Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 496 The French Man's Sense of Crisis! (Bonus Chapter 1 for 1000 Votes)

Mr. Victor Hugo has rarely appeared in the public eye in the past year, both in person and in his writings.

The stroke he suffered in 1878 had a profound impact on his health and truly brought him into the shadow of death.

He has not published a novel since "Ninety-Three" in 1874, and recently he has devoted all his energy to the long poem "The Legend of the Century".

Unexpectedly, he took notice of the novel "The Sun Also Rises" and even wrote a review for it.

This commentary, though not lengthy, touches on the key point—

"The Sun Also Rises" doesn't give us answers, or even questions; it only gives us some scenes, some dialogues, and some people.

We've seen these people on the streets of Paris, in cafes, in salons, and perhaps even in our own homes.

Looking back at this epigraph, "The Lost Generation," one realizes just how accurate Sorel's definition of them was.

Confusion is not decadence or laziness, but a state of being suspended in mid-air, feeling lost and helpless.

Sorel transformed this state into a literary form, achieving a striking unity between form and content through omissions, blanks, restrained dialogue, and repetitive daily routines.

He also reminded us that twelve years after the war, we talk about reconstruction, revival, and revenge—

But we rarely talk about those whose lives have been changed by war, those who cannot rebuild, cannot revive, and cannot take revenge.

Sorel wrote about these people. He didn't explain, judge, or save them; he simply placed them there, letting us look at them and at ourselves.

We were defeated by the Prussians, we ceded territory, we paid reparations, but these are not the most painful things.

The most painful thing is that—to this day, we still don't know how to understand this failure!

While *The Sun Also Rises* didn't teach us about failure, it did make us acknowledge it for the first time—

We don't know how to understand failure!

After Victor Hugo's review was published, the editorial office of Le Figaro received even more letters.

But there are fewer abusive letters now—not that no one is abusing them, but that while those who are still abusing them are, many more have stopped and started thinking about that problem:

Do we really not know how to understand failure?
We keep talking about "revenge," "reconstruction," and "revival," but these words have been used for so long that they have become clichés. How much genuine emotion can they still carry?

Like the characters in the novel, they still live in the old ways—drinking, socializing, and dating.

But these methods are not enough, so they feel empty, so they feel lost, so they feel "suspended in mid-air".

It is precisely because they can no longer use the old language to understand their current situation.

Of course, not everyone likes "The Sun Also Rises," and many people hate it.

But even those who dislike it buy newspapers, read them, and criticize them—only after reading the latest installment do they know how to criticize!
And cursing is itself a form of participation.

Editor-in-Chief Periver recalled what Lionel had said in his office that day: "The readers are my collaborators."

At first he didn't understand, but now he does: this novel is forcing the reader to cooperate with the author.

If you don't cooperate, you won't understand; if you cooperate, you participate; and once you participate, the story seeps into your mind.

You hate it, but it has become a part of you.

You like it, and it becomes a part of you.

Perrivier picked up the proof of the newspaper that had just been delivered that day; it contained the section that would be published in tomorrow's "The Sun Also Rises."

In the previous episodes, this group of people left France together and went to the Pyrenees Mountains in Spain.

The first half of their journey was filled with brief moments of tranquility as they hunted and fished in the mountains, far from the noise of politics and the shadow of war.

The natural environment also gave them a false sense of security, as if as long as they were away from Paris, all their broken lives could be temporarily put aside.

Jacques appeared unusually quiet in this environment; he seemed more adapted to this life without explanation or expectation than others.

The real turning point came after they entered the Basque Country and watched a bullfight—

The festive atmosphere, alcohol, music, and bloody rituals here quickly ignited all the repressed emotions.

Here, Berthe met Romero, a nineteen-year-old bullfighter, who held a fatal attraction for her—

Young, brave, disciplined, and defiant of death, she stood in stark contrast to the postwar men she associated with.

She fell madly in love with him, a love that was both sensual and symbolic—she saw in him a strength untouched by war!

Romero was only nineteen years old. He held a sword and a red cloth in his hand, and wore a tight-fitting top and close-fitting trousers. The gold thread embroidery on his clothes was dazzling in the sunlight.

Berthe looked at him; he was so young and strong that she held her breath.

Romero's youth was not the youth of those Parisian men—the kind of youth that was weary and softened by wine.

His youth was hard, as hard as the sword in his hand.

……

The bullfight has begun.

Romero raised the red cloth, and the cow, pawing its hooves and kicking up a cloud of sand, charged towards them.

Romero didn't move. When the bull was almost in front of him, he turned around slightly and wiped the bull's horns with the red cloth in his hand—just a little bit more, just a little bit more!
The crowd erupted in shouts.

Bert didn't yell. She stared at his back. Sweat had soaked his shirt and clung to his chest, revealing the lines of his muscles. His arms were steady, and his hand holding the sword didn't tremble.

……

Time and again, the bull finally grew tired, panting heavily, its head bowed. Romero raised his sword and charged.

It wasn't running, it was stabbing. He shot out like an arrow, piercing the sword until only the hilt remained.

Berthe's toes tightened beneath her skirt, her whole body stiffening as if Romero's sword had also pierced her.

The cow swayed, knelt down, then lay on its side and remained still. Bert also relaxed, his legs went weak, and he almost sat down on the ground.

Romero turned to face the crowd. He didn't smile, he just nodded, without wiping the few drops of cow blood splattered on his face.

……

Later, in the tavern, Bert saw him sitting in a corner, drinking water alone—either wine or water.

Belt walked over: "That was fantastic."

Romero looked up at her. His eyes were dark, without pride or weariness, calm like the receding tide.

"Thank you," he said.

Belt sat down opposite him: "Aren't you going to celebrate?"

Romero shook his head: "There's another match tomorrow."

He then finished the water in his glass, stood up, and said, "I'm going to sleep."

Romero doesn't have "I don't know" in him; he only has things to do and things he has done.

He left, but Belt was still sitting there.

……

Jacques and Cohen were still sitting in their usual spots. There were three empty glasses in front of Jacques, and a fourth glass still had some foam in it.

Music could be heard outside—an accordion and drums. There were also shouts from a crowd, which hummed through the walls.

Jacques finally spoke: "Is bullfighting interesting?"

“A person died,” she said.

"Human? Cow?" Cohen asked.

"Hmm. People."

“Oh,” Cohen said, “that’s a shame. I heard that cow was very strong.”

"Let's go back," he said. "We still have a long journey ahead tomorrow."

Cohen stood up, swaying slightly. Jacques also stood up, slowly but steadily.

Berthe didn't move; she looked out the window. Across the street, there was a gas lamp, and under it, a young man was smoking, but it wasn't Romero.

"You go first," she said.

Jacques looked at her for a few seconds, then nodded. He didn't ask why, nor did he wait for her.

……

She walked to the outside of the bullring. The main gate was closed, but the side door was ajar. It was dark inside, and she could hear the sound of sweeping.

Belt stood there, looking at the black door.

After a long time, she turned and left, her steps quick, as if she were fleeing something, or perhaps chasing after something.

When she returned to her hotel room, the sky was already beginning to turn gray. She took off her sand-stained dress and threw it on a chair.

As she lay down, she heard coughing coming from the next room. It was Jacques.

One sound, two sounds, clearly audible in the silence.

Belt closed his eyes.

She wasn't asleep...

After this part of the series was published, Le Figaro received even more letters from readers, nearly four hundred a day!
Meanwhile, the content of the letter changed; the French man was stung by the comparison between men from the two countries and by Berthe's choice as the female protagonist.
I must say, I felt uncomfortable reading Romero's description—"His youth was hard, as hard as the sword in his hand"—

I suddenly realized that I had never possessed his strength. My youth was soft, softened by coffee, alcohol, and endless chatter.

Editor-in-Chief Periver lit a cigarette and continued opening the letters. The second letter had messy handwriting:

I was captured in Metz in 1870 and imprisoned for six months. After I came back, I drank every day, chatted with friends, and went to dances on weekends. I thought this was normal.

But today's installment says that the bullfighter doesn't drink alcohol, only water, and leaves early to go to sleep because "there's another show tomorrow."

We Parisians always say, "At least we can still enjoy ourselves"—but that nineteen-year-old Spanish boy didn't even need to enjoy himself; he was focused on doing what he had to do.

I suddenly wondered: What should I be doing? I don't know. Twelve years have passed since the war, and I still don't know.

Periver opened more than twenty letters in one go, then sighed deeply.

He instructed his assistant Pierre to categorize today's letters by theme: "one of shame, one of discomfort, one of resonance, and one of anger."

Pierre was a little confused: "Everyone should be very angry, right?"

Perrivier shook his head: "You'll know once it's done."

Two hours later, the results came out—

The most frequent responses were of shame and discomfort, accounting for nearly half; 30% expressed empathy; and only 20% expressed anger, with the reasons for the anger being quite varied.

Some say it "demeans French men," some say it "professional infidelity," and some say it "is too cruel."

French men are starting to feel a sense of crisis—they are always very confident in their own charm and believe that women will always choose them first.

But Lionel told them a harsh truth:

If French women today could see men whose hearts had not been destroyed by war and who were full of purpose, would they still choose the "lost generation"?

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