Before they knew it, the conversation had gone on for nearly an hour.
Friedrich looked at the sky outside the window, then suddenly remembered something and asked with a hint of teasing, "After all this talk, aren't you actually more eager to meet Karl?"
Lionel was caught off guard, a flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, but he still nodded honestly:
"Yes, Mr. Friedrich. I do hold him in great respect..."
Friedrich burst into hearty laughter, his beard trembling with the sound:
"Haha, I actually guessed it the moment you glanced around when you entered! Young people, everyone wants to meet Karl, it's understandable."
Lionel was a bit abashed, but still asked candidly,
"So... do I have this opportunity?"
Friedrich nodded, his smile kind:
"Of course, Karl is in London. It's just... his mental state hasn't been very good lately. Jenny is seriously ill, and the situation is not very optimistic; he takes care of her every day, which is very tiring."
Just as they were speaking, there was a commotion at the house entrance.
Friedrich looked at the wall clock:
"It should be him; he usually comes over at this time to sit for a while and change his mood."
Sure enough, soon, a figure both familiar and unfamiliar to Lionel appeared at the living room door.
He looked older and more tired than Lionel had imagined, his thick white hair and iconic beard still striking.
But now his face was gaunt, his eye sockets sunken, and his face bore the marks of hardship.
Friedrich stood up to greet him:
"Karl, you're here. Look, we have a young guest from Paris."
The old man named Karl turned to Lionel, his gaze gentle.
Lionel also stood up, and though a bit nervous inside, still offered his greeting:
"Doctor, hello. I am Lionel Sorel."
Karl stepped forward, extended his hand, and shook Lionel's, his tone very gentle:
"Mr. Sorel, hello. This July, Jenny and I went to France to visit Laura and Paul, and they took us to see your 'Thunderstorm'. Our whole family was deeply moved."
Friedrich quipped from the side:
"Ha, you've all seen it, but I haven't! Stuck in London all day, facing endless manuscripts and letters..."
This jest slightly eased the initial formality, and the few of them sat down again.
Karl continued the previous topic:
"In 'Thunderstorm', I saw the inevitable fate of old families and old morals heading towards destruction. That kind of suppression, struggle, and eventual outburst has strong universal significance."
Lionel responded:
"You flatter me, Doctor. In fact, the collapse of this old order is gradually happening in France and other European countries.
Old ethical concepts, family structures, and social norms are all loosening and disintegrating under the impact of new economic relations and class forces. I merely collected these scattered 'gunpowder' and put them into a box called 'Thunderstorm'."
Both Karl and Friedrich showed expressions of appreciation upon hearing this metaphor.
Karl nodded:
"'Scattered gunpowder'? This metaphor is very vivid and accurate. It captures the universality and explosive power of change."
Next, he raised a more specific question:
"'Thunderstorm' is generally a realistic drama with a very profound analysis of society. But its ending seems to have a strong sense of fatalism? Like those coincidences. Why did you arrange such an ending?"
Lionel pondered for a moment before answering:
"I think this might stem from my feeling of insignificance and powerlessness as an individual in the face of immense society. Conflict is the fundamental driving force of tragedy, it is 'inevitable'. But when it comes to each individual, how tragedy is presented often involves many coincidences.
'Inevitability' must pave its way through 'coincidences'. This randomness sometimes gives people the illusion of 'fate toying with people'. I want to preserve this complexity and don't want the audience's experience of the tragedy to be too simplistic when watching the play."
Karl listened attentively, nodded slowly, and did not comment immediately.
At this point, Friedrich brought up his earlier conversation with Lionel.
Karl also looked at Lionel with interest:
"So, Mr. Sorel, are you still planning to return to France to face that trial?"
Lionel took a deep breath and answered frankly:
"Yes, I still believe I should go back to face trial. Even knowing I might encounter injustice, or even exile. But there's an important precondition—I don't want to be merely a pawn in a political conspiracy; my trial should not serve to fulfill the ambitions of certain factions.
If my courage and perseverance ultimately only become fuel for others' power struggles, that would be worthless. I need to ensure this trial is a debate about my works and words, not a political performance with a predetermined outcome."
Karl and Friedrich exchanged glances and both nodded slightly.
Karl spoke:
"We agree with your view; not being used is a struggle in itself!"
This conversation continued for a while longer until the sky outside the window began to darken.
Lionel realized it was getting late and shouldn't overstay his welcome.
Especially since Karl and Friedrich might have important matters to discuss, and Karl needed to go back to take care of his sick wife, he proactively stood up to take his leave.
With a mix of excitement and reluctance, he shook hands with the two great men once more to say goodbye.
Friedrich walked him to the door, patted his shoulder:
"Take care, young man. If anything comes up, you can contact me through Paul."
Lionel thanked him profusely, then turned and stepped into the damp London air.
Walking on the unfamiliar streets, his heart was still surging, and the conversation with the two thinkers echoed repeatedly in his mind.
Every sentence, every question and answer just now, immersed him in the ferment, making him almost forget everything around him.
Especially the two important questions Friedrich and Karl asked him about his life's positioning and current choices, which made him think clearly about it all for the first time.
Just then, a public carriage with a license plate sped past him.
Lionel subconsciously reached into his pocket to pull out some coins, preparing to hire a carriage to the "Good Words" magazine office, when he suddenly stopped.
His pockets were empty.
He then suddenly remembered that he had left Villeneuve Villa in too much of a hurry and hadn't brought his wallet then.
Then he took a caravan to Calais, then a fishing boat to Britain, and as soon as he disembarked, someone was waiting for him at the pier...
Along the way, "boat to car," everything was arranged, and with the tight schedule, he completely forgot about it.
So much so that he had even nonchalantly told the guide not to wait for him, saying he would go find friends after the meeting.
Thinking about it now, he was utterly regretful!
At this moment, he stood under the dim gas streetlights of London, penniless and without a soul he knew.
Just moments ago, he was discussing the fate of nations and his own future with intellectual giants, and in a blink of an eye, he had to face the most basic struggle for survival—where to spend the night?
(End of Chapter)