Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 579 He's just a coward!

The lights in the carriage were turned off, and darkness, like a robe, enveloped everything perfectly.

The moonlight crept in silently, first hesitantly probing before boldly tracing hazy paths of light through the darkness.

The fragments of stars falling from the sky splash, float, and swirl in the light, sometimes spreading out into a wet swamp, and sometimes meandering into a babbling brook.

The world was not quiet, so the moonlight swayed, breaking and then gathering again, flickering like a half-asleep eye.

The occasional fleeting shadows also came to life, pulsating, spitting out, and transforming with the rhythm of the moonlight.

Suddenly, a bright white comet pierced the darkness, trailing a long tail of light, and then abruptly tightened with the next sway, as if it had exhausted all its strength.

Then it gradually shifted, dimmed, and was finally swallowed by another, even darker shadow.

As the last rays of light faded, the moon remained in the sky, but had receded far away, casting only a soft halo of light that gently clung to the darkness.

……

Readers who had just received the latest issue of "Modern Life" paused for a moment when they read this part.

They expected to see more direct descriptions—the erotic scenes common in popular novels, the explicit words and actions.

But Lionel didn't write that. He wrote about moonlight, light paths, stardust, hazy halos, and rhythmic shadows.

He wrote of a comet piercing the darkness, then gradually fading. He wrote of the moonlight receding far away, leaving only a soft halo.

There isn't a single word about the body or any action, yet everyone who reads it knows what happened.

And they know it perfectly well.

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A café near the Sorbonne University in the Latin Quarter.

Several college students were gathered around a book called "Modern Life," having just finished reading the section on horse-drawn carriages.

"My God. He actually wrote that!"

"Yes, he didn't write what they did, but who doesn't know what he did write?"

"Moonlight is the eye, darkness is the robe, comets are... This is more powerful than simply writing it down."

"This is the real France! If it were the British, they would either avoid writing about it altogether or write it like an autopsy report."

"Haha, yes, only we French understand poetry!"

They read the passage again, this time even more slowly.

"I don't think this is about lust; it's about a more universal aspect of human nature!"

"Two people, in the darkness, become part of the movement of light and shadow in the world; their bodies belong to this universe!"

"Yes! That's it! Jacques and Rose are no longer just Jacques and Rose, they are the symbol of all lovers!"

"The moonlight shone on them, just as it shone on the Seine, on the Alps, and on everything in this world!"

“This is symbolism! I wonder if those British readers will understand it? They might still be confused, ‘What just happened?’”

"Haha, of course they wouldn't understand. But we French people do understand; in French literature, suggestion is always more powerful than explicit statement."

The young people grew increasingly excited as they spoke. They felt this wasn't a fictional description, but a declaration—

A declaration on how French literature has completely left British literature behind.

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Inside a high-end tailor shop on Boulevard Saint-Germain.

Taking advantage of the quiet afternoon when there were no customers, the proprietress, Madeline, secretly opened a copy of "Modern Life." She was in her forties, had been widowed for five years, and ran the shop alone.

Her face flushed slightly when she read the part about the carriage. But it wasn't shame that made her blush.

That passage was so beautiful. It was so beautiful that it didn't seem like a description of a relationship between a man and a woman; it was more like a poem about the night.

Moonlight, stardust, shadows, shimmering light... these beautiful words swirled in her mind.

She thought of her youth. She thought of those nights that had long since faded, and of a man whose name she had long forgotten.

The memories have faded, but the feelings remain—that intimacy in the darkness, that feeling of the world being reduced to just the two of us.

That's the feeling Lionel wrote about.

He didn't write about the physical body; he wrote about the atmosphere, the emotions, and the unspeakable connection between people.

Madeleine closed the magazine and sighed softly. She looked out the window at the streets of Paris, where pedestrians hurried by and carriages rumbled.

Life is real, concrete, and involves paying bills and dealing with guests.

But the novel gave her an outlet—

In that exit, she wasn't the tailor shop owner; she could be Ruth, she could be any woman, and she could have a moonlit night free from judgment.

She decided to buy *Modern Life* again next week. She absolutely had to.

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Marquise Clotilde de Ville, sitting on the sofa in her country villa, felt her heart race as she finished reading the passage about the carriage.

Elegant, so elegant! Sorel didn't write anything he shouldn't have, yet he wrote everything.

It's a talent. Only French writers possess this talent—to dance on the edge, yet never cross it.

The Marchioness read it again. She noticed the imagery: moonlight, stardust, comets, shadows…

These images reminded her of the poetry of Stefan Mallarmé, as well as Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud…

The Marquise's superior literary knowledge made her realize that Lionel wrote it this way so that the flesh in his work would no longer be shameful or vulgar.

It was elevated to an aesthetic level, which was a new advancement in French literature!

She recalled some British novels she had read in her youth. Those novels either avoided any mention of lovemaking or were written like criminal records. In comparison, Lionel's description was nothing short of liberating.

She suddenly chuckled and said to the maid beside her, "English novels are still stuck in the realm of morality and etiquette, while we've already gone much further!"

The maid, who knew nothing of literature, simply nodded in agreement and then served a cup of black tea.

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In the aristocratic mansion of the Passy district in the 16th arrondissement of Paris, Madame Rothschild sat in the main seat.

A young noblewoman, Christa Belle Rocheville, had just finished reading this passage and sat back down on the sofa, blushing.

The noblewomen sitting in a circle had different expressions, but they were all silent, as if they were savoring this passage.

After a long while, Mrs. Rothschild slowly spoke: "Lionel succeeded! He wrote the most dangerous scene in the most dangerous way."

He will earn the respect of all readers, and even the most conservative critics will have to acknowledge the literary value of this passage.

Baroness Julie de Monfier nodded: "Yes, if he hadn't written it so beautifully, the love story would have been hopelessly vulgar."

Isabel Rocheville looked on with longing: "I wonder how Mr. Sorel managed to write this... What kind of person is he?"

Upon hearing this, Mrs. Rothschild seemed to realize something and suddenly said angrily, "He's just a coward!"

The other ladies looked at the queen of the Paris literary salon with some surprise, wondering why she had suddenly lost her composure.

Mrs. Rothschild realized this and quickly said seriously, "Alright, let's continue. Isabel, you read it again."

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On the lookout tower, Frederick Fleet yawned. He was the Titan's assistant observer, responsible for watching the sea from a basket at the top of the foremast.

This job is tedious, especially at night. The dark Atlantic Ocean stretches to the horizon, with only the stars and moon reflected on its surface.

Fleet rubbed his eyes. He was a little tired. This shift had already lasted four hours, and there were still two hours before his shift ended.

He should have had a pair of marine telescopes, which were kept in the small cabinet next to the observation basket, to ensure visibility at night.

But when he handed over his shift this afternoon, he found that the telescope cabinet was locked, and the key was with the chief observer; he had forgotten to give it to him.

That person had already finished get off work and was resting; who knows where on this big ship he'd gone to seek pleasure.

Fleet considered going down to get the key, but that meant climbing down the mast, crossing the deck, and going to the crew quarters to find someone.

That's too much trouble. Besides, the weather is great tonight, the sea is calm, and visibility is good. You should be able to see clearly with the naked eye.

He had this thought from the beginning, and that's when he gave up on the idea of ​​getting the telescope.

But now he felt a pang of regret. The sea shimmered with a silvery glow under the moonlight, blurring the lines between near and far, making it difficult to discern details.

He had to keep his eyes wide open and concentrate.

Another half hour passed.

Fleet saw a dark shape on the sea ahead. It was small and far away, like a reef or a low-hanging cloud.

He squinted, trying to see more clearly.

Normally, he would raise his binoculars, focus, and carefully examine the object. But today he didn't have binoculars.

He waited a few minutes. The shadowy figure remained there, motionless—of course it wouldn't move; the iceberg was still.

But what about distance? Fleet couldn't judge. The sense of distance under moonlight is very unreliable; one hundred meters and five hundred meters might look about the same.

He decided to observe further.

Another ten minutes or so passed. The shadow seemed to have grown a little larger.

Fleet's heart skipped a beat. He rang the alarm bell on the lookout tower, and three urgent rings followed.

Then he grabbed the radio and shouted down, "Straight ahead! Iceberg!"

In the bridge, First Officer William Murdoch heard the bells and shouts. He rushed to the window and looked ahead.

Under the moonlight, a massive iceberg emerges from the darkness. Its white surface reflects the moonlight, resembling a moving castle.

The distance is less than 400 meters.

"Hard to left!" Murdoch shouted. "Full speed back!"

Helmsman Robert Hitchens whirled the steering wheel. The engine room received the order, and the chief engineer commanded the engines to reverse.

But the Titan was just too big.

Parisian readers, upon reaching this point, almost simultaneously noticed a jarring detail: the telescope was locked in a cabinet.

In a bookstore in the opera district, a middle-aged man said to his friend, "Did you see that? The binoculars are locked up."

My friend nodded: "They saw it. They didn't see the iceberg because they were too lazy to get the keys."

"This isn't just one lazy person. It's a systemic problem! Telescopes should be readily available, not locked away in a cabinet."

"Yes, but the people on the ship are used to following procedures, so let's just wait. While we're waiting, the iceberg will arrive."

"That's so British!"

The two looked at each other and smiled.

Yes, that's very British. A crisis is looming, but they'd rather wait passively than take proactive steps to change things.

Lionel's *1984* was that telescope; it could have allowed them to see reality clearly, but they locked it away.

They banned the book, expelled the author, and pretended the problem didn't exist.

Now the iceberg has arrived!

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(End of this chapter)