Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 437 Food and sex are human nature!

Over the next two days, the French writers' delegation gave several ticketed commercial presentations in New York.

The result? Tickets were snapped up even more frantically than when the French Comédie-Française premiered "Thunderstorm." Scalpers drove prices sky-high, and even then, tickets were still incredibly hard to come by.

The lecture hall was always packed, with layers upon layers of people surrounding it, all just to catch a glimpse of those "living legends of French literature" through the windows.

The banknotes flowed in like water, so much that it made people dizzy.

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The echoes of New York's grand spectacle still resonate in my ears: cheering crowds, rustling banknotes, clinking glasses...

Those voices still seemed to echo in their ears, but Zola, Lionel, and the others had already boarded the train to Boston.

As usual, it was the most luxurious private room, with spacious soft seats, mahogany paneling, and velvet curtains, which could seat ten people.

Amid the rhythmic clanging of the wheels, the writers, who had just left New York, were somewhat weary, and also carried a sense of bewilderment after their initial excitement.

The carriage door was suddenly pulled open, and a man squeezed in.

He was about forty years old, with a ruddy complexion, slightly disheveled hair, and eyes full of excitement.

He spoke fluent French, but with a slight American accent: "Gentlemen, masters! Good morning!"

Everyone recognized him; he was Eric Morton, Ambassador Levi Morton's nephew, and he was in charge of all the miscellaneous tasks for this trip to the United States.

However, they only met once aboard the Perel, and he rarely appeared after that.

He shook hands vigorously with everyone, and when it was Lionel's turn, he shook him several times.

Eric Morton beamed: "New York! New York was a huge success! It exceeded everyone's expectations!"

As he spoke, he pulled out a fine leather wallet from his pocket, opened it with a "snap," and inside was a stack of brand-new checks.

He handed out checks to everyone like a dealer: "This is the first share, the box office revenue from the New York stop!"

Maupassant took the check, glanced at it, and his eyes widened instantly, his mustache bristling: "How...how much? Two thousand? US dollars?"

He held the thin piece of paper between his fingers as if it weighed a ton.

Beside him, Huysmann, Alexis, and César were in a similar state of shock;

Henri Céar even subconsciously took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Two thousand US dollars! At the current exchange rate, that's easily over ten thousand Swiss francs!
What does 10,000 francs mean?
Several people present, such as Huysmann, Céar, and Alexis, would spend a year painstakingly writing novels, and if they were all published, they would be lucky to save three to five thousand francs.

Maupassant earned more, but he spent even more!
So, he only spent a few days in New York? He gave a few speeches? He attended a few banquets? He did almost nothing, yet he earned over ten thousand francs?

Huysmann clutched the check, his hand trembling slightly: "My God, my seven thousand franc hole... is it... is it filled?" He felt like he was dreaming.

Paul Alexy let out a long sigh of relief, as if a huge burden had been lifted off his shoulders. He could pay back the four thousand francs he owed the bank immediately!
Even the well-informed Zola and Daudet could not hide their astonishment.

Zola clutched the check: "This...this is indeed much more than I expected." He had already begun planning to use the money to rebuild the abandoned new wing of the Villa Médan.

Eric Morton, seeing the shocked expressions on the faces of the French writers, smiled smugly: "Gentlemen, this is America!"

The people here crave culture and are willing to pay for it! New York is just the beginning!

Huysman finally snapped out of his shock, a somewhat greedy smile spreading across his face: "Mr. Morton, if all the cities in the future could be like New York, then..."

Eric Morton looked troubled. "Hey, you know, New York is an exception—the most populous and the richest. The next few stops, I'm afraid..."

Before he finished speaking, Maupassant, Huysmann, and even Zola all showed expressions of understanding and relief.

But Lionel suddenly coughed, interrupting him; Zola and the others were also taken aback and looked at Lionel.

The carriage fell silent instantly!
Lionel turned to Eric Morton and said calmly, “Mr. Morton, we are very grateful for the success in New York!”

As you said, New York is the most prosperous city in the United States, unique in its own right, but what does it mean if the income of the cities behind it decreases significantly?
This means that the influence and appeal of us 'symbols of French literature' are declining, and that your carefully orchestrated plan is not working.

This also means that the commercial value of this visit, which Ambassador Levi Morton strongly promoted, has been greatly reduced.

Our reduced income equals the ambassador's reduced income, and also your reduced income.

I believe no one wants to see this happen, right?

Lionel's words were like a bucket of cold water, waking up Huesman and others who were immersed in the joy of sudden wealth.

Yeah, how could you reveal your true colors right from the start, making it seem like you're easily satisfied?
Eric Morton's smug expression froze for a moment, then he quickly realized what was happening and hurriedly assured him, "Of course! Mr. Sorel, you're absolutely right!"
Rest assured, I will do everything in my power and use all my connections to ensure that revenue at every stop remains at a high level! Every event will be as successful as New York!
I swear on my integrity!

He patted his chest and made a solemn vow.

Lionel then leaned back in his seat and said no more.

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One day later, in Boston.

The welcoming ceremony wasn't as wild as in New York, but it was just as enthusiastic.

The people here are more reserved and have impeccable manners. Maupassant privately complained that the necklines of the ladies' skirts were "so high they could strangle a person, and you couldn't see a single collarbone."

Harvard University, Boston Public Library, Boston Temple of Athena Library, New England Historical Society... it's still a series of lectures and dialogues.

Zola famously said at Harvard, "A doctor is not accused of spreading the plague for studying it, nor is a writer created evil for describing it." He added, "Reality is more dangerous than my fiction."

These words were immediately noted by reporters and became the headline of the Boston newspapers the next day.

Lionel was then asked: "You and your French counterparts seem to pay particular attention to eroticism and relationships between men and women. Is this at the heart of French culture?"

His answer was rather clever: "Ancient Chinese philosophers said, 'Food and sex are the fundamental needs of humankind.' This statement is simple, but it is the truth."

Therefore, we French simply acknowledge it and write it down when necessary.

This answer made some conservative Bostonians frown, but also made many young people secretly laugh.

Others asked Edmund de Goncourt about his views on American literature.

Mr. Edmund Goncourt's answer was somewhat ambiguous: "American literature? Ah, very young and full of life."

But I envy this youthfulness, because it possesses something our French literature has lost—innocence.

These words left the American audience with mixed feelings, a mixture of pride at being recognized and confusion at the same time.

They find it difficult to determine whether the evaluation of "naiveté" is a compliment or an insult.

Back at the hotel, Maupassant couldn't help but complain to Lionel and Huysmann: "Boston is nice, but it's too 'Puritanical'!"

Look at those ladies, all covered up so tightly, not even their wrists are showing! God, how utterly boring!

I still prefer New York; at least the girls there are more outgoing, and oh, and that beautiful widow…”

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My three-day trip to Boston has come to an end, but I've still gained a lot.

Although box office revenue declined slightly compared to New York, it still remained at a high level that no one would complain about, thanks to Eric Morton's full-fledged management.

Then, at the invitation of the Carnegie family, they set off for Pittsburgh, the industrial center of Pennsylvania.

As the train entered the Pittsburgh area, the scenery outside the window began to change.

The sky was no longer the clear blue of Boston, but covered with a layer of grayish-yellow smog, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur and soot.

The dense railway lines spread out like a spider web, flanked by endless factories, towering chimneys, and mountains of coal slag and ore.

The river was murky and had an eerie color.

They visited the Edgar Thomson Steel Plant, the largest and most modern steel plant in the area.

Built in 1875, this factory was the first steel mill in the United States to use the Bessemer converter, specializing in the production of railway rails and steel ingots, and is hailed as a symbol of American industry.

Upon entering the factory area, a tremendous wave of noise and heat hits you, as if you have stepped into another world.

The blast furnace resembles a giant volcano, spewing out scorching flames and thick smoke.

Inside the converter workshop, molten steel churned in containers, producing a deafening roar.

The massive steam hammer slammed into the red-hot steel ingot, causing the ground to shake violently.

The overhead crane slowly moved, carrying several tons of steel, making a creaking sound.

The workers, dressed in overalls and with their faces covered in coal dust, worked silently amidst the high temperature and noise, like gears on a giant machine.

The sheer scale, astonishing efficiency, strict discipline, and advanced technology deeply impressed these French intellectuals.

Zola looked at the flowing molten steel and the workers toiling in the harsh conditions, his expression growing increasingly grave.

He tried to understand and analyze this industrial behemoth with his own rationality, but what he felt most was an immense sense of oppression.

He muttered to himself, "Is this the power of the future? Compared to that, our France, alas..."

He shook his head, a look of frustration on his face. The French mines and factories he had observed now seemed so backward and insignificant.

Yu Siman also put away his usual harshness and pickiness, pursed his lips tightly, and his face turned a little pale.

Even the most unconventional Maupassant became docile at this moment.

As he watched the molten steel being poured into rails, he couldn't help but whisper to Lionel beside him, "God, if this stuff covered the whole world..."

In the rural areas of France where horses are still used for transporting goods, it's like something out of the last century.

Everything here is moving forward, thriving, and full of light!

The group was stunned by this industrial marvel, their hearts filled with complex emotions—amazement, awe, and a sense of loss as French people.

In contrast, France does indeed give the impression of being old and frail.

This is completely different from the buildings and bridges I saw in New York a few days ago, when they were a bit picky.

The only one who didn't seem to be in a heavy mood was Lionel; he even had the leisure to look around absentmindedly.

At this point, Andrew Carnegie, who was accompanying them on the tour and acting as their guide, asked, "Mr. Sorel, it seems my factory hasn't surprised you?"

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(End of this chapter)