Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 66 Pig's Tail

In the opening of the novel, Lionel decided not to follow Zweig's plain and delicate original expression, but instead used a sentence structure that is now familiar to many, but was absolutely groundbreaking in the 19th-century European literary world—

Years later, when facing the woman in his bed, the novelist "L" will recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from a stranger.

The beauty of this sentence structure lies in its simultaneous inclusion of the three tenses of future, present, and past, creating a completely new imaginative space—that is, recalling the past from the perspective of the future in an uncertain present.

In languages ​​with strong tenses, such as Spanish or French, their expressive features can be fully displayed.

Then the main text of the novel begins—

L whiled away three days in the Fontainebleau Forest, returning to Paris on a chilly midday. The hustle and bustle of the train station, mingled with coal smoke and cold fog, assaulted his senses. He bought a copy of Le Figaro, glancing at the date: January 18, 1879. The number touched his mind—forty-one years old. Neither joy nor sorrow, not a ripple of emotion. He hastily flipped through the newspaper, returning to his lodgings to the sound of his carriage wheels. The butler informed him of a visitor and several letters, then presented the accumulated mail on a lacquered tray. He lazily scanned them, picking out a few familiar handwritings to read, but one letter, with unfamiliar handwriting and unusually heavy, was carelessly placed beside the enamel inkwell on his mahogany desk. A servant served Ceylon tea, and he leaned back in his dark green velvet-covered armchair, beginning to peruse the newspapers and a few theater posters, before lighting a fine Havana cigar. Only when the smoke curled upwards, dimming the light in the room, did he reach for the unusual letter.

Compared to the original novel, Lionel specifically emphasized more details about the writer L's life, including "mahogany desks," "enamel ink bottles," "Ceylon tea," and "Havana cigars," all of which are fashionable items that Parisians are currently pursuing.

After showcasing L's indifferent, nonchalant, and hedonistic attitude towards life, "a strange woman" finally appears—

It was heavy, twenty or thirty pages long, the unfamiliar woman's handwriting messy and unrestrained, more like a manuscript poured out. He subconsciously squeezed the envelope, confirming there was nothing else. There was no address or signature on the envelope or the letter. "Strange," he muttered to himself, his curiosity piqued. His gaze fell on the words at the top: "You, you who have never known me!" This abrupt address or title made him slightly startled. Was it referring to him? Or a phantom? With this astonishment, he continued reading:

“My son died yesterday—for this frail, reed-like life, I fought death for three days and three nights. For forty hours straight, I didn't leave his burning-hot little bedside. The flu seized him, and the high fever turned his poor little body into a furnace… I know, I know for sure, that my son died yesterday—and now, in this vast world, only you remain for me, only you. And you know nothing of me; perhaps you are currently indulging in pleasure, oblivious to everything; or perhaps you are flirting with some woman. I only have you, a you who has never known me, yet I have always loved you.”

The woman begins her letter by informing the recipient of her son's death—this is abrupt, yet it simultaneously has a remarkable effect on both L, the reader of the letter, and the reader of the novel:

No one lies when their only son dies. The woman who wrote the letter revealed herself to L for the first time after losing her only family member, using her son's death as a moral collateral.

Faced with such immense trauma, any lie would seem blasphemous. Therefore, this statement is first and foremost an extreme guarantee of credibility—to convince both the recipient and the reader that the long autobiographical account that follows is not a fabrication.

Because of this opening, L was able to patiently read the rest of the letter from the woman—

I placed the fifth candle on this rickety table, and right here, I picked up my pen to speak to you. Bearing the boundless loneliness of my dead child, how could I endure this terrible moment without pouring out the heartfelt emotions that have been building up within me all my life? If not to you, to whom else could I speak? You were my everything, and you remain my everything! ...

As night deepened, Lionel picked up the manuscript paper he had written, looked at the corrections on it, and suddenly realized that he also had copying work to give to Alice...

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The next day, Lionel woke up very early. As soon as he stepped out of his room, he heard Petty busy in the kitchen. Since moving to 12 Antant Street, he had changed his eating habits to three meals a day, and sometimes he would have a late-night snack.

Patty prepared a simple yet nutritionally balanced breakfast for him: two slices of country bread, one with raspberry jam and the other with honey; a glass of warm milk; two fried eggs; a serving of curd cheese; and an apple.

Seeing that there were only two dishes on the table, Lionel asked, "Where's Alice's breakfast?"

Patty made a shushing gesture, then explained in a low voice, "She was copying manuscripts until the early hours last night, and told me not to prepare her breakfast yet, she wants to sleep a little longer."

Lionel nodded and softened his movements.

Recently, in addition to the orders introduced by the agency, he also took over the transcription orders for his classmate Sorbonne.

As students in the Faculty of Arts, these students all had some need for manuscript transcription, but not to the point of needing to hire a scribe. Since Lionel was willing to take on the business, they naturally wouldn't refuse him—it was just strange that Lionel's handwriting was exceptionally neat.

The manuscripts submitted by the students are all general manuscripts, usually novels or poems they have written, and sometimes academic papers. They do not require the use of Latin or complex technical terms, so the price is not high, 10 centimes per page.

However, since there were no middlemen taking a cut at this price, and Alice worked extremely hard, she could earn about 50 to 60 francs a month.

Alice kept only 10 francs and gave the rest to Lionel as rent and food expenses for her stay—although it didn't cover the costs, it was better than nothing.

Lionel's biggest headache was Alice; she couldn't stay hidden in the shadows forever.

Although she doesn't completely stay home now, she only takes a walk around Antal Street after most of the residents have left.

A while ago, a letter came from home mentioning Alice's "disappearance" in Paris, asking him to keep an eye out for any clues. Lionel, seeing that the person in his home was alive and well, could only reply with "okay."

He has no other choice now but to take it one step at a time.

After breakfast, Lionel said goodbye to Petty, picked up his schoolbag, and left the apartment to head to the Sorbonne for the last week of classes before the Easter holidays.

Walking down the street, he realized that Paris at the end of March had completely come back to life from the dead of winter!
Looking up, the sky is like a sheet of pale blue paper spread out; in the distance, the mist on the Seine is just beginning to dissipate, and the gray-beige Haussmannian buildings on both banks are gradually awakening in the morning light, with window frames, balconies, railings, and black iron streetlights all painted with warm outlines by the morning light.

The density of carriages and pedestrians on the streets had clearly increased. Not only had gentlemen resumed their tradition of strolling, wearing tall hats and leaning on canes as they walked along the Champs-Élysées, but one could also occasionally see ladies wearing veils and wide-brimmed hats adorned with long feathers, walking arm in arm with their lovers.

Seeing that it was still early, Lionel decided not to take a carriage today, but to walk to the Sorbonne.

As soon as they reached Republic Street, they heard someone exclaim in surprise as they pointed to the sky. Lionel looked up and saw an enormous hot air balloon slowly drifting over the city. Figures moved inside the basket; it was unclear whether it was a young master from a wealthy family or an ambitious adventurer.

Lionel thought of the invitations he had recently received—clubs, balls, salons, art exhibitions, plays, outings… one after another, there were so many events that there weren’t enough talented men and beautiful women to go around, and anyone could fill the seats.

However, in the two years prior, even when salons needed a large audience, no one had approached him.

After walking around for about an hour, he finally arrived at the gate of the Sorbonne. As usual, there was a lively carriage diplomacy, but now that he had come on foot, no one laughed at him.

Every morning, Albert de Rohan would wait for him at the gate and then accompany him into the school.

After exchanging greetings, Albert grinned and asked, "Whose lecture are you going to listen to today? Mr. France's, or that pig-tail's?"

The Sorbonne's curriculum usually becomes more relaxed before holidays, and they often invite celebrities to give lectures, allowing students to choose whether to attend classes or listen to lectures.

"Pig's tail?" Lionel frowned. Whose nickname was that? He had no recollection of it at all.

Albert put his hands behind his back, made a flicking motion with his braid, and twisted his waist twice: "Don't you know? They're Chinese! Don't they all have ugly pig tails? Haha..."

(The next chapter will be released around 10:30 PM)
(End of this chapter)