Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 586 Do you believe in eternal love?
Lionel walked to the bedside, pulled up a chair and sat down: "I'm here, Ivan Sergeyevich."

“Don’t use honorifics…not now.” Turgenev tried to raise his hand to shake hands with Lionel, but he couldn’t even manage that.

He could only apologize to Lionel, saying, "Leon, sit closer. It's a little difficult for me to speak."

Lionel moved his chair closer. He noticed that Turgenev's hands were not only swollen at the joints and had a sallow complexion, but were also covered with black and brown patches.

Turgenev now pauses to catch his breath after every few words: "You... your *The Sinking of the Titan*, I read it. Polina read it to me. Very good... the ending... Rose... changed her name to Rose Juniper..."

Thank you. I'm glad you like it.

Turgenev's already clouded eyes gleamed: "Changing one's name... is not betrayal... but rebirth. Everyone has the right... to choose who they are."

He strained his eyes to look at Lionel: "You understand this, but too many people don't. They're unwilling to choose for themselves, and they forbid others from choosing."

Lionel didn't speak; he knew what Turgenev was talking about—for forty years, the Russian writer had loved a married woman.

He followed her from one country to another, living in her estate, yet always maintaining a polite distance.

This is not a relationship that ordinary people can understand. Even in France, it faces considerable criticism.

Turgenev suddenly asked, "Polina...is she still outside?"

"She went to prepare tea."

“Well…she’s always taken care of me.” Turgenev’s voice was even softer. “It’s been too long…forty years. I should let her rest.”

"She is willing to take care of you."

Turgenev shook his head slightly: "I know. That's why... it's even more painful... she's suffered so much..."

A sudden, violent coughing fit struck. Turgenev's entire body convulsed, and his face turned bright red.

Lionel instinctively wanted to help him up, but didn't know how.

Polina strode in, carrying water and medicine. She skillfully helped Turgenev up, let him lean on her shoulder, fed him water, and patted his back.

Turgenev's cough gradually subsided, and he slumped back onto his pillow, still breathing rapidly.

"I'm sorry..." he said breathlessly.

"Don't talk." Polina wiped his forehead with a damp cloth, her movements as gentle as if she were handling a child.

She looked at Lionel, her eyes filled with complex emotions: "You see. His health is deteriorating day by day."

Lionel nodded. He had indeed seen it. Turgenev's eyes were already cloudy, and life was rapidly slipping away from his body.

Polina fed Turgenev a small spoonful of the medicine paste, and after he calmed down and fell into a deep sleep, she gestured for Lionel to go out with her.

The two returned to the living room. Polina closed the door and sat down on the sofa. Her straight back finally swayed slightly.

Polina put it bluntly: "The doctor said he wouldn't make it through the fall. Spinal cancer, the pain started last year, and now even opium doesn't help. In winter he could still walk on the lawn, but now..."

Lionel stared at the woman: "You look tired."

Polina smiled. "It's been forty years, since I first met him in St. Petersburg in 1843. I was twenty-four then, and he was twenty-five. I had just gotten married."

She looked out the window, her gaze drifting far away: "Louis was a good man. He understood. The three of us... became a strange family. Ivan followed us from Russia to Germany, and then to France."

He's always around, but he never crosses the line. He built this cabin, saying he wanted his own space. But actually… he just didn't want to be a burden to me.

"Do you love him?" Lionel asked, realizing how abrupt the question was.

But Polina wasn't angry. She thought for a moment and said slowly, "There are many kinds of love. My feelings for Ivan... he's like a precious and fragile piece of porcelain."

He's too sensitive, too easily hurt. So when the world hurt him, I wanted to protect him. Forty years have passed, and I've gotten used to it.

At this point, she stood up: "The tea should be ready. Please have a seat for a while."

After Polina left, Lionel began to carefully examine the living room.

He noticed that besides books, the bookshelf also displayed some Russian trinkets—painted wooden boxes, ceramic dolls, and a copper samovar.

There was also a small painting hanging on the living room wall, depicting a snowy scene in the Russian countryside.

Although Turgenev lived in France and considered himself a German in spirit, his roots were ultimately in Russia.

Before his health collapsed, he would go back to live there for a few months every year, and incidentally argue with Tolstoy.

A short while later, Polina returned with a tea tray, on which two exquisite porcelain cups were steaming.

Polina placed one of the cups on the coffee table in front of Lionel: "This is authentic Chinese black tea."

Lionel picked it up and took a sip. The familiar yet unfamiliar taste hit his nose. It was indeed "stewed tea," not the boiled tea popular in England.

What surprised him even more was that the cup contained genuine Chinese black tea, and it should be from Wuyi Mountain, not some counterfeit product from Ceylon, India.

The two began to drink tea in silence. In the distance, birdsong could be heard, along with the faint sound of boat horns on the Seine.

It was a quiet afternoon, but the room was filled with the impending farewell. Polina put down her cup and suddenly said, "He will die in the autumn. Russians consider autumn a season of farewell. Leaves fall, migratory birds fly away, and everything prepares for hibernation. Ivan said he wanted to die in the autumn."

Lionel recalled Turgenev's prose poems. Those short words were filled with contemplation on nature, life, and death.

He did indeed die in the autumn, perhaps the writer had a premonition.

Is he still writing?

Polina took a notebook out of the drawer: "Oral. I'm recording it. This is what he said last week."

Lionel took it and looked at it. The paper was written in French, which he recognized:

When I was a child, I believed in eternity. Now I know that eternity can also be a fleeting moment. A sunset, a smile, a word… these can all last longer than a lifetime.

Pain is strange. It makes you focus on your body, yet it also detaches you from it. I float in the pain, seeing myself lying in bed like a stranger.

……

Lionel closed the notebook. These words were so personal, like Turgenev recounting his own life.

Lionel handed the notebook back to Polina: "Will he publish these?"

Polina shook her head: "I don't know. Maybe after I die. Right now... these are just his words, and I'm writing them down. Like preserving a sound."

There was a slight noise from the bedroom. Polina immediately stood up. "He's awake. Would you like to go in again?"

Lionel nodded. He followed Polina back to the bedroom.

Turgenev seemed a bit more sober than before. He looked at Lionel and asked, "Have you had your tea...?"

"I drank it, and it tastes great."

"Polina's tea... is always very good."

Lionel leaned closer to Turgenev: "Ivan, is there anything I can do to help you? Anything at all."

Turgenev gazed at his young friend, as if he could see his own youth reflected in his face, the days he had spent with Mikhail and the others.

After a long silence, he shook his head: "No, Leon, you've done enough for me. In St. Petersburg, you saw Fedia (Tuo) off for me; last year, you rescued Anton from prison."

No young Frenchman has done more for Russian literature than you. I am always grateful for everything you have done.

Turgenev suddenly remembered something and took a breath: "Leon... if there is anything I need to ask you for help... there is indeed one."

"You said."

“After I die… I’ll be transported back to St. Petersburg… Russia will have a funeral, an official one… like Fedya’s… But here… in France… I want a small funeral. Quietly. Polina will arrange it… but if you can come…”

Lionel nodded solemnly: "I will definitely come."

Upon hearing this answer, Turgenev relaxed and closed his eyes: "Thank you. There's nothing more... My whole life..."

Before he could finish speaking, his voice gradually faded, and his breathing became steady, as if he had fallen asleep. But his lips were still slightly moving, as if he were dreaming.

Polina gestured for Lionel to leave again, and the two returned to the living room.

Polina said softly, "He spoke a lot today, whereas he usually barely says a few words a day. He's in so much pain. Your presence seems to have made him forget his suffering."

"Ivan knew he was going to leave this world."

Polina looked out the window at the Seine: "He said he wasn't afraid of death, just regretful... that there were still so many stories he hadn't written. He said those stories were in his mind, like birds in a cage; now the cage is breaking, and the birds can't fly out."

Lionel remained silent. For a writer, perhaps the cruelest thing is not death itself, but the unborn stories that die with it.

Lionel stood up, holding his cane and hat. "I should go. Let him rest. You should rest well too."

Polina walked him to the edge of the lawn. As they parted, she suddenly asked, "Mr. Sorel, do you believe in eternal love?"

Lionel thought for a moment: "I believe that some people will leave an eternal mark on our lives. As for whether it is love... that doesn't matter."

Polina smiled: "Ivan will like this answer."

Lionel got into the carriage. The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage slowly drove out of the manor. Lionel glanced back.

The little cabin stood quietly at the end of the lawn, with green window frames, red geraniums, and white curtains that fluttered gently in the wind.

Behind the window, a great writer is dying. A strong woman is by his side.

The carriage rounded the bend, and the cabin disappeared from view. Lionel leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Summer is almost here.

(First update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets)

(End of this chapter)