Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 111: A Masterpiece Unveiled
Lionel did not immediately agree to Albert's request, because this ball was different from the previous masquerade balls, which carried a strong connotation of taking sides.

In particular, the "Ministry of Public Education and Fine Arts," where Count Rohan is about to become deputy minister, is essentially the French "Ministry of Culture" plus the "Ministry of Education."

Even if the writers and artists who attended his balls were not considered "his people," they would still be clearly associated with certain factions.

Lionel would certainly not participate rashly before fully understanding the pros and cons.

Albert, however, was not in a hurry. Lionel's reaction was more normal—as the most dazzling literary star in Paris this year, restraint was a necessary demeanor.

However, he left Lionel with a very tempting bait:

"Minister Ferry is preparing to reform the existing public education system. In the future, France will provide free primary education and compile unified textbooks for French, arithmetic, history, and other subjects."

My father happens to be the chairman of the editorial committee for French textbooks… He highly praised your novel, *My Uncle Jules*, considering it the most suitable novel for elementary school students, teaching them compassion and empathy…

If Lionel says he's not interested in this, it would certainly be a lie.

Previously, public education in France was monopolized by local churches, and there was no nationally unified French textbook.

If "My Uncle Jules" is selected, it means that Lionel will become a shared memory for one or even several generations of French people.

This is an irresistible temptation for any writer.

From Flaubert's salon on Sundays to the criticism in Le Figaro today, and now to the invitation extended by the Count of Rohan through his son, Lionel has finally tasted the true flavor of "fame" in this era.

Not only are the royalties increasing, but so are the social relationships becoming more and more complex.

Whether in the literary world or the political arena, it seems that eyes are always watching me, trying to see which chair I'll end up in.

Unfortunately, in this era, as long as you are involved in art, whether it is literature, painting, drama or music, you cannot truly "live freely" and you must make choices.

You are a writer. At that time, the owners of every newspaper and publishing house had their own distinct lineage, background, and political affiliation.

If you are a playwright or painter, then whether it's the Paris Opera, the Comédie-Française, the Louvre, or the Paris Salon exhibitions, you almost entirely rely on state subsidies and official permits.

Royalist salons were frequented by nobles, church figures, and academic masters.
The Republican salon was frequented by journalists, members of parliament, secular writers, and Impressionist painters.

Lionel could previously avoid taking sides by virtue of his status as a Sorbonne student.

But when his "first" novel was published, everyone wanted to see the spectrum of his personality.

The criticism in Le Figaro is a sharp signal.

Lionel, however, is not going to shy away from the topic.

Upon returning home, he took out his manuscript paper and began writing a rebuttal to Jules Claretti.

In this era without television or radio, where all information is disseminated through text, this is the only way to most effectively express one's views.

Lionel carefully recalled the "achievements" of the young man in his previous life who was most skilled at debating, and wondered how he would write this piece if it were him...

Before long, Lionel took out a quill from the inkwell, drained the excess ink, and wrote this article—

To Mr. Claretti, Chief Writer of Le Figaro

—And a response to the article "Beware! A Show of Literary Freaks Is Being Staged in Paris"

Mr. Jules Claretti:

Your description of Benjamin Boudon as a "circus freak" is sharper than a knife; it pierced my heart.

Even so, I must thank you, because you unintentionally handed the most moving key to this novel to the readers.

Yes, Benjamin Boudon was a "freak," born with the wrinkles of an eighty-year-old and graying baby hair.

You may think this is an offense against human ethics, but I would say that it is precisely because he is a freak that he can see the abyss beneath our so-called "normality" more clearly than any well-behaved infant.

Perhaps on this land repeatedly battered by unpredictable fate, the cries of the freak are more likely to shake our conscience than the cries of the Holy Infant.

……

In the specimen room of the Paris Medical School, there are countless undeveloped "freaks": those with split spines, exposed hearts, and collapsed skulls.

When you gaze at them, everyone holds their breath—not out of fear, but out of awe—because nature, in creating life, can also make mistakes.

However, it was these mistakes that made the young medical students realize for the first time that what is considered "normal" is just one of the many errors that have been preserved.

Without these specimens, we might spend our entire lives taking life for granted and treating "it should be this way" as "it must be this way".

Benjamin Bouton, who was "born old," omits us from the long process of aging and brings the cruelty of "living towards death" to our attention at the moment of birth.

You call him a "freak," but you forget that all humans eventually become such freaks; most are simply weathered by time, while he was merely given that experience by fate earlier. ...

As for the circus—have you ever wondered why those makeshift canvas tents in Paris are always surrounded by throngs of poor people during the winter?

They paid two sous not just to see dwarfs or giants, but to reaffirm their own “wholeness” amidst horror and pity.

Some people masked their embarrassment with ridicule, some offered coins to buy their way out, and some secretly shed tears.

Those who mock see their own cruelty, and those who shed tears see their own compassion—just as literature is meant to awaken the numb, make the arrogant bow their heads, and make the gentle smile.

……

Since the fall of the Bastille, France has been accustomed to examining itself amidst the ruins.

Our fathers sent the king to the guillotine, and then knelt down again under the emperor's eagle flag;

They threw icons into the Seine and wept amidst the echoes of Notre Dame.

Isn't this a bizarre show that has lasted for ninety years?

Each of us is a freak born of this distorted history, bearing the birthmarks of the old system and the scars of revolution, yet we must pretend to be reborn in the dawn of the Third Republic.

……

You also said that literature should pursue "truth, goodness, and beauty"—I have no intention of refuting this sacred trinity, but I only want to ask: Does truth only accommodate symmetrical features? Does goodness only favor healthy limbs? Does beauty necessarily turn away in the face of deformity? If so, then beauty is too timid, goodness is too mercenary, and truth is too impoverished.

In Notre Dame de Paris, Victor Hugo had Quasimodo ring the bells; Gautier had a cross-dresser mock morality in Mademoiselle Maupin; and Zola had a miner with tuberculosis cry out in despair.

They were never afraid of freaks. On the contrary, they knew that only by bringing freaks into the light could the shadow of common evil be exposed.

……

You may worry that such literature will lead society toward "sensual indulgence" and "the corruption of taste".

Forgive my bluntness, but the charm of Paris has long been corrupted—in the stench of money in the stock exchange, in the fawning smiles of officialdom, and in the exquisite yet empty flattery of the salons.

Rather than worrying that literature corrupts taste, we should worry that taste corrupts literature.

If we cannot even tolerate a fictional monster baby, how can we accept the real-life weavers hunched over by poverty, the soldiers with ulcers from syphilis, and the children with sunken eyes from hunger?

Freaks don't create ugliness, they just expose it.

……

Finally, please allow me to return to the circus.

One night after the circus ended, I saw a dwarf pick up bouquets left behind by the audience, weave them into small wreaths, and give them to an old woman selling chestnuts at the door.

In that instant, I understood what nobility is: nobility is not about rejecting freaks, but about recognizing yourself in freaks; it is not about covering your eyes, but about extending a helping hand even in horror.

……

Benjamin Boudon is the same. All Parisians will see that he will be abandoned in his novels and then picked up again by love; he will gaze with the clear eyes of a baby at those aging, greedy, and cowardly souls, yet still shining with tender light.

A so-called freak is nothing more than a line of poetry written incorrectly by fate; and love will correct it with its clumsy rhymes.

……

If you still insist on banishing Benjamin Buton from the pantheon of literature, then so be it.

Paris will tolerate him! As night falls, elegant ladies in carriages and factory workers just off work will talk about the same strange baby in different accents—

Some people criticize him, some people love him, but no one will ever be indifferent to him again.

Could there be a more luxurious fate for a newly born novel?

And I will stand aside and tip my hat to you—thank you for making freaks the key; thank you for letting Paris relearn to find humanity's place between horror and compassion.

Lionel Sorel

May 16, 1879, Paris

After finishing writing it, Lionel handed it to Alice: "Copy it out and send it out."

Alice took the manuscript paper: "Where should I send it?"

Lionel thought for a moment: "Le Figaro."

(End of this chapter)