Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 495 The whole of Paris is depressed!

The editorial office of the literary supplement of Le Figaro was piled high with letters—on the tables, chairs, and windowsills, everywhere.

The envelopes came in all shapes and sizes; some were exquisite, some were rough, some smelled of perfume, and some were stained with coffee.

Pierre, the editorial assistant, squeezed through the crack in the door, carrying another stack of items in his arms.

He tossed the letters onto the table, which was already piled up like a small mountain, and took a breath: "More than two hundred more today, all about 'The Sun Also Rises'."

Editor-in-Chief Periver stood by the window, his back to the room, and asked only one question: "What did the letter say?"

Pierre wiped his brow: "There are all sorts of opinions. Some criticize, some praise, some say they don't understand, some say they cried while reading it—and some even say it's not a novel at all."

Perrivier then turned around, walked to the table, and casually picked up a few letters and opened them.

The first letter was written neatly and was on the finest stationery.
I have patiently read three issues of "The Sun Also Rises," and I must say, it is an insult to literature.

There is no plot, no character development, no moral stance; it is just a group of dissolute men's meaningless conversations and records of their drinking.

France has just experienced a humiliating defeat. What we need are works that uplift the national spirit, not this kind of depressing and decadent ramblings!

If your newspaper continues to publish such articles, I will unsubscribe!

The letter was signed "An old Republican, a volunteer soldier in 1870".

Periver put down the letter and picked up the second one, this one with messy handwriting and written on plain letter paper:
I don't understand what these people are doing. Why are they always drinking? Why are they always talking but saying nothing? What is the author trying to express?
The war is over, life must go on, so why aren't these people working? Why aren't they thinking about the future of France? Has the author thought this through himself?

The third letter appears to have been written by a woman, with delicate handwriting.
As a woman, I feel offended! In the novel, whether it's the protagonist Berthe or any of the other women, they are all merely objects of male desire.

The author failed to give them souls or voices. In the novel, the men use indifference to mask their weakness and alcohol to evade responsibility.

We women can only watch, wait, and be loved or abandoned. That's not fair!

Perrivier read more than a dozen letters in a row, then walked to the window and looked down at the street.

"The Sun Also Rises" has been serialized for five days, and the feedback received is neither overwhelmingly positive nor overwhelmingly negative.

Instead, it was filled with division and confusion, as well as restless unrest.

This novel is unlike Lionel's previous works—

"The Old Guard" evokes sympathy, "The Choir" warms the heart, "Thunderstorm" is awe-inspiring, and "The Café" prompts reflection.

But The Sun Also Rises—is unsettling.

It's not that readers hate it, it's just uncomfortable. After finishing each day's serialization, it's like wearing an ill-fitting piece of clothing and walking into a room that's too quiet.

This feeling caused a sense of depression throughout Paris.

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Three men sat in a corner of a café on Boulevard Saint-Germain.

They were all reading Le Figaro, reading today's installment of The Sun Also Rises.

One of them put down the newspaper and took a sip of coffee: "I still don't understand."

The second person also said, "I didn't understand it either."

The third person didn't speak, staring at the newspaper. After a while, he said, "I read the beginning again last night."

The other two followed up with, "And then?"

The third person said, "Then I had a dream. I dreamt that I was sitting in the 'Double.' Not my usual spot, but the corner where Jacques sat."

I looked out the window at the streets of Paris. Then I woke up and realized it was only three in the morning. I couldn't fall back asleep.

All three were silent.

The first man was around forty years old, with wrinkles on his face and large knuckles. He was a carpenter who had served in the National Guard during the war.

The carpenter suddenly said, “I know people like Jacques, not really, but I’ve seen them. In taverns, on the street.”

They always came out in the afternoon, their eyes red, silent, just sitting there for the whole afternoon.

The second man was younger, in his early thirties, and a junior civil servant.

The civil servant said, "I've met people like Cohen too. He always says he has to write something, always says he has something to do."

But they always spend their time in cafes, and they always say, 'I'll start tomorrow.'

The third person was a painter with long hair, and his own life was unrestrained and dissolute.

The painter added, “I’ve seen many more women like Berthe. Widows at balls, regulars at salons. They laugh loudly and talk quickly.”

But look into their eyes, there's nothing there, not even ruins.

The carpenter picked up the newspaper, glanced at today's serialized section, and shook his head: "What kind of novel is this? Nothing happened."

The painter disagreed: "It has already happened, it just wasn't written down."

The civil servant pressed further, "What do you mean?"

The painter pointed to the newspaper: "Bert told Jacques that she danced at someone else's place until three o'clock last night and also drank someone else's wine."

Jacques understood, but he only said "Oh" and "Is that so?" without asking "Why did you go?" "Who did you dance with?" "When did you go home?"

He didn't ask, because he knew it would be pointless. Belt wouldn't tell the truth anyway.

The carpenter frowned: "Aren't you overthinking it?"

The painter chuckled: "It's not that I'm overthinking it. It's that the author wrote too little; we have to figure it out ourselves."

The civil servant nodded: "I feel the same way. This novel is like a pile of fragments; you have to piece it together yourself."

The carpenter shook his head: "I still don't understand. Novels shouldn't be like this. Novels should tell stories—"

Explain clearly who is who, why they did it, and what happened afterward.

The painter scoffed and retorted, "And what about life? Has life been clearly explained?" The carpenter and the civil servant were both stunned.

The painter continued, "My life is just a bunch of fragments. I get up in the morning, go to the studio, paint or not, eat, drink, and sleep."

There's no story, no 'what happened next,' it's just the days passing by.

The civil servant said in a low voice, "Me too—office, home, coffee shop…nothing has changed."

The carpenter thought for a moment: "Me too. Workshop, home, tavern. It was like this before the war, and it's still like this after the war. It's just..."

"Just what?"

The carpenter sighed: "It just feels different now. Before the war, I felt like I was building France."

After the war, I felt like I was just a carpenter, making tables and chairs to earn money for food. That was it.

All three were silent.

After a while, the civil servant suddenly said, "This is what the novel is about."

"what?"

The civil servant's tone became firm: "It's gone! The war has taken something away. Not land, not cities, but something else."

What was it? It's hard to say. But the characters in this novel all felt it—'gone.'

The painter looked at the newspaper: "So the author doesn't write 'gone,' he only writes about how these people lived. Although the people are still alive, the feeling is gone."

The carpenter finally nodded: "I think I understand now."

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At a gathering at the French Academy, several academicians sat in the lounge, discussing "The Sun Also Rises."

Ernest Renan exclaimed indignantly, "It's utter nonsense! It's neither a novel nor an essay!"

Charles de Mazzard nodded: "What is this Sorel writing? Tavern notes? Battlefield communications? Or travelogues?"

Jules Simon was even harsher: "This is escapism. Faced with national disgrace, he wrote not of reflection, not of striving, but of the depravity of a group of people."

Why don't these people think about France? Why don't they talk about responsibility? Why do they just drink, talk about women, and wander around?

At this point, Louis de Lomeni spoke. He was eighty years old and had lived through the July Monarchy, the Second Republic, the Second Empire, and now the Third Republic.

Louis de Lomeny's voice was slow: "I read it, and I didn't like it either. The novel's tone is too cold, the descriptions too blank, and it doesn't soothe my spirit."

But I can't forget the people there, and their lives.

He looked at the others: "My son was like that. In 1870, he was twenty years old and went to the front. Fortunately, he wasn't injured and came back alive, but he changed."

He used to be enthusiastic and idealistic, wanting to be a lawyer and serve his country. Now he's unemployed, unmarried, and gets up in the afternoon every day, sitting in a coffee shop until late at night.

I asked him what he planned to do in the future, and he said, "I don't know." I asked him what he wanted, and he said, "I don't know."

At this point, Louis de Lomeni's voice trembled slightly: "I scolded him, advised him, and helped him find a job, but it was all in vain."

He just sat there, watching, waiting, but didn't know what he was waiting for. This novel is about my son. It's not a story, not a plot, just that state of being—

Sitting there, watching, waiting, but not knowing what to wait for.

Ernest Renan wanted to say something, but didn't.

Louis de Lomeni stood up: "I don't like this novel; it makes me uncomfortable. But it tells the truth! The truth may not be pleasant to hear, but it is the truth."

After he finished speaking, he slowly walked out of the lounge, and the remaining people remained silent for a long time.

Finally, Ernest Renan said softly, "Perhaps we are getting old."

"What do you mean?"

"What we expect to see is defeat, humiliation, the will for revenge, and the rebirth of the nation, just as Sorel himself wrote in 'Old Man Milon'."

But we forget—not everyone can do that. Some people get stuck, stuck on shame, unable to reach revenge, let alone rebirth.

They were stuck there.

This conclusion triggered an even longer silence.

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The letters from Le Figaro readers began to change, becoming shorter but more somber:

My father is Jacques. He's silent all day, just drinking, and he's been doing it for ten years.

My brother changed after he came back from the battlefield. He used to laugh a lot, but now he just sits there. We all pretend everything's fine, but something's actually wrong.

This novel depicts this state of mind where things seem fine on the surface, but something is actually going wrong.

I've worked at a bank for fifteen years. Every day is the same. Sometimes I wonder, what's the difference between me and Jacques? He sits in a café, I sit in a bank.

We're all waiting for something, but we don't know what we're waiting for.

In the editor-in-chief's office, there were more letters saying "I understand," not that they understood the plot, but that they understood the feeling.

It turns out this novel isn't about war, it's not about defeat, it's not about morality;
Rather, it is about the few remaining inner feelings of a generation of French people after the war, after defeat, after morality.

As the discussion deepened, Le Figaro's sales began to quietly increase.

Unlike the explosive growth when "Sherlock Holmes" was serialized in "Modern Life," this growth was very stable, with a steady increase of one or two thousand copies per day.

Looking at the newspaper's sales figures, editor-in-chief Periver thought to himself, "This is the kind of novel that Le Figaro should be publishing!"

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At this time, a commentary written by Victor Hugo was published in La Repubblica, adding fuel to the fire of the great debate about The Sun Also Rises!
(Second update, one more to come later, please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)