It wasn't just the noble lady in the manor on the Normandy coast whose attention was captured by the opening of "Letter from an Unknown Woman"; the Editor-in-Chief of The Modern Life, Emile Bergerat, was equally engrossed.
Not everyone could vacation when the Seine river water smelled foul—
Like Emile Bergerat, a renowned poet, playwright, and essayist, he couldn't leave Paris, even if he owned a villa in the countryside.
Especially as the editor of a weekly newspaper, he was bound to the second floor of "Charpentier's Bookshelf" until all articles and layouts were finalized, consuming cup after cup of coffee and chain-smoking cigarettes.
Although Mr. Georges Charpentier was an enthusiastic patron of the arts and a discoverer of "Naturalism" and "Impressionism," he was not good at business operations.
The Modern Life was an illustrated weekly he founded on a whim, but due to high costs, each copy sold for 10 sous, five times more expensive than Le Figaro.
Despite Mr. Charpentier's insistence that this was the future of newspapers, dismal sales had already overwhelmed the entire "Charpentier's Bookshelf."
And he still insisted on paying the highest standard manuscript fees to contributors of The Modern Life; it was simply mad.
As Editor-in-Chief, Emile Bergerat frowned at the mountain of manuscripts piled before him—
Generous manuscript fees naturally attracted numerous opportunists, and he had to weed them out one by one.
The Modern Life was positioned as high-end with avant-garde concepts, covering short stories, poetry, art criticism, and cultural essays.
It also frequently published reviews and works by Impressionist painters such as Monet, Manet, and Renoir.
Even Pierre Renoir himself was one of the magazine's principal illustrators.
No news, no scandals, no gossip, no spreading rumors...
A newspaper like this, selling for 10 sous a copy, found it incredibly difficult to survive in Paris.
He wiped his bald forehead and picked up another relatively thick envelope.
"Lionel Sorel?
That second-year Sorbonne student?"
Emile Bergerat frowned.
He had read "The Old Guard," and Mr. Charpentier had also mentioned commissioning a manuscript from this young man, but he hadn't expected to receive it so quickly.
In those days, writers stopping updates and delaying manuscripts was the norm; submitting a work in just a few weeks was rather unusual.
"Another realist piece like 'The Old Guard'?
A bit cliché, but it might help sell a few more copies of the newspaper..."
Emile Bergerat tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter paper, unfolded it, and found it was a manuscript with signs of revision.
"Does this mean he couldn't afford a copyist?"
The Editor-in-Chief muttered—he naturally didn't know that the author had made a last-minute decision to travel abroad with the copyist, resulting in only one copy being made.
However, the manuscript wasn't heavily revised, so it wouldn't severely impede reading.
He patiently began to read.
The very first sentence made his eyes go wide—
[Many years later, facing the woman in bed, the novelist "L" would recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from an unknown woman.]
What kind of expression was this?
Emile Bergerat rubbed his eyes and reread it twice, only then truly grasping the deeper meaning of the sentence.
For a moment, he stood up excitedly, went over to his deputy Joseph, slapped the manuscript onto his desk, pointed to the first line, and said,
"Look at this!
'Many years later... would recall... that distant afternoon'!
It completely breaks the shackles of time!
It compresses a vague future scene, the present act of reading, and that 'distant afternoon' being recalled into a single sentence!
It's so powerful!"
Joseph looked bewildered.
He picked up the manuscript, took a glance, and was quickly captivated by the opening as well.
He instantly had a premonition that this letter would have the power to change 'L's' entire life!
He wanted to read further, but the manuscript was snatched away by Emile Bergerat.
He complained anxiously,
"Oh, Mr. Bergerat, how can you be so cruel, showing me such a brilliant opening but not letting me read on..."
As Editor-in-Chief, Emile Bergerat naturally had priority in reading; he was just excited internally and needed an outlet.
Then, the first-person narrative of the novel's main body, filled with despair and suppressed passion, completely captivated him.
Bergerat, long immersed in France's most avant-garde literary circles, had seen countless works attempting to depict female psychology and emotion, but such an extreme, pure, and destructively powerful female voice was truly rare.
"Psychological depth! Unparalleled psychological depth!"
Bergerat exclaimed, once again drawing Joseph's attention.
He put down the manuscript he was holding and picked up the pages Bergerat had finished, beginning to read.
Emile Bergerat, meanwhile, simply stood up:
"This young man, Sorel, has completely delved into the depths of this dying woman's soul!
And also into the depths of the soul of Paris!"
He particularly appreciated the novel's vivid depiction of Parisian urban life—
Through the "unknown woman's" perspective, those scenes related to L: brushing past each other on the stairs, the lights of the apartment, waiting outside the theater, the helplessness when the child was sick...
These details were so real, imbued with Paris's unique sense of alienation, serendipity, and hidden passion.
They were not merely environmental descriptions in traditional realist novels, serving as a backdrop for characters' activities.
They were an indispensable, cold dramatic stage for the woman's tragic fate.
Joseph was also deeply moved after reading it and immediately declared,
"This is practically tailor-made for The Modern Life!
Mr. Bergerat, we must publish it immediately!"
Emile Bergerat nodded:
"Put it on the front page of the next issue!
No, the next issue is too slow—replace this issue's headline, this piece must be published as quickly as possible!"
Joseph hesitated:
"Will it be too long?
Our costs..."
Emile Bergerat shook his head:
"Too long?
I'll explain it to Mr. Charpentier!
If not, then we'll serialize it in two, or even three issues!
Readers will follow it, I guarantee!
Also, make two copies immediately: one for the typesetter, and the other to Mr. Renoir!
Trust me, Mr. Renoir will love it!"
————
In a well-lit but somewhat cluttered studio on Rue de la Reine, Ninth Arrondissement, the air was dominated by the smells of oil paint and turpentine.
Pierre Renoir had just returned from a day of outdoor sketching, bringing back a canvas depicting well-dressed promenaders by the Seine on a spring day—
Although in reality the stench of the river might have forced the models to hold their noses, under his brush, life always filtered out the harshness, presenting warm light and shadow and a flowing joy.
A thick letter was delivered to the door by the postman.
Renoir put down his palette, sat on a relatively clean chair in the corner of the studio, lit his pipe, and began to read.
Initially, he was drawn by the peculiar opening sentence structure, savoring it with keen interest.
But as the "unknown woman's" confession surged like a tide, Renoir's usual relaxed expression, which painted life's sweetness, gradually faded.
He took a deep drag on his pipe, his brows slightly furrowed, and his gaze became focused and complex...
After a long while, he extinguished his pipe, took down the half-finished work from the easel, tossed it aside, and re-stretched a fresh canvas.
Then he picked up a charcoal pencil and began to lay down the first lines, sketching a vague yet emotionally charged outline...
What he didn't know was that, one hundred and twenty years later, at an auction at the end of the century, this painting, "Letter from an Unknown Woman," would eventually fetch the exorbitant price of 83 million US dollars.
It ranked among the ten most expensive oil paintings, alongside Van Gogh's "Portrait of Mr. Lionel Sorel."
(End of this chapter)
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