Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 599: This question is beyond the syllabus!
The Orthodox memorial service for the dead lasted about half an hour.

Finally, Father Vasilyev sprinkled holy water on the coffin and then announced, "Rest in peace, Lord's servant Ivan. Amen."

"Amen," the Russians responded in unison.

The ceremony was over. Staff began closing the carriage doors, and with a final muffled thud, the coffin was sealed inside.

Upon seeing this, Polina finally lost control and burst into tears in her husband's arms.

Louis Viardo gently patted his wife's back, whispering words of comfort. Several of his girlfriends gathered around.

The carriage doors were locked. Staff affixed a seal with "St. Petersburg - Paris Gare du Nord - St. Petersburg" and Turgenev's name written in Russian and French.

The train driver sounded the whistle, and white steam billowed out. The train slowly started moving, its wheels making a rhythmic "click-clack" sound.

The crowd followed the train, waving and shouting their final farewells.

Goodbye, Ivan!

"Safe journey!"

"Go back to Russia!"

Polina broke free from her husband's embrace and ran a few steps after the train, calling out, "Ivan! Ivan!"

But the train sped up and soon pulled out of the station and disappeared into the tunnel.

Polina stopped, looked at the empty tracks, and burst into tears. Louis Viardo hugged her and held her in his arms.

The crowd gradually dispersed. People left the station in twos and threes, talking quietly. Many had red and swollen eyes, clearly having cried.

Zola, Daudet, and Lionel walked together out of the station. The morning sun was bright, almost blinding.

“It’s over,” Zola said.

“Yes, it’s over.” Daudet sighed. “Another master has left.”

They stood in the square in front of the station, watching people leave one after another. Carriages arrived one after another, taking away the distinguished guests.

Ordinary people would leave on foot or by public carriage.

“Your speech will be remembered, Leon,” Zola said. “I’ve heard several critics say that you have a profound understanding of Turgenev.”

Lionel shook his head and said, "I was just telling the truth."

Daudet patted him on the shoulder: "In this situation, many people would choose to offer empty praise. But you said something substantial, and that takes courage."

They were silent for a moment. Pigeons pecked at the ground in the square, carriages passed by on the cobblestone street, and the drivers called out.

Life goes on, as if nothing has happened.

But something has indeed happened; an era is slowly coming to an end. The passing of the giants of 19th-century culture marks the gradual departure of an era.

"Who will be next?" Zola suddenly asked.

“What?” Lionel asked.

"Who else will leave next?"

Lionel didn't speak. He knew many more people would leave. But he couldn't say anything.

The others remained silent, and finally shook hands awkwardly to say goodbye before getting into their carriages and going home.

Lionel sat in the carriage, watching the Parisian street scenes flash by outside the window, feeling a great weariness, but also a sense of peace.

Today, he fulfilled his promise to Turgenev, attended his funeral, and said what needed to be said. Though saddened, he had no regrets.

The carriage drove across the Seine, the water shimmering in the sunlight.

Lionel remembered that Turgenev's cabin was in Bouzhval, upstream, and recalled visiting him a few months earlier.

Turgenev was already very ill at that time, but his mind was still clear. They talked about literature, life, and death.

Turgenev's body is being transported to Russia, to his final resting place. His works, however, remain, and will remain with the world.

That's what matters most. Writers die, but their works live on. As long as people are reading their books, they haven't truly left.

The carriage arrived in Vernev-Lagarenne. Lionel alighted, entered the "Villa at the Foothills," went to the study, and sat down at his desk.

On the table was a copy of Turgenev's "A Hunter's Sketches," which Lionel had been reading for the past few days.

The book was opened to the chapter "Forests and Steppes," and Lionel saw a sentence at the top:

I met an old woman in a forest clearing. She handed me a piece of black bread and said, "Eat this; it's sweetness saved from hardship."

The words remain vivid, like a fragment of the Russian national character, or as if Turgenev were speaking right in his ear.

Lionel closed the book and leaned back in his chair. The sound of a train whistle drifted from afar.

I wonder if it was the train carrying Turgenev's coffin that was passing through the French countryside, heading east.

Close your eyes.

Goodbye, Ivan. Have a safe journey.

------------

Three days after Turgenev's funeral, Lionel was still in a low mood.

But Émile Perrin sent him a text message inviting him to the comedy theater as soon as possible, saying there was an "urgent matter" to discuss.

Lionel frowned. The script and music for "The Legend of 1900" were finished, and now it was time to move on to the rehearsal stage.

Could something have gone wrong?
An hour later, Lionel appeared in Emil Perrin's office. The door was open, and Emil Perrin was sitting behind his desk, his hands in his hands, looking distressed.

“Emil?” Lionel knocked on the door.

Emil Perrin looked up, saw Lionel, and immediately stood up: "Leon! You're here! Thank goodness!"

“Your letter said it was urgent. What happened?” Lionel walked into the office and closed the door.

"Sit down and let's talk. It's about 'The Legend of 1900'."

"Is there a problem with the script?"

"No, the script is great. The music is great too. The problem is... we can't find anyone who can play it."

Lionel paused, then asked, "What do you mean? Didn't Debussy already write out the score?"

“It’s written, but nobody can play it.” Emil Perrin stood up and paced around the office. “Come with me, and I’ll let you hear it.”

Lionel followed Perrin out of the office and into the theater lobby. A piano sat on the stage, and two men sat on the piano bench, discussing something in hushed tones.

Upon seeing Perrin and Lionel, they stood up.

Émile Perrin introduced, "These two are our comedy theater pianists, George Morris and Louis Moreau."

After exchanging greetings, Lionel got straight to the point: "Emil said there was a problem with the performance?"

George Morris and Louis exchanged a glance, both looking somewhat embarrassed.

"Why don't we demonstrate it directly? George, you play the third piece, the virtuoso etude that Debussy played."

George Morris nodded and sat down at the piano. He opened the sheet music, found the page, took a deep breath, and began to play.

The music began. Lionel listened for a few bars, then frowned.

George Morris's playing wasn't bad. He played the notes correctly, and the rhythm was mostly accurate. But something was missing.

It lacked that virtuoso feel, that flair, that confidence. His playing was very careful and cautious, like walking a tightrope, afraid of making a mistake.

The result was that the music sounded very restrained, bland, and lacked impact.

Halfway through the piece, George Morris played a wrong note. He stopped and slammed his hand on the key in frustration.

"Sorry. This part is too difficult."

“Continue,” Lionel said noncommittally.

George Morris started again. But the rest was worse. He played a series of rapid scales haltingly, completely losing his fluency.

The last chord wasn't powerful enough, sounding weak and feeble.

He finished playing. George Morris sat at the piano, head bowed.

"How is it?" Perrin asked Lionel.

Lionel carefully chose his words: "Well... technically... it's difficult."

George Morris stood up, his voice dejected: “It’s not that there’s difficulty, it’s that it’s simply impossible to play. Mr. Sorel, I’m not trying to shirk responsibility.”

But I must tell you, this piece is beyond my capabilities. Debussy's piano compositions are just... just too difficult.

Louis Moreau continued, “Georges Morris is right. I tried playing the finale of the ‘80’ piece, and it was even worse. I couldn’t even play half of it.”

Those fast-paced movements, those complex chords, those... those were simply not written for ordinary people.

Lionel looked at Emil Perrin.

The other person spread their hands: "You heard that. It's not that they're not trying. They've been trying for days, practicing eight hours a day. But it just doesn't work."

Lionel was somewhat puzzled: "But...you're professional pianists at the comedy theater. Logically speaking..."

George Morris gave a wry smile: "Logically, we should be able to play, right? Mr. Sorel, you may not be familiar with the theater's orchestra, let me explain."

"In formal opera performances, the core of the opera orchestra consists of strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion. Our pianos rarely appear in the orchestra pit."

"We pianists are only really important during the rehearsal and preparation stages. We act as vocal instructors, help singers familiarize themselves with the melodies, and help the conductor organize the score."

Therefore, the requirement for us is not how high our playing technique is, but rather that we have strong sight-reading ability and good transposition skills—because the singer may need to change keys on the spot.

"To put it bluntly, we are support staff, not soloists. We can play general accompaniment and read complex scores."

But to ask us to perform highly difficult solo pieces like we would in a concert... that's really beyond our expertise.

Lionel realized that there was no such role as "dramatic piano soloist" in the 19th-century opera and drama system. This question was beyond the scope of the curriculum!
Debussy's pieces were written to the standards of concert solos, requiring a pianist like Liszt, not an accompanying pianist.

The problem is that a pianist who can give concerts and play solo pieces can't spend all his time in the theater performing with a theater company, and comedy theaters can't afford to hire such a person.

Lionel pressed on, "What about other theaters? Can we borrow people from other theaters?"

Émile Perrin shook his head: "I've asked around. The situation is pretty much the same for all the pianists in Parisian theaters. They all come from accompaniment backgrounds, not solo ones."

Occasionally there are one or two with good technique, but not enough to play pieces like Debussy's.

Lionel also found the situation somewhat tricky. After thinking for a moment, he said to Émile Perrin, "Let me think of a way. There are always some good pianists in France."

Emil Perrin sighed: "Then we need to hurry. We only have three months of rehearsal time to make it in time for the Christmas season performances."

Lionel nodded, said no more, put on his hat, picked up his cane, and left the comedy theater.

He was going to find the “instigator,” Achille-Claude Debussy.

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(End of this chapter)