Sorel stood in the cold air of the Tikhvin Cemetery, facing countless pairs of eyes filled with grief.
Although he held no manuscript, all his words were settled in his chest, rising and falling slightly with his breath.
He began to speak, his voice exceptionally clear in the silent cemetery.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I stand here, representing Mr. Ivan Turgenev in faraway Paris, and the literary colleagues of France, to pay our final and deepest respects to Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the simple coffin, as if seeing the soul resting within.
"Just three days ago, in the apartment on Kuznechny Lane, I witnessed the passing of a great life. To have missed the opportunity for a conversation with Mr. Dostoevsky will be my eternal regret.
But I witnessed the final moments of his life—from the beginning, filled with painful torment, to the solemn and tranquil end. Death, when it descends upon such a master, is not merely the termination of a life, but more like drawing a heavy period across an era."
Sorel raised his eyes, looking at the crowd, at the black sea before him.
"Now, here, I do not wish to repeat discussions about Mr. Dostoevsky's life, or the ubiquitous 'suffering' in his works—though he interpreted this word to an extreme, even describing writing as a kind of 'penal servitude.'"
At this point, others present at the Tikhvin Cemetery realized the uniqueness of Sorel's eulogy.
To speak of Dostoevsky without mentioning "suffering," what then would he say?
Sorel's voice echoed above the cemetery—
"The Russian writers of this era, whether the great Count Leo Tolstoy or Mr. Turgenev, who commissioned me to come here... their works all explore the contradictions of Russian society and inquire into the fate of the Russian nation; Dostoevsky, however, is different.
He questions not 'where Russia is going,' but 'man'—the isolated, helpless 'man,' standing on the edge of the abyss of nihilism, asking what support he has to live? He transcends borders, transcends nation, and even transcends the age, touching the deepest anxiety and emptiness of the human soul."
The cold wind carried snow dust, sweeping past the pines and cypresses of the cemetery, making a rustling sound as if agreeing with his words.
"In this age of 'great development,' mankind has gained unprecedented freedom through telegraphs, trains, steamships, political systems, and intellectual tools.
The old authorities—whether religious dogma or the will of a leader—are being questioned and shattered one by one.
This is an age of liberation, an age that cheers for freedom!
Yet, when we ourselves have shattered these shackles, we have also encountered the most profound confusion—without those definite meanings, can the individual still find a solid reason for his own existence?
We have entered a vacant wilderness, empty-handed, tasting boundless loneliness and meaninglessness."
Sorel's gaze swept over the crowd, seeing expressions of deep thought and resonance on many faces.
"We are increasingly caught in a great paradox—the newspapers delivered to us daily have already filtered the news for us; the crisscrossing railway network has scheduled our itinerary and destination; the dazzling shop windows and fashionable magazines have defined 'what happiness is'; ...
We enjoy unprecedented material freedom, yet, unknowingly, we have ceded the freedom of independent thought.
This paradox was precisely what Dostoevsky perceived and revealed. The characters he depicted often struggled painfully in this tension between freedom and constraint, rebellion and submission.
This predicament, today, in different forms, troubles everyone living in modern civilization. It will never become outdated; on the contrary, as human society grows more complex, it will only become more salient, stinging our numb senses even more."
He paused briefly to let those present digest these somewhat advanced ideas.
"But even so, in Dostoevsky's works, we can always glimpse a faint light. He tells us that what truly sustains a person to continue living in the void is goodwill, understanding, and love. Like Sonya's sacrifice, Alyosha's sincerity, and Prince Myshkin's compassion.
The power of emotion cannot eradicate the world's suffering, but it is enough to become a life raft for the individual when they are on the verge of collapse. Dostoevsky never attempted to give us a definitive answer, but he makes one believe that even in the deepest darkness, redemption still exists.
He never offered cheap comfort to his readers; instead, he forced them to ask the most rigorous question of themselves—when all external meaning, belief, and principle have collapsed and disintegrated, upon what can 'I,' as an independent individual, rely to continue existing?
The tortured souls in his writings—Dmitri's pain, torn between passion and conscience, Ivan's struggle between reason and faith, the believing yet confused Alyosha—they are not just Russians, but every one of us."
Sorel's speech was nearing its end, yet it also seemed to be a new beginning, a starting point for the world to re-examine Dostoevsky.
"Time passes, and many writers will either be enshrined in a temple or placed upon a bookshelf, merely for admiration and collection. But Dostoevsky will forever be laid open on the table, because he is like a mirror, faithfully presenting the image of the human soul.
Fyodor Mikhailovich, may you rest in peace. Your battle is over; your battle will never end!"
Sorel concluded his address.
He bowed slightly and stepped back.
The scene fell into a brief silence, as if his eulogy had sucked the air out of the surroundings.
Immediately, low murmurs spread like a tide, and expressions of profound emotion were visible on many faces.
At this moment, Anna, who had been suppressing her grief, slowly stepped forward. With tears in her eyes, she tightly grasped Sorel's hand and shook it firmly:
"Thank you, Mr. Sorel. This eulogy... it is the best summation I have ever heard of Fyodor's life work... he would be comforted in heaven. You truly understood him..."
Sorel squeezed her cold hand in return and whispered:
"Madam, please accept my condolences. Take care of yourself; the children still need you."
The funeral continued in a solemn and sorrowful atmosphere until the black soil completely covered the coffin.
The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving the great writer in his eternal resting place.
Returning to his hotel room, Sorel felt a deep weariness, not just physical, but mental.
Dostoevsky's death, the grand funeral, and the brief eulogy had all greatly taxed his mind and spirit.
He only wanted to rest quietly and wait for the train that would leave Saint Petersburg in two days, to take him back to "warm" Paris.
There, there would be no endless socializing and flattery, and he could have the oxtail soup that Patty stewed...
However, things did not go as he wished.
In the early evening, a knock sounded at the door.
Sorel frowned, thinking it was another invitation from the Alexandrinsky Theatre for some dinner or ball.
He stood up wearily and opened the door.
Standing outside was an unfamiliar man, around fifty years old, sturdily built, wearing an expensive sable coat, a velvet hat, and holding a silver-tipped walking stick.
As soon as he saw Sorel, he greeted him:
"Good evening, Mr. Lionel Sorel!"
Sorel nodded:
"That's me. And you are?"
He maintained his position blocking the doorway, showing no intention of inviting the man in.
The man smiled slightly:
"I am Adolph Théodore Marx."
(End of Chapter)