The speaker was Émile Zola, the standard-bearer of Naturalism.
He was both an old friend of Turgenev and often critical of his overly sentimental writing style.
"To have the woman begin with the death of her child is Léonal's wisdom, not the woman's.
She is simply ill!
All her actions are due to hereditary defects and physiological abnormalities!"
Zola's words were forceful and resonant, and he didn't even glance at the author Léonal.
Léonal wasn't surprised—it was common knowledge that once a work was published, its right to interpretation no longer belonged solely to the author; and this common knowledge, when pushed to its extreme, was the so-called "death of the author."
Discussions related to the Chinese college entrance examination's language section in later generations often fell into a dead end where everyone spoke their own mind due to a lack of such common sense.
For instance, the fish with "a peculiar glint in its eyes," according to the author himself, was a hastily written ending under the pressure of the deadline, with no deeper meaning.
However, in the eyes of the question setter (who was also an interpreter, of course), this fish and its peculiar gaze held symbolic meaning.
So, Léonal did not interrupt their discussion at this moment, but instead sank into the sofa, lit a cigarette, and quietly became a listener.
Zola stood in the center of the living room, addressing not only Turgenev but everyone:
"Please allow me to view this character more 'scientifically.'
She, and what she represents, is the product of hereditary disease and physiological instinct!
Her mother, have you noticed, her widowed, suspicious mother, was indifferent to her, never kissed her.
This coldness was itself an emotional abnormality.
All her extreme behaviors—peeping, collecting cigarette butts, self-sacrifice, raising a child alone—went to another extreme, also an emotional abnormality.
A pathological mother, a pathological woman, what is this if not heredity?
Her extremely distorted behavior is because she is ill! Seriously ill!
For her, 'L' was no longer a concrete person, but a fantasized 'symbol of meaning'—the only thing she could grasp in her bleak life."
Zola's analysis swept through the salon like a cold wind, carrying a nearly cruel rationality, the most typical "Naturalist" viewpoint.
Most of the writers present, including Flaubert, agreed to a considerable extent with "Naturalism" and practiced it in their creative work.
Especially several young writers, such as Paul Alexis and Henri Céard, were fervent devotees of "Naturalism."
Thus, they quickly reached a consensus, believing that the "unknown woman's" tragedy was an inevitable outcome, determined by her being a "non-rational creature" as a woman, and the "hereditary disease" she inherited from her mother.
Whether this "L" appeared or not, she could not escape this fate; she would always, at some stage of her bleak life, find a symbolic figure like "L" and then fulfill her moth-to-a-flame destiny.
Although Léonal disagreed with this view, he had no intention of refuting it at the moment; he was more interested in hearing Turgenev's opinion.
The Russian was indeed not easily convinced.
He turned his pipe over, tapped it on the ashtray, and then stood up as well:
"Inevitable outcome?
Émile, with all due respect, I completely agree with your analysis of her pathological heredity.
But can the word 'inevitable' erase that faint but genuine light in her soul?"
He looked around at everyone, his gaze sharp:
"She was indeed confined by her difficult circumstances and pathological heredity.
Yet, within this confinement, she developed an astonishing, almost religious purity.
Her love was pathological, distorted, that's true.
But within this love, was there not a glimmer of human dignity?
Émile, you emphasize instinct, but would 'instinct' drive her, in her final moments, to ask 'L' to buy a bouquet of white roses every year?
This wasn't for gain, nor to evoke guilt, nor even to be remembered—she knew full well 'L' wouldn't remember!
This was more like... an eternal ritual she constructed for herself, existing only in her imagination, her last faint manifestation of 'human' will against utter nihility!
Physiological pathology shaped her, but in the deepest part of her soul, there remained a trace of individual spiritual resilience that neither disease nor environment could completely crush.
With all due respect, this is the value of 'Letter from an Unknown Woman'! Do not confine it merely to women!"
Turgenev's words were equally resonant, and the salon fell into a brief silence.
Zola smoked thoughtfully, while Flaubert's eyes showed approval.
Léonal also looked at this Russian writer, whom he was not very familiar with, with new admiration; he felt it was time for him to say something.
Léonal cleared his throat, immediately drawing everyone's attention.
He didn't start with the work itself, but instead brought up the horrific tragedy:
"Have you seen the atrocious three-body murder case, a crime of passion, that occurred near the opera house some time ago?"
Léonal's words immediately caused a stir.
The case was too famous; it occasionally received follow-up coverage in the newspapers even now, and those present were not living in a vacuum, so they naturally knew about it.
Émile Bergerat even joked:
"Léonal, you must be the most affected by it..."
But he didn't finish his sentence, strictly adhering to his professional ethics as an editor.
Léonal didn't care if the people here knew, so his voice remained calm:
"As the author, I actually feel that this case and my novel form a wonderful contrast, together they perfectly constitute two sides of Paris's emotional tragedies!
On one side, there is the 'unknown woman' who writes the letter—silently burning, perishing alone, using a will as her final weapon, completing her 'revenge' on the heartless one on a spiritual level.
On the other side, there is the 'honest man' who pulls the trigger—exploding in anger, perishing together, using three bullets as his final farewell, completing his revenge on the betrayer and the seducer on a physical level.
As the author of the novel, I have no intention of guiding your interpretation and evaluation of it, but who among them is more noble, more rational, and who is more lowly, more instinctive?"
For a moment, no one spoke in the salon, only cigar smoke silently swirled.
The bloody scent of Antin Street seemed to permeate this room filled with the fragrance of books, forming a suffocating resonance with the silent despair in "The Letter."
It was Turgenev who broke the silence again, his voice carrying a deep compassion:
"Léonal, I've read about that case, and it perhaps offers a reflection that transcends the novel itself.
The tragedy of the three-body murder-suicide, a crime of passion, stemmed from uncontrolled desire, violent release, and utter despair, but it wasn't bestial instinct; it was merely an external manifestation of suffering.
As for the woman in 'Letter from an Unknown Woman,' although her love was pathological, she chose a... non-violent way, a way of internalizing suffering.
Her 'revenge' was spiritual, a final affirmation of her own meaning of existence.
Though faint, though distorted, it was distinct from pure physiological pathology, and not merely an external manifestation of hereditary defects..."
Meeting Turgenev's gaze, Léonal felt a sense of comfort; the two of them, complementing each other, finally allowed the discussion about 'Letter from an Unknown Woman' to move beyond simple physiological criticism of women.
Charpentier opportunely raised his glass, breaking the slightly heavy atmosphere caused by the depth of thought:
"Gentlemen!
A magnificent discussion!
To 'Charpentier's Tuesdays' being able to gather such brilliant sparks of thought—cheers!"
Flaubert smiled, and Zola, letting go of his internal struggle, also raised the glass at hand.
Crystal glasses clinked with a crisp, pleasant sound, and the amber liquid shimmered under the light.
Cigar smoke once again rose gently, but the atmosphere was different from the beginning, filled with the warmth and excitement left after minds had been ignited.
Léonal quietly retreated into the shadows by the window, swirling the wine in his glass, observing the masters before him who were shaping the face of French literature.
He could feel the gazes cast his way—appreciative, probing, challenging, and even a hint of barely perceptible jealousy.
At this moment, Turgenev walked over to him, raised his glass, and clinked it with his alone:
"Thank you, Léonal! You are not only a good writer but also a compassionate person."
Léonal smiled:
"Actually, Mr. Zola is the truly compassionate one, it's just that 'Naturalism'..."
He didn't finish, and Turgenev didn't press him, but instead extended an invitation:
"There's a masquerade ball that might be very interesting, would you like to attend?"
Léonal asked with interest:
"Oh? Who is hosting it?"
Turgenev gave a smile of ambiguous meaning:
"My Russian compatriot, Baroness Alexeïevna."
(End of this chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$3 -> 50 chapters in advance
$5 -> 100 chapters in advance
$10 -> 200+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon