Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 93 Turgenev's Invitation

The speaker was Émile Zola, a standard-bearer of naturalism, who was both an old friend of Turgenev and, at the same time, always critical of his overly emotional writing style.

"It is Lionel's wisdom to have the woman begin with the death of her child, not the woman's wisdom. She is the patient! All her symptoms are a result of genetic defects and physiological pathology!"

Zola's words were forceful and resounding, and he didn't even glance at the author, Lionel.

Lionel didn't find it strange—it's common sense that once a work is published, the right to interpret it no longer belongs solely to the author; and this common sense, taken to its extreme, is the so-called "death of the author."

Discussions about the Chinese college entrance examination in later generations often fall into a dead end due to a lack of such common sense, with everyone talking past each other.

For example, the fish whose "eyes still had a strange light" was, according to the author's own explanation, a hastily written ending under the pressure of the deadline, and had no deeper meaning.

However, in the eyes of the question setter (who is also the interpreter), the fish and its eerie gaze have symbolic meaning.

So Lionel didn't interrupt their discussion. Instead, he sank into the sofa, lit a cigarette, and quietly listened.

Standing in the center of the living room, Zola addressed not only Turgenev but everyone else: "Please allow me to look at this character more 'scientifically.' She, and what she represents, is a product of genetic disease and physiological instinct!"
Her mother, did you notice? Her widowed, suspicious mother didn't care about her and never kissed her. This indifference was a kind of emotional pathology.

All her extreme behaviors—voyeurism, collecting cigarette butts, promiscuity, raising children alone—went to the other extreme, also an emotional pathology.

A sick mother, a sick woman—what else could this be but genetic? Her extremely distorted behavior stems from her illness! A severe illness!

For her, 'L' was no longer a specific person, but rather the only tangible, imagined symbol of 'meaning' she could grasp in her bleak life.

Zola's analysis was like a cold wind sweeping through the salon, carrying an almost cruel rationality, and was the most typical "naturalistic" viewpoint.

Most of the writers here, including Flaubert, largely endorsed "naturalism" and practiced their work accordingly.

Several young writers, in particular, such as Paul Alexis and Henri Céar, are fervent supporters of "naturalism".

So they quickly reached a consensus that the tragedy of the "strange woman" was an inevitable result, determined by her being an "irrational being" as a woman and the "hereditary disease" she inherited from her mother.

Whether or not the "L" appears, she cannot escape this fate. At some point in her bleak life, she will find a symbolic sign like the "L" and then complete her moth-to-a-flame destiny.

Although Lionel disagreed with this view, he had no intention of refuting it at the moment; he wanted to hear Turgenev's opinion.

This Russian was not easily persuaded.

He turned his pipe over, tapped it on the ashtray, and then stood up: "An inevitable outcome? Emile, if I may be so bold, I completely agree with your analysis of her pathological inheritance."

But can the word 'inevitable' truly extinguish that faint yet real light in her soul?

He looked around at everyone, his eyes shining: "She was indeed imprisoned by her difficult circumstances and morbid genetics. But within this imprisonment, she developed an astonishing, almost religious purity."

Her love was morbid and twisted, that's true. But wasn't there even a glimmer of human dignity in that love?
Emile, you emphasize instinct, but would 'instinct' drive her to ask 'L' to buy her a bouquet of white roses every year in the final moments of her life?
This wasn't about demanding anything, about evoking guilt, or even about being remembered—she knew perfectly well that 'L' wouldn't remember!

This is more like... an eternal ritual she constructed for herself, existing only in her imagination, the last faint manifestation of her 'human' will to fight against utter nothingness!

Her physical ailments shaped her, but deep within her soul, she retained a resilience that neither disease nor environment could completely crush—a resilience belonging to her individual spirit.

Forgive my bluntness, but this is precisely the value of "Letter from an Unknown Woman"! Don't limit it to just women!

Turgenev's words were equally resounding, and Sharon fell into a brief silence. Zola thoughtfully smoked his cigarette, while Flaubert's eyes revealed approval.

Lionel, also impressed by this Russian writer he was not very familiar with, felt he should say something. Lionel coughed lightly, immediately drawing everyone's attention.

Instead of talking about his work, he brought up the tragedy: "Have you seen the shocking case that happened near the opera house a while ago—the triple homicide—?"

Lionel's words immediately caused a stir.

This case is so famous that it still occasionally gets followed up in the newspapers. Those of you here don't live in a vacuum, so you naturally know about it.

Emil Bergera even joked, "Leonard, you must be the one who feels this most deeply..." But he didn't finish his sentence, adhering strictly to the professional ethics of an editor.

Lionel didn't care that the people here knew, so his voice remained calm: "As an author, I think this case and my novel form a wonderful contrast, and the two constitute two sides of the same coin of Parisian emotional tragedy!"
On one hand, there is the 'unknown woman' who wrote the letter—burning silently, destroying herself in solitude, using a suicide note as her last weapon to complete her 'revenge' against the heartless on a spiritual level.

On the other hand, there is the 'honest man' who pulls the trigger—bursting into a rage, destroying everything, and using three bullets as a final farewell, completing his physical revenge against the betrayer and the seducer.

As the author of this novel, I have no intention of guiding your interpretation or evaluation, but who is more noble or rational, and who is more base or instinctive?

For a moment, no one spoke in the salon, only the silent smoke of cigars swirling around. The stench of blood from Antawn Street seemed to permeate this book-scented room, creating a suffocating resonance with the silent despair in "Letters."

It was Turgenev who broke the silence, his voice filled with a deep compassion: "Lional, I've read this case; it may offer a perspective that transcends the novel itself."

The tragedy of a triple suicide stems from uncontrolled desires, the venting of violence, and utter despair, but it is not a bestial instinct, but merely an outward manifestation of suffering.

The woman in "Letter from an Unknown Woman," despite her morbid love, chose a non-violent way of internalizing her pain.

Her 'revenge' was spiritual, a final affirmation of the meaning of her own existence. Though weak and distorted, it differed from purely physiological pathology, nor was it an outward manifestation of a genetic defect…

Lionel felt a sense of comfort as he met Turgenev's gaze. The two of them, in their back-and-forth conversation, finally moved the discussion of "Letter from an Unknown Woman" beyond a simple physiological critique of women.

Charpentier raised his glass at the opportune moment, breaking the slightly somber atmosphere caused by the depth of their thoughts: "Gentlemen! What a brilliant discussion! To the brilliant sparks of thought that 'Tuesdays at Charpentier' could ignite—cheers!"

Flaubert smiled, and Zola put aside his hesitation, each raising their wine glasses.

The crystal glasses clinked together, producing a crisp, melodious sound, and the amber-colored wine rippled under the light.

The cigar smoke rose again, but the atmosphere was different from when it started, filled with the lingering warmth and excitement of ideas ignited.

Lionel quietly retreated into the shadows by the window, swirling the wine in his glass as he gazed at the giants who had shaped the face of French literature.

He could feel the gazes directed at him—admiring, inquisitive, challenging, and even a hint of barely perceptible jealousy.

At that moment, Turgenev walked up to him, raised his glass, and clinked it against his alone: ​​"Thank you, Lionel! You are not only a good writer, but also a compassionate person."

Lionel smiled and said, "Actually, Mr. Zola was the truly compassionate one, only his 'naturalism' was..."

He didn't continue, and Turgenev didn't press him for details. Instead, he extended an invitation: "There's a costume ball that might be quite interesting. Would you like to attend?"

Lionel asked with interest, "Oh? Who organized it?"

Turgenev gave a cryptic smile: "My Russian compatriot, Baroness Alexievna."

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