Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 161 A city that stinks twice as much as Paris!

Lionel carried the thick package from England back to his desk in the apartment.

Outside the window, the hustle and bustle of Paris continues, but the letter in my hand connects me to another world.

He opened the package, which contained several copies of the latest issue of "Nineteenth Century" magazine and a letter.

The envelope was signed by Harold Thompson, the editor of The Nineteenth Century.

He wrote in fluent and elegant French:

Dear Mr. Sorel:
On behalf of the editorial department of "The Nineteenth Century", please allow me to extend my sincere greetings and high appreciation to you.

The short story "My Uncle Jules," which you kindly agreed to publish, has generated a much more enthusiastic response than expected among readers in our country.

Your refined writing style, profound social insights, and subtle portrayal of human nature have won the admiration of many intellectuals, including Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Arnold.

However, the more important purpose of this letter is for your article published in the August issue of the "Modern Symposium" column—"Family Bonds and Individual Responsibility".

Mr. Sorel, I must frankly admit that the point you raised in the article—

In the irreversible process of industrialization and urbanization, the traditional model of "unlimited" family responsibility based on land economy and close communal living is disintegrating, while a new modern family ethic based on the spirit of contract and "limited" mutual assistance has not yet been fully established. This is the root cause of many social tragedies.

This sparked a wide and serious discussion among readers of "The Nineteenth Century," prompting people to move beyond simple moral criticism and reflect on the social dilemmas behind it.

On behalf of the Savile Club in London and a group of loyal readers, I extend to you our sincerest invitation: we hope you can take some time to visit London soon.

Furthermore, Mr. Norman MacLeod, the editor-in-chief of Good Words, is very interested in reprinting "My Hometown," "My Uncle Jules," and the serialized English translation of "The Curious Cases of Benjamin Buton" in Good Words, and looks forward to meeting with you.

We believe your arrival will be a highlight of the London Literature Season. We look forward to hearing from you.

Lionel put down the letter and thought for a moment.

London's clubs are similar to French salons, but with a stronger elitist and masculine character.

He wasn't very interested in it; after all, he had attended at least two salons a week for the three months leading up to the end of London's spring/summer social season, and was already tired of them.

What attracted Lionel most was the collaboration with "Good Words".

As a literary journal that serialized works by Thomas Hardy, George McDonald, and others, Good Words was quite influential in France.

Furthermore, the British payment standards are higher than those in France; Hardy, for example, could receive a high price of "10 pounds per thousand words" (10 pounds is approximately 250 francs).

With the opportunity right in front of him, how could he possibly miss it?

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The next day, Lionel sent a reply to Harold Thompson, thanking him for the invitation and informing him that he would be able to travel to London the following day.

Then Lionel went to the bank and exchanged enough pounds—a stack of pound notes of different denominations, and a small bag of copper and silver coins.

Next, he needed to arrange where Alice and Patty would go.

The stench of Paris persisted, and he was reluctant to let the two of them return to their apartment on Rue Lafitte.

So he wrote a short note to Zola, briefly explaining the situation and requesting that the two ladies stay for a few more days.

They then hired a carriage to go to Gare du Nord in Paris, where they bought a connecting ticket at the ticket window for a journey to Charing Cross Station in London the following day.

A cardboard ticket with the route clearly printed on it: Paris—Porto de Calais—Dover—London.

This is a very well-established commercial route, and it can be reached in as little as one day, which is even more convenient than his return to Montiel.

Like Paris, London is a place where you can buy anything if you have money, so there's no need for any special preparations.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The next morning, the sky was just beginning to lighten.

Lionel, carrying a light leather suitcase, took a horse-drawn carriage to Gare du Nord in Paris.

Besides essential clothing and toiletries, the box contained notebooks, pens, ink, and several copies of "Modern Life" magazine, just in case.

Inside the North Station hall, steam locomotives spewed thick white smoke, their whistles rising and falling, mingling with the shouts of train conductors, the clamor of passengers, and the footsteps of porters; the air was thick with the smell of coal smoke.

He handed his suitcase to a uniformed porter, watched it get tagged, and was sent to the baggage car. He then boarded the train with only his small handbag.

Since the journey was short, Lionel did not choose first class this time, but instead traveled in second class, for a ticket price of 60 francs. The second-class carriage was also divided into compartments, each with two opposing wooden padded benches, but with eight seats in total.

Although not as spacious and luxurious as the first-class carriages, they are much more comfortable than the crowded and noisy third-class carriages, which often lack even a roof.

Sharing a box with Lionel was a silent British businessman, a French mother with her child, and an elderly gentleman who looked like a scholar.

At 7:30 a.m., the train sounded its whistle and slowly pulled out of the North Station on time.

The streetscape of Paris gradually recedes, replaced by low-rise houses, scattered small factories, and fields in the suburbs.

The train sped up, its wheels rhythmically striking the rails with a monotonous, hypnotic clanging sound.

Lionel gazed out the window at the passing French countryside in the north: flat fields, lush beet bushes, red brick houses, and steeple churches…

Unlike the scenery of southern France or the Alps, it is tranquil, but somewhat monotonous.

During the journey, the train conductor checked tickets and distributed white cardboard cards – customs declaration forms.

Lionel only brought some personal belongings and manuscripts, so he completed the form quickly.

He even had time to help the French mother fill out her customs declaration.

About three hours later, a faint salty, fishy smell began to fill the air.

Outside the window, the land became increasingly flat, with occasional glimpses of wide river mouths and mudflats.

The train began to slow down; we had arrived at Calais. If we wanted to go to Dover, we needed to find our prepared ferry tickets.

Calais station was bustling with activity, and Lionel followed the signs and the crowds to the pier.

A paddle steamer with a black smokestack and a white hull is docked at its berth, its name "Invincible" written on its hull.

Passengers lined up to board the ship with their tickets; Lionel climbed onto the deck and found a sheltered spot to stand.

With a whistle, the ship slowly departed from the French coast.

Soon, the mainland became a blurry line and eventually disappeared.

All that remained was the gray-green, undulating seawater.

About two hours later, in a hazy sea fog, a white cliff gradually came into view—the White Cliffs of Dover—England had arrived.

When he stepped onto the solid ground of Dover Wharf, Lionel felt an "exotic atmosphere" completely different from Jersey.

British customs here are very strict, so the queues move slowly; customs officers check passports, ask about travel itineraries, and conduct random checks on luggage, leaving no stone unturned.

However, Lionel's French passport and declaration form went smoothly, and he was quickly granted entry.

He then boarded the "ship train" following the road signs.

British train carriages differ slightly from those in France, featuring open corridors that allow passengers to move freely.

The conversations among the passengers around him had also changed from French to English—Lionel was a little unaccustomed to it at first, but gradually got used to it.

The train soon started moving, embarking on a journey through the idyllic countryside of Kent.

The English countryside differs from that of northern France: more meadows, denser hedges, and neatly trimmed pastures where cattle and sheep graze leisurely.

The houses in the village are mostly made of brick or half-timber, giving them a more rustic and verdant feel, much like Montiel.

However, the weather gradually became gloomy along the way, and a light rain kept tapping on the car window.

More than an hour later, rows of suburban houses began to appear outside the window, the streets became denser, more and more chimneys appeared, and the smell of coal smoke in the air became stronger and stronger.

Finally, the train came to a slow stop at Charing Cross Station in London.

Lionel glanced at his pocket watch. The journey from Gare du Nord in Paris had taken about nine and a half hours. Although he was tired, the trip had gone smoothly.

After retrieving his suitcase, he followed the flow of people out of the station hall and truly set foot on London soil.

He was then punched twice in the face by a pungent, odor that felt almost tangible.

Lionel nearly fainted: How could there be a city in the world that stinks twice as much as Paris!

(End of this chapter)