At the beginning of the novel, Lionel decided not to follow Zweig's plain and delicate original prose.
Instead, he employed a sentence structure that would become very familiar to later generations but was absolutely groundbreaking in the European literary circles of the 19th century—
[Years later, facing the woman in bed, novelist "L" would recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from an unknown woman.]
The brilliance of this sentence structure lies in its simultaneous inclusion of future, present, and past tenses, creating a new imaginative space: from the perspective of the future, recollecting the past in an uncertain present.
In strong-tense languages like Spanish or French, its expressive characteristics can be fully showcased.
Immediately following this was the beginning of the novel's main text—
[L spent three days by the Fontainebleau Forest and returned to Paris on a chilly noon.
The clamor of the train station, mixed with coal smoke and cold mist, enveloped him.
He bought a copy of Le Figaro, glancing at the date: January 18, 1879.
The number gently touched his mind—forty-one.
Neither joy nor melancholy, not a single ripple.
He quickly flipped through the newspaper and, to the sound of a hansom cab's wheels, returned to his residence.
The housekeeper informed him of a visitor and several letters, then presented the accumulated correspondence on a lacquered tray.
He lazily scanned them, picking out and opening a few familiar handwritings.
Only one, with unfamiliar script and unusually thick, was carelessly set aside by him next to an enamel inkwell on his mahogany desk.
A servant offered Ceylon black tea, and he leaned into an armchair upholstered in dark green velvet, beginning to read the newspaper and several theater posters, then lit a fine Havana cigar.
Not until the smoke curled, blurring the light in the room, did he reach for that peculiar letter.]
Compared to the original work, Lionel specifically emphasized more details about the writer L's life.
Be it the "mahogany desk," "enamel inkwell," "Ceylon black tea," or "Havana cigar," all were fashionable pursuits eagerly chased by Parisians of that era.
After showcasing L's indifferent, nonchalant, yet hedonistic attitude towards life, "an unknown woman" finally appeared—
[It was heavy, twenty or thirty pages thick, with unfamiliar female handwriting, sloppy and wild, more like a manuscript poured out.
He subconsciously squeezed the envelope, confirming there was nothing else.
Neither the envelope nor the letter paper bore an address or signature.
"Strange," he murmured to himself, his curiosity piqued.
His gaze fell upon the words at the top:
"You, who never knew me!"
This abrupt address or title gave him a slight start—was it referring to him?
Or a phantom?
With this surprise, he read on:
"My son died yesterday—for this frail, reed-like life, I have battled death for three days and three nights.
For forty whole hours, I did not leave his scorching little bedside.
Influenza seized him, and the high fever turned his poor small body into a fiery furnace.
...I know, I know with absolute certainty, 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 now seeking pleasure and know nothing; or perhaps flirting with some lady.
I have only you, you who have never known me, yet I have always loved you."]
At the beginning of the letter, the woman first informed the recipient of her son's death—this was abrupt, but it had a peculiar effect on both L, who was reading the letter, and the readers of the novel:
A person would not lie at the moment their only son dies.
The woman writing the letter, having lost her only kin in the world, revealed herself to R for the first time.
She used her son's death as moral collateral.
In the face of such immense pain, any lie would seem sacrilegious.
Thus, this opening statement served as an extreme guarantee of credibility—making both the recipient and the readers believe that the long life story to follow was absolutely not fabricated.
Because of this beginning, the subsequent parts of the woman's letter could hold L's patient attention—
[I place the fifth candle on this wobbly table, and it is by this table that I take up my pen to tell you my story.
In the boundless solitude of watching my dead child, how could I endure this terrible moment if not by pouring out the lifelong sentiments accumulated in my heart to you? To whom else could I speak, if not to you? You were once my everything, and you are still my everything now!…]
As night deepened, Lionel picked up the written manuscript. Looking at the corrections, he suddenly realized he also had copying work he could assign to Alice…
————
The next day, Lionel woke up early.
As soon as he left his room, he heard Petty busy in the kitchen—since moving to 12 Antin Street, he had adjusted his eating habits to three meals a day, sometimes adding a late-night snack.
Petty prepared him a simple yet nutritionally balanced breakfast: two slices of country bread, one spread with raspberry jam, one with honey; a warm glass of milk, two fried eggs; and a serving of curd cheese and an apple.
Seeing only two plates of food on the table, Lionel asked,
"Where's Alice's breakfast?"
Petty made a "shush" gesture, then whispered,
"She was copying manuscripts until dawn last night.
She told me not to prepare her breakfast yet, she wants to sleep in a bit more."
Lionel nodded, his movements becoming lighter.
Recently, in addition to the orders introduced by the agency, he had also taken on transcription orders from his Sorbonne classmates.
As students of the Faculty of Arts, these classmates more or less had a need for manuscript transcription, but not to the extent of needing to hire a full-time copyist.
Since Lionel was willing to undertake the work, they naturally wouldn't refuse him—they just found it strange how exceptionally neat Lionel's handwriting was.
The manuscripts submitted by classmates were generally ordinary texts, usually their novels or poems, sometimes essays, and did not require Latin or complex professional terminology, so the price was not high, 10 centimes a page.
However, at this price, there was no middleman to take a cut, and Alice worked extremely hard, bringing in roughly 50 to 60 francs a month.
Alice only kept 10 francs of that, giving the rest to Lionel as rent and meal expenses for staying there—although it didn't quite cover the costs, it was better than nothing.
Lionel's headache was Alice; she couldn't stay hidden in the dark forever.
Although she wasn't completely housebound now, her outings were limited to a walk around Antin Street after most residents had left their homes.
Some time ago, a letter arrived from home mentioning Alice's "disappearance" in Paris, asking him to look for any clues—Lionel, seeing the living person right there at home, could only reply "Alright."
He had no other solution now, only to take things one step at a time.
After breakfast, Lionel said goodbye to Petty, grabbed his satchel, and left the apartment for the Sorbonne to attend the last week of classes before the Easter holiday.
Walking on the street, he noticed that Paris in late March had completely revived from the harsh winter!
Looking up, the sky was an unfolded piece of pale cyan paper; in the distance, the mist over the Seine was just dispersing, and the grey-beige Haussmannian buildings on both banks gradually awakened in the morning light.
Windowpanes, balconies, railings, black iron streetlights—all were outlined with a gentle warmth by the morning glow.
The density of carriages and pedestrians on the road had clearly increased.
Gentlemen had not only resumed their tradition of strolling, pacing down the Champs-Élysées with tall top hats and walking sticks; occasionally, ladies veiled and wearing wide-brimmed hats adorned with long feathers could also be seen walking arm-in-arm with their lovers.
Lionel, seeing that it was still early, decided not to take a carriage today but to walk to the Sorbonne.
As he reached Rue de la République, he heard someone gasp, pointing at the sky.
Lionel looked up to see an enormous hot air balloon slowly drifting over the city.
Figures swayed in its basket, whether it was some young master or an ambitious adventurer up there, he couldn't tell.
Lionel thought of the invitations he had recently received—clubs, balls, salons, art exhibitions, plays, excursions… one after another, so many events that talented men and beautiful women seemed to be in short supply; anyone who could fill a seat would do.
It was just that in the previous two years, even when salons needed people to fill seats, no one had ever invited him.
After walking and observing for about an hour, he finally arrived at the Sorbonne's school gate.
As usual, it was a lively scene of carriage diplomacy, but now that he came on foot, no one mocked him.
Because every morning, Albert de Rohan would await him at the gate, then accompany him into school.
After greeting him, Albert said with a cheeky grin,
"Whose lecture are you going to listen to today?
Mr. France's, or that pig's tail's?"
Classes at the Sorbonne usually became more relaxed before holidays, with celebrities often invited to give lectures, and students could freely choose to attend class or the lectures.
"Pig's tail?"
Lionel frowned.
Whose nickname was this?
He had no recollection.
Albert put his hands behind his back, made a gesture of swinging a braid, and wiggled his waist twice:
"You don't know?
It's the Chinaman!
Don't they all wear an ugly pig's tail?
Haha…"
(End of this chapter)
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