Louis-Alphonse's words were met with a burst of malicious sneers and a few claps of agreement from the audience.
His face, handsome as if carved, was now etched with sarcasm.
On the stage, Chen Jitong's smile froze for a moment, but he did not lose his composure; instead, it transformed into a calm born of offended dignity.
He slightly raised his hand, stopping Professor Latour who was about to speak, and looked directly at Louis-Alphonse.
"May I ask your name?"
Chen Jitong didn't rush to retort, but politely inquired about the other's name.
"Louis-Alphonse de Montferrand."
Louis-Alphonse lifted his chin.
"Good morning, Monsieur de Montferrand!"
Chen Jitong's voice remained clear and steady, without a trace of anger:
"Judging by your name, you are an aristocrat, presumably well-educated, yet you so vividly demonstrate a lack of imagination.
You equate the 'Xieyi' (freehand, expressive) style of art with material poverty, and brutally oppose spiritual pursuits to the demands of survival...
I suddenly understand why France had to adopt a republican system."
Chen Jitong's words drew laughter from some in the audience, while others' expressions changed.
He took a step forward, almost to the edge of the podium:
"Indeed, our nation is not yet as prosperous and powerful as France, and our people do not yet have magnificent artistic venues like opera houses.
But what contradiction does this pose to our generation's cherishing and preservation of dramatic art?
Should we deny the artistic value of the Louvre just because your country suffered setbacks in the Franco-Prussian War?
Should we mock your people's love for the plays of Molière or Hugo?"
As these words left his mouth, everyone's expressions changed.
Many let out angry roars:
"Get out! Chink!
Get out!"
If not for the presence of the academy's professors, someone might have leaped up to beat Chen Jitong.
Professor Latour stood up, turned around, and spread his hands:
"Quiet!
Everyone, quiet!
Mind your manners!"
Once the venue quieted down, he turned back to Chen Jitong:
"Chen, I hope you can also remain rational!"
Chen Jitong nodded, stepped back to the center of the podium, and after a brief pause, added:
"The 'Xieyi' style in Chinese drama is an artistic philosophy refined over millennia, stemming from our profound understanding that 'spiritual essence' surpasses 'physical resemblance'.
It doesn't require a lavishly decorated stage, but rather the open minds and wings of imagination from the audience.
I deeply understand your pride in the Paris Opera House.
But to use that as a standard to negate other equally brilliant art forms, forgive my frankness, but that precisely shows a narrowness in artistic appreciation."
Chen Jitong's counter-attack was well-reasoned and measured.
Louis-Alphonse was momentarily embarrassed and could only sit down.
Among the students who were initially just watching, a few now wore thoughtful expressions; Professor Latour also breathed a sigh of relief.
"Enough, Mr. Chen!"
An old yet highly authoritative voice suddenly rang out.
In the front row, an elderly man with silver hair and a gaunt face stood up, leaning on a cane.
Lionel looked – oh, an old acquaintance, Ernest Renan, Academician of the Académie française, expert in ancient Middle Eastern languages and civilizations, and expert in Christian history.
"Academic discourse should be based on rigorous rationality and verifiable knowledge."
Renan's voice wasn't loud, but it silenced all discussions,
"Latour, you are too engrossed in the 'exotic' facade of the Far Eastern world, neglecting a critical examination of its core values.
Like this 'Xieyi' drama—"
He suddenly turned to Chen Jitong:
"It sounds more like a pretense invented to conceal an inability to achieve the accomplishments of French drama in psychological depth, social critique, and stage technology.
An art that cannot profoundly dissect human nature, nor precisely reproduce reality, ultimately has limited value.
This perhaps explains why certain academic pursuits consistently struggle to reach the level of rationality demanded by the Académie française."
Renan's words were like a basin of ice water, extinguishing Professor Latour's newly kindled hope.
He not only thoroughly negated Chen Jitong but also directed his criticism at Professor Latour, hinting at the reason for his exclusion from the honor of being an Academician of the Académie française.
This was almost a public humiliation of a scholar's academic career! Professor Latour's face turned ashen, his lips trembling, yet he couldn't formulate any effective words.
Lionel looked at Chen Jitong on stage, then at Renan, Latour, and Louis-Alphonse in the audience, and suddenly understood something—indeed, promotion and tenure reviews have always been the fiercest battleground in any institution since ancient times.
With a limited number of inductees into the Académie française each year, for whom was Professor Renan "sniping" at Professor Latour?
"What a spectacular display of 'reason,' Professor Renan!
And this... Monsieur de Montferrand?"
A clear voice, carrying undisguised sarcasm, rang out from the back of the auditorium.
An East Asian young man, not tall, with a refined face, and also dressed in Western attire, stood up.
He appeared younger than Chen Jitong.
Unlike Chen Jitong, he had no queue; his short hair was meticulously combed, and apart from his appearance, he was indistinguishable from a French student.
Ignoring the astonishment of the crowd, he walked from the back row all the way to the podium, speaking as he went:
"Professor Renan, you invoke 'reason' in name, but practice arrogance in deed.
You use the yardstick of Western drama to measure the palace of Chinese drama, then declare it unfitting in size, and thus of limited value?
Do you not even understand that different soils nurture different flowers?"
He stopped in front of Louis-Alphonse:
"As for you, Monsieur de Montferrand, your understanding of China probably still rests on street tabloid cartoons and the porcelain your ancestors plundered from China, doesn't it?
You mock the Chinese for caring about 'filling their stomachs'?
Then, allow me to ask, when Rousseau, in Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality Among Men, vehemently denounced the hunger and injustice brought by private property, did he also lack your so-called 'level of rationality'?"
This young man's sudden intervention, his sharpness even overshadowing Chen Jitong's.
The auditorium was in an uproar, students were dumbfounded, and even Renan frowned deeply:
"Who are you?
This is the Sorbonne, not a marketplace!"
The young man turned in front of the podium, bowing slightly to everyone:
"My name is Tomson, Tomson Ku, Master of Arts from the University of Edinburgh, and also a Chinese!"
"The Sorbonne is certainly not a marketplace, but it is France's 'Agora'—or perhaps you would prefer the Sorbonne to become a prison where only one voice is allowed."
The Agora, located at the foot of the Acropolis hill in Athens, was an important debate ground in ancient Greece.
Chen Jitong looked at the back of his unfamiliar compatriot's head, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then immediately interjected:
"Tomson is absolutely right! Monsieur Renan, you pride yourself on the 'reason' of the Académie française, yet you refuse to understand the unique interpretations that different civilizations have of 'reason,' of 'truth,' and of 'humanity' itself!
You treat your own standards as the ultimate truth, rejecting other possibilities.
This in itself is the greatest irrationality!
It is a denial of human free will!"
He turned to the entire audience, his tone growing more fervent:
"Our civilization possesses a depth and wisdom you cannot imagine!
Our philosophy, thousands of years ago, already explored the origins of the universe and the order of human relations!
Our poetry, with its profound artistic conception and subtle emotions, is in no way inferior to your Hugo or Lamartine!
Our art, whether calligraphy, painting, or drama, seeks a state of unity with nature!
What right do you have, based solely on your temporary technological advantage, based solely on your partial understanding of the world, to presume to deny the entire value of a great civilization with four millennia of history?!"
Tomson Ku also echoed loudly, his words even sharper:
"Exactly!
Look at these people who pride themselves as 'beacons of reason'!
While their ancestors were still picking fruit from trees, ours were already writing the I Ching and contemplating the mysteries of the 'Dao'!
While their knights were still fighting for their lords, our scholars were already practicing the ideal of 'education for all'!
Our civilization is a precocious giant, and you, merely children who have just learned to run, what right do you have to mock the giant's stride?!"
The two joined forces, one echoing the other, their words fierce and their demeanor passionate, turning the faces of the Sorbonne students and professors ashen.
Professor Latour completely lost control of the lecture he had initiated.
"Arrogant!"
"Ignorant!"
"Savage megalomaniacs!"
A wave of discontented boos and accusations erupted from the audience.
Louis-Alphonse jumped up and shouted:
"Listen!
This is their true face! Savage arrogance!"
Professor Renan's face was terrifyingly gloomy.
He forcefully thumped the ground with his cane, preparing to say something more.
Just then, a figure rose tall in the venue, suddenly standing like a pillar in the center of the space.
Everyone looked towards the figure, realizing it was none other than Lionel Sorel, who had recently been making waves in the academy.
(End of Chapter)
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