Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 77 One Shot, One Kill! (Fourth update, please subscribe and vote!)
Lionel did not have Alice copy "The Decadent City"; he had already decided to suspend writing the novel, first placing the completed manuscript in a hidden compartment of his desk drawer and then locking the drawer.

What Alice really needed to copy was "Letter from an Unknown Woman".

Today's conversation with Mrs. Rothschild was not entirely fruitless, aside from reaching an agreement on sponsorship.

Although this young noblewoman's interpretation of "The Old Guard" was somewhat absurd, it helped Lionel grasp more accurately the inner world of women of this era, especially those with the trait of "sentimentality".

"Praised, seduced, exploited, sacrificed, abandoned, despised, destroyed... In the end, all that's left is a lingering memory of the past, a tragic end to the rest of one's life. Isn't this what women are like? This is what women are like!"

This statement could be applied almost perfectly to the protagonist of "Letter from an Unknown Woman"—she is even more tragic than Mrs. Rothschild said, because the writer never even seduced her.

He was like a beam of light shining into a dark cellar, unintentional in himself, but unexpectedly activated a young girl's soul.

The tragedy of life often lies in this: the emotions one burns out one's entire life to protect never leave a trace in the other person's mind.

Therefore, in the following parts, Lionel needs to write their first encounter well in order to provide sufficient psychological basis for the heroine's later shocking and incomprehensible "unrequited love".

With that thought in mind, Lionel turned up the gaslight, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write on the manuscript paper—

I want to tell you about my whole life. To be honest, my life truly began on the day I met you—no, at that moment. Before that, my life was just a gloomy, chaotic mess… I never want to think about it again; my heart was already numb.

When you came into my life, I was thirteen years old, living in the house you live in now, the house with gray stone walls and old-fashioned wooden stairs...

You certainly won't remember us, won't remember the accountant's widow who wore faded black clothes and always covered her face with a headscarf, who made a living by copying accounts and occasionally transcribed judgments for the Second District Court; you certainly won't remember her thin little daughter, her face ashen from long-term malnutrition—that was me. ...

Therefore, the tragic yet pure life of the female protagonist in this novel is inextricably linked to her impoverished childhood and adolescence.

Unlike the world 100 years later, in the 19th century, when compulsory education was not yet widespread and women were generally treated as "objects," such a beginning essentially determined the outcome.

A better option was to become a live-in tutor for a wealthy family. In addition to teaching children to read and write, she would also do sewing and mending, earning 80 francs a month. Before the age of 30, she could save up a small sum of money as a dowry to marry a clerk or a small shop owner.

Those with a more modest life might never be able to afford a dowry to marry themselves off, and unwilling to marry an old bachelor or widower who doesn't want a dowry, they might donate all their money to a convent when they get older and become nuns themselves.

Those who are less fortunate may end up in brothels, dying before the age of 30 due to various illnesses.

Charlotte Brontë's *Jane Eyre* is a classic precisely because its plot offers solace to women of this type: a domineering CEO... a landowner falls in love with me, a poor and argumentative woman! And I'm not happy about it! I've also inherited a huge fortune! The landowner's family is ruined, and I'm the one who saves him!

Among 19th-century novels depicting ordinary women, none is more exhilarating than hers.

But Lionel's *Letter from an Unknown Woman* is not such a lighthearted story; he profoundly explains the immense spiritual crisis faced by women like this.

It is precisely because of the collapse-like start to life that they cling tightly to the only "normal person" in their terrible life as the pillar of their life until death.

Fifteen or sixteen years have passed, my dear, and you surely know nothing. But what about me? Ah, I remember it all so clearly—the first time I heard your name was from the doorman. He was standing in the courtyard that day, pointing at the painters coming upstairs, saying, "L is a playwright, from the Odéon Theatre, famous, and single."

……

The first time I truly saw you—no, to the exact moment, the hour! It happened yesterday, no, it happened right now, how could I forget? Because it was at that moment that my dark, suffocating world suddenly opened up, and for the first time, it shone with its due light before my eyes.

……

Be patient, my love, I beg you, listen to me for this brief fifteen minutes, don't get tired. Know that I love you all my life, and in every poor, desperate day, yet burning brightly because of you, I have never grown weary!

In the eyes of a girl who had completely lost hope in life, the appearance of a "decent person" was like an angel descending upon her apartment, which was filled with rude behavior and endless arguments.

Even the old housekeeper, whom L sent to supervise the bricklayers tidying up the house, became even more obsessed with L because of her elegant and polite words and actions.

Finally, L moved into the apartment!

My dear, at that moment, my shock was beyond words! You, the living, breathing you, made me feel a strong dizziness, as if the floor beneath my feet had suddenly collapsed.

You were wearing that light gray flannel tracksuit, and you nimbly climbed the stairs—not one step at a time, but—good heavens!—always skipping two steps at a time! Your steps were so light, lively, and agile, with a nonchalant air of nonchalance, as if the whole world were your playground. You casually held a soft, dark felt hat in your hand, so in the light, I could immediately see your face—a radiant, expressive, and youthful face! …

You are so young! So beautiful! Tall and well-proportioned, your movements are as fluid and elegant as a dance.

This sudden reality shattered my preconceived notions like a lightning bolt. I was so shocked I almost cried out, instinctively covering my mouth and pressing my body tightly against the cold door.

With this entire emotional foundation laid, the psychological basis for the protagonist's behavior in "Letter from an Unknown Woman" is complete.

The woman then describes her daily and yearly infatuation with the man, how the young girl secretly observes him every day and fantasizes about living with him.

Back then, I did nothing but wait for you all day. But I dared not let you see me, afraid your gaze would make me faint. There was a brass peephole on my front door, and I used it every day to spy on your every move.

...Year after year, month after month, day after day...I sat behind the door all afternoon, a book in my hand, waiting to hear your footsteps return...

I kissed your doorknob because your hand touched it; I also stole a cigar butt, which you threw away before you came in—that butt was my sacred object because your lips touched it.

However, her mother remarried, her stepfather was transferred, and the whole family moved away. The girl was plunged into extreme despair, and her unrequited love deepened.

After growing up, she returned to Paris alone and made a living by sewing clothes and working as a saleswoman. One day, she ran into L on the street by chance. He didn't recognize her but invited her to spend the night with him.

The male protagonist only sought fleeting pleasure with her, while she gave herself completely to him. They spent only three days together, after which the man seemed to have forgotten everything, and she dared not disturb him.

Your gaze was still so casual, but the moment it swept over me, it was instantly filled with tenderness and captivating beauty, as if it could embrace me tightly. This gaze awakened me for the first time, transforming me from a child into a woman, into a lover.

You recognized me then, and you didn't later. My dear, the disappointment I felt at that moment was indescribable—this fate was unexpected, this fate of not being recognized by you, yet I accepted it, endured it my whole life, and died with it by my side…

After separating from L, she discovered she was pregnant but never told him. She gave birth to her son alone and raised him through her own "efforts" and special financial assistance from men.

Despite the hardships of life, she refused to let L know the truth, continuing to love him silently and pay attention to his every move.

Years later, she had become an elegant and confident woman. At a ball, she was attracted to L again, and the two spent another night together. L still did not recognize her, treating her like any other lover.

She knew full well that his "love" for her was just a fleeting desire, but she was still grateful and cherished it. Every year on L's birthday, she would anonymously buy a bouquet of roses for him, even though L never knew who sent them to him.

Before writing this letter to L, her son died of the flu, and she herself was also dying from the disease. Feeling that she could no longer hide it and had no intention of making accusations, she wrote this letter, entrusting her life to L.

Her only wish before she died was:

Please... This is the first and last time, I beg you... Every year on your birthday, buy some roses and put them in a vase... I only believe in you, I only love you, I only wish to continue living in you... Sigh, I only live one day a year, just silently, completely quietly living that one day...

Even though L was deeply shocked by this, he still couldn't remember who the woman was.
Death lingered nearby, as did eternal love: his heart was filled with mixed emotions. He seemed to recall such a woman, but she was like a wisp of smoke in the wind, elusive and intangible, yet passionate and unrestrained, like a distant melody.

As he finished writing the last stroke, Lionel realized that it was already broad daylight outside the window. He had been writing all night and had finally completed the rest of the novel.

Looking at the thick stack of manuscripts, Lionel felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He forced himself to go outside and find Alice, who was having breakfast, and handed her the manuscripts: "Make two copies of this in the next few days."

One copy was sent to "Charpentier's Bookshelf," and the other to the Rothschild Estate. I've already copied the addresses at the end.

After saying that, ignoring the two people who looked worried, she didn't eat breakfast or wash up, and went back to the bedroom to lie down on the bed and fall asleep.

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.

An hour later, while Patty was tidying up the dishes in the kitchen, she suddenly heard Alice scream in the bedroom and rushed over to check on her—

The cheerful Alpine girl was seen clutching her chest with one hand and holding Lionel's latest novel in the other, tears streaming down her face...

(End of this chapter)