrought iron gates of the manor were wide open, with a gravel driveway winding into the depths.

He could see the main house in the distance—an elegant Palladio villa with white walls and large windows.

Lionel explained his purpose to the doorman. Upon hearing that he had come to visit "Mr. Russia," the doorman pointed out the way: "Go along this road, around the main house, and his little cabin is behind it."

Madame Vialdo had instructed that anyone coming to see him could come straight in.

Lionel thanked him, leaned on his cane, and walked inside. He went around the main house and came to a neatly manicured lawn. At the end of the lawn stood a wooden house.

It was a small log cabin that was half Russian country style and half Swiss mountain style. The wooden walls were made of large round logs, and the joints were plastered with white mud.

The roof had a steep slope and was covered with dark shingles. The window frames were painted green, and several pots of geraniums, blooming bright red, sat on the windowsill.

There was a small porch in front of the house, with a wicker chair and a small round table. This was Turgenev's residence, where he had lived for nine years.

As Lionel approached, the door to the cabin opened. A petite woman, in her fifties, stepped out, wearing a grey dress and her hair pulled back in a bun.

Her face wasn't particularly beautiful, but her eyes were exceptionally bright, and her posture was dignified and upright—traces left by years of stage experience.

That was Polina Viardo, one of the most famous mezzo-sopranos in Europe, the woman Turgenev loved for forty years.

She was surprised to see Lionel: "Mr. Sorel? What brings you here?"

Lionel took off his hat: "Mrs. Viardo, I've come to visit Ivan Sergeyevich."

Polina nodded. "Please come in. But please keep your voice down; he's not feeling well today."

Lionel entered the cabin. The small living room contained only a sofa, a few armchairs, and a bookshelf crammed with Russian and French books.

Several photos were also displayed on the mantel: a young Turgenev, a stage photo of Polina, and a group photo of the three of them—Turgenev, Polina, and her husband Louis Viardo.

Polina pointed to a slightly ajar door: "He's in the bedroom. Go in yourself. I'll go make you some tea."

Lionel nodded, gently pushed open the bedroom door, and immediately saw Turgenev lying on the bed, covered with a thin blanket.

He was much thinner than when he saved Chekhov a year ago, almost unrecognizable, with sunken cheeks, prominent cheekbones, and sparse white beard plastered to his face.

Turgenev's voice was weak: "Leon, you've come..."

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　The Château de Lefrene in Bougeval, a suburb west of Paris, was Turgenev's final residence. This wooden house is located on a estate owned by Polina Vialdo.
　　He spent the last nine years of his life here (1874-1883), and created important works such as "Virgin Soil" and "Prose Poems" here.

　　In 1874, Turgenev purchased the property in Burzhval, but later sold it to Polina Viardo, retaining the usufruct rights for himself.

　　In 1875, he built his own small wooden cabin, "Dacha," behind the main house as a separate residence, located on the same estate as Polina's "Palladian Villa," but as separate buildings. Turgenev met Polina in St. Petersburg in 1843 and fell in love at first sight.

　　Polina was a married woman with a happy marriage, and Turgenev maintained a friendly relationship with her family.

　　Turgenev never married, dedicating his only true love to Polina.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)