Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 103 Ha, the French...

Under Renoir's puzzled gaze, Émile Bergera began to explain Georges Charpentier's plan:

"The cost last time was too high, mainly because we used color printing for the entire front page, which required additional expenses for paper and paint. It would be difficult to afford to do it again."

But this time it was different. Mr. Charpentier asked you to draw four illustrations, which would not be incorporated into the newspaper layout, but would be printed separately like posters or advertisements.

Moreover, each illustration is printed only 5 inches in size, and eight such small colored illustrations can be cut from a full sheet..."

Renoir was completely confused and had no idea what Émile Bergera was talking about.

But Émile Bégera became increasingly agitated, even standing up and pacing around the room as he explained, as if Emperor Napoleon were issuing orders to his generals in his command post.

“We don’t need four illustrations for every newspaper, but one illustration per newspaper—but these four illustrations together should be a summary of the main plot of this issue.”

"So what?" Renoir was still puzzled.

Emil Béjara glared at him with exasperation, then, remembering how he had suddenly understood when Mr. Charpentier mentioned this point yesterday, a sense of intellectual superiority welled up within him.

"So to collect all four illustrations, you either have to ask other subscribers of Modern Life for them or buy them, or you have to buy at least four copies of Modern Life."

Renoir was stunned and still couldn't believe it: "How is this possible? Our newspaper sells for 10 sous a copy, so four copies would be 40 sous, a full 2 ​​francs—who's crazy to spend an extra franc and a half just to complete the illustrations?"

Émile Béjart looked at the artist with pity and suddenly understood why he had been so poor before meeting Monsieur Charpentier.

Although Impressionism was not well-received by the old guard at the French Academy of Fine Arts, Monet and others managed to do quite well, unlike Renoir who at one point couldn't even afford paint.

He really didn't understand what those buyers liked.

Unless he encounters clients who appreciate him, or an era that appreciates him, he is destined to rot away in a Paris basement for the rest of his life.

Emil Bergera sighed: "Collecting is a human instinct, especially for idle noblewomen, wealthy wives, and young men living on annuities."

Once they perceive something as interesting and scarce, their desire to consume and their collecting tendencies will be stimulated.

If *The Curious Cases of Benjamin Bouton* becomes a popular novel, then they'll buy not just four copies, but ten or twenty.

After hearing the explanation, Renoir collapsed as if all his strength had been drained away; he had never imagined that such a marketing method existed in the world.

Émile Bégera stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder: "Pierre, paint well! Are four paintings a lot? Not at all—"

But it must be perfected to become a true work of art.

Just imagine, once "The Curious Case of Benjamin Bouton" is serialized in "Modern Life," all the wealthy people in Paris will be chasing after your illustrations. Then, will you still have to worry about finding buyers for your "Impressionist" oil paintings?"

It was this last sentence that moved Renoir.

Even the most aloof artist will not refuse to have their work purchased—otherwise, why would they consign their paintings to galleries?

Being a painter in this era was very expensive. Canvas, paints, and brushes were all pricey, and renting a studio and hiring models was even more costly. Renoir didn't want to share a room with other painters anymore.

Thinking this, he nodded vigorously: "Okay! Then make another copy of the manuscript for me; I need to take it back to my studio to look at..." ————

Just as Benjamin's Curious Case of Bouton was poised for release, the influence of My Uncle Jules was quietly growing in Britain across the Channel.

As two countries separated by the sea but with deep historical ties, France's most famous periodicals often appear on London bookstore shelves only a few days later.

It is primarily intended for elites who are fluent in French and students who are learning French.

The Old Guard did not generate much of a response in Britain.

Unlike France, which had experienced more than half a century of turmoil, Britain's work, aside from being "skilled and linguistically refined," did not resonate widely.

"Letter from an Unknown Woman" is appreciated by only a very small number of people; most readers' reaction after reading it is: "Oh, the French..."

But "My Uncle Jules" is different—

In London, England, the warm breeze of late spring could not dispel the thick, heavy fog, nor could it dispel the cigar smoke that permeated the office of Harold Thompson, editor of "The Nineteenth Century".

He was stocky, with a thick Victorian beard and sharp eyes, and was making corrections on a manuscript with a pen.

"Knock knock." A knock sounded on the door, and before he could respond, a slightly hurried figure pushed the door open and came in.

The visitor was his young assistant editor, Edwin Morris.

The young man's face was slightly flushed, and he was clutching a folded newspaper tightly in his hand: "Mr. Thompson, I'm sorry to bother you, but I think you must take a look at this immediately. Le Parisien has published a good story."

Thompson didn't even look up, only casting an impatient glance over his glasses: "Maurice, I'm reviewing Wilde's commentary on 'aestheticism,' it needs major surgery... I don't have time for the gossip of those dissolute Frenchmen!"

“No, sir! It’s not gossip!” Edwin stepped forward eagerly and spread the copy of Le Parisien on the messy manuscript in front of Thompson: “Look! Lionel Sorel! The author of The Old Guard and Letter from an Unknown Woman.”

Thompson's pen finally stopped; the name was familiar to him. As the editor-in-chief of Britain's most important literary journal, he was well-versed in the dynamics of the literary scene throughout Europe and, of course, knew Lionel Sorel, having read two of his earlier works.

"Sorel?" Thompson snorted, his tone clearly disdainful. "That kid who writes about French veterans and neurotic women? What new tricks has he come up with this time?"
Is this a melancholic story set in a Parisian brothel, or a hallucination experienced by some poet after taking opium? Ah, the French…

He put down the red pencil, leaned back in the large leather chair, crossed his hands on his stomach, and struck a pose that said, "Okay, let me see what you can come up with."

Ignoring the editor's sarcasm, Edwin spoke rapidly: "This is it. It's short and won't take you much time, sir! It's completely different! I just finished reading it, and it felt... it felt like I'd been struck by something!"

Thompson, upon hearing this, began to taunt: "Hit? Hit by what? Those stinky French cheeses?"

Although he was sharp-tongued, out of professional habit, he still reached for the newspaper, intending to quickly glance at it and send away his overly enthusiastic assistant.

"My Uncle Jules? Ha, what a mediocre title—of course, much better than his previous pretentious 'Letter from an Unknown Woman,'" Thompson muttered.

But soon, he sat up straight, and his nonchalant gaze gradually froze.

　Sorry, I had something to do today and I'm a little late.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)