Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 587 Eastern Secret Techniques!

In early May, the evening breeze in Paris still carried a chill.

As agreed with Zola the previous week, Lionel went to Edmond de Goncourt's house to attend a dinner he had specially prepared.

When he entered the living room, several people had already gathered there.

Émile Zola sat in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand; Guy de Maupassant leaned against the window, talking to Joris-Karl Huysmann; Alphonse Daudet sat on the sofa, chatting with Paul Alexis and Léon Ennique; Henri Céarr was flipping through a picture book on the coffee table…

Edmond Goncourt greeted him: “Léon, you’ve arrived. Perfect timing, dinner will begin shortly.”

The group moved to the dining room. A long table was covered with a snow-white linen tablecloth, and in the center was a large silver candlestick with twelve candles.

The tableware was exquisite Sèvres porcelain, and the silverware was polished to a shine. Next to each set of tableware were three crystal glasses—one for water, one for red wine, and one for white wine.

The servants began serving the dishes.

The first cold dish was oysters. Dozens of oysters were arranged on crushed ice, their shells slightly open, revealing the plump meat inside. Next to them were lemon wedges and rye bread.

After having a drink with everyone, Goncourt said, "It was brought from Normandy this morning, eat it while it's fresh."

Maupassant had already picked one up, squeezed lemon juice on it, tilted his head back and sipped it: "Good!" Then he sighed contentedly, "This is what life is all about."

The second course was lobster bisque. The orange-red broth was served in a white porcelain bowl, topped with creamy frosting and finely chopped scallions.

Next came the foie gras with fig sauce. The foie gras was pan-fried until crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, and when cut open, the inside was a perfect pink.

There were two main courses. First was roasted lamb chops, with the lamb coated in herbs and breadcrumbs and roasted until golden brown, served with roasted baby potatoes and green beans.

Next was beef stew in red wine, the beef was stewed until tender, the sauce was rich, and it was served with mashed potatoes.

The servants kept pouring wine. First, a crisp Chablis white wine with seafood, then a Bordeaux red wine with meat.

The bread basket is always full, containing baguettes, rye bread, and rolls.

Almost every writer here has a huge appetite; Zola alone could eat the equivalent of three people's portions.

When the cheese platter was served, Maupassant had already unbuttoned the top button of his collar: "Edmund, this dinner of yours could feed a whole corps."

Gong Guer smiled slightly: "It's a rare occasion to get together, so we should have a good feast."

There are seven or eight kinds of cheese: Camembert, Brie, Comté, Roquefort... served with walnuts and figs.

Finally, desserts were served: chocolate mousse and fruit tarts; along with a basket of fresh fruit—grapes, peaches, strawberries…

It was already 9:30 p.m. when the coffee and digestif were served. Everyone ate to their heart's content and leaned back in their chairs.

The servants cleared away the tableware and replaced it with a clean ashtray and cigar box. Maupassant immediately took a cigar, cut off the end, lit it, and took a deep drag.

Goncourt then got to the point: "Friends, besides the meal, there's something else I'd like to discuss formally with you all here today."

Everyone looked at him.

“As you know, I made a will a few years ago, and all my property will be used to establish the ‘Goncourt Academy’ after my death.”

Zola nodded: “I remember. You also appointed the first cohort of academicians, and Gustave (Flaubert), Alphonse (Daudet) were all on the list.”

Edmond Goncourt's expression turned serious: "Yes. But Gustave is dead. This shakes me deeply."

The restaurant quieted down, and the candlelight flickered on everyone's faces, reflecting different expressions.

“Gustav was a year younger than me, but he passed away first. This reminds me that we, these people, won't be here forever. So today I want to formally ask you—”

"Léon, Guy, Joris, Paul, Ennique, Henri—would you be willing to succeed as fellows of the Goncourt Academy at an appropriate time in the future?"

Maupassant's eyes lit up: "An academician? That sounds very formal. What do you need to do?"

“The Goncourt Academy will select an outstanding French novel each year to reward young writers. I hope to establish a lasting tradition to encourage literary creation.”

Huysman asked, "When will the selection process begin?"

"After I die, the academy will be officially established, my will will take effect, and then it will begin to operate."

Lionel looked around at the people at the table. In the candlelight, their faces were both familiar and strange.

Zola was forty-three years old and had become somewhat overweight; his breathing was heavy after a meal.

Maupassant was thirty-three years old, but his face was pale and his cheeks had a sickly flush.

Yusman is thirty-five years old and often bites his nails nervously.

Dude was 43 years old and relatively healthy, but he often complained of stomach aches.

……

Almost everyone here is not considered "healthy".

Lionel knew that the Goncourt Prize wouldn't be awarded until 1903. By then, several of the people present today would no longer be alive.

1903. Twenty years to go.

Zola died in 1902 from carbon monoxide poisoning; Maupassant died in 1893 from mental derangement caused by syphilis; Daudet died in 1897; Huysmann died in 1907, which was considered a long life, as he lived to see the first award ceremony.

Goncourt himself would die in 1896. Lionel suddenly felt that the fine Bordeaux in his glass today tasted a little bitter.

Zola noticed his silence: "Léon, what do you think? Are you willing to join?"

Everyone looked at Lionel. He put down his glass.

Lionel began slowly: “Edmund’s wish is admirable. It is important to establish a lasting literary tradition and encourage young writers.”

No one spoke, but everyone knew there was a turning point.

“Last week, I visited Ivan in Bouzhvar. He is dying and may not make it past autumn. He is only sixty-five years old.”

The restaurant was quieter now.

"Then I thought, we're planning an award here today that might not be officially operational until the next century. Who among you is confident that you'll live to see that time?"

No one answered. Maupassant stubbed out his cigar, Huysmann stopped biting his nails, and Zola looked down at the table.

Lionel didn't stop: "Gustave is dead, and Ivan is about to die. Manet is dead, only fifty-one years old. Doré is dead, also fifty-one years old."

We're sitting here talking about the future, but have we ever thought about whether we even have a future ourselves?

His voice was calm, but every word carried great weight.

Edmond Goncourt's face paled slightly: "What do you mean?"

Lionel shook his head. "I mean, people in our line of work don't live long. Look at our lives, eating and drinking to our hearts' content." He pointed to the table full of leftovers.

“And smoking.” He pointed to the cigar box on the table, “staying up all night writing, having irregular sleep patterns, and some people even…” He didn’t finish, but glanced at Maupassant.

Maupassant blushed. Everyone knew he had syphilis.

He used to be very proud of having this "powerful virus," but after being dragged into doing many things by Lionel, he no longer thinks that way.

"We're ruining our health like this, and then we expect to live to our sixties or seventies to see an award that won't start until the next century? Don't you think that's absurd?"

Émile Zola looked displeased and asked with a frown, "Léon, what's wrong with you today?"

“Ivan is now lying in bed, in so much pain he can’t speak, the cancer has spread from his spine. Although he has seen the best doctors, no one can save him.”

He looked at Maupassant: "Guy, have you been having headaches again lately? And your vision is blurry?"

Maupassant paused for a moment, then nodded.

Lionel put it bluntly: “It’s going to get worse. If you don’t change your lifestyle, you’ll go completely crazy in less than ten years. You know I’m not kidding you.”

Maupassant turned pale. He wanted to argue, but couldn't speak. He did know. The doctor had told him.

Yusman whispered, "I also often have insomnia...and stomach aches."

"Because you drink too much coffee, smoke too much, and have irregular eating habits. And you, Emily, how long have you been coughing? You're always coughing whenever I see you."

Émile Zola shifted uncomfortably: "It's just bronchitis..."

"It happens every year; it's become a chronic illness. We are all committing slow suicide. In different ways, but the result is the same—early death, a painful death."

He paused for a moment, giving everyone present time to think about what he had just said.

"So when Edmund said he hoped we would take over as academicians and continue a tradition, I thought, we have to live to see that day first. Otherwise, it's all just empty talk."

Edmund Goncourt sighed and asked, “Then what do you suggest we do? We’ve been living like this for decades.”

"It's not too late to start making changes now! Of course, this has to be your own willingness; you can't be forced."

Maupassant looked up: "How can I change it? I... I already... you know my situation. The doctor said it's too late."

Lionel said firmly, "It's not too late, but you shouldn't be so indulgent yet."

Maupassant muttered, "I...I haven't been going to brothels much lately..."

Lionel smiled slightly: "And what about lovers? How many? Besides Ms. Neue whom we've met? Five? Or ten?"

Maupassant said hesitantly, "Is that a lot? Not really..."

Lionel ignored him and instead addressed the crowd: “I have a secret technique from the East, from China. It’s not medicine, but a series of continuous movements. I recovered from my injuries by relying on it.”

"Eastern secret arts"? Some people didn't take what Lionel said before seriously, thinking it was no different from those scary doctors.

But things are different now; this is a mysterious martial art from China!
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The next morning at ten o'clock, in the garden of Villa Zola Médan.

Zola, Maupassant, Goncourt, Daudet, Huysmann... the five men stood in a row, facing Lionel.

They all followed Lionel's example and adopted a relaxed posture: feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.

At this moment, Lionel slowly raised his hands: "Now slowly raise your arms to your chest, like you're holding a ball..."

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(End of this chapter)