Emile Bergerat began to explain Georges Charpentier's plan to Renoir, who looked on in confusion:
"The last time the cost was too high, mainly because we used color printing for the entire front page. Paper and ink required extra expenditure, so doing it again would naturally be unbearable.
But this time it's different. Mr. Charpentier wants you to draw four illustrations, not integrated into the newspaper's layout, but printed separately, like posters or advertisements.
And each illustration will only be 5 inches in size, so one full page can be cut into 8 such small color pictures..."
Renoir was utterly bewildered, not understanding what Emile Bergerat was saying.
But Emile Bergerat grew more and more excited, even standing up and pacing around the room as he spoke, as if Emperor Napoleon was issuing orders to his generals in the war room.
"We don't need to include all four illustrations with every newspaper. Instead, one newspaper will come with one illustration—but these four illustrations, when combined, should perfectly summarize the main plot of that issue's serialization."
"So?" Renoir was still confused.
Emile Bergerat glared at him, frustrated that he wasn't catching on, and a sense of intellectual superiority naturally arose as he recalled his own sudden understanding when Mr. Charpentier had explained it yesterday.
"So, to collect all four illustrations, you either have to ask for or buy them from other readers who subscribe to Modern Life, or you have to buy at least four copies of Modern Life."
Renoir was stunned, still incredulous: "How is that possible? Our newspaper sells for 10 sous a copy, so four copies would be 40 sous, a full 2 francs—is someone crazy enough to spend an extra one and a half francs just to collect the illustrations?"
Emile Bergerat looked at the artist before him with pity, suddenly understanding why he had been so destitute before meeting Mr. Charpentier.
Although "Impressionism" was indeed not well-received by the old fogeys in the French Academy of Arts, Monet and others still managed to do well, not to the point where they couldn't even afford paint, like Renoir.
He really didn't understand what buyers liked.
Unless he met a client who appreciated him, or an era that appreciated him, he was destined to rot in a Parisian basement his entire life.
Emile Bergerat sighed: "Collecting is a human instinct, especially for idle noblewomen, wealthy merchants' wives, and young gentlemen living on annuities.
Once they perceive something as interesting and scarce, their desire to consume and their collecting habit will be stimulated.
If the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button becomes a popular novel, then let alone four copies, they will buy ten, twenty copies."
After hearing the explanation, Renoir slumped down as if all the strength had been drained from his body. He had never imagined such a marketing method existed in the world.
Emile Bergerat stepped forward and patted his shoulder: "Pierre, draw well! Are four illustrations per issue a lot? No, not a lot—
But you must strive for perfection and make them true works of art.
Just think, once the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button is serialized in Modern Life, and all the rich people in Paris are chasing your illustrations, will you still worry about no one buying your 'Impressionist' oil paintings?"
It was this last sentence that moved Renoir.
No matter how aloof an artist is, he will not refuse others buying his works—otherwise, why put paintings in a gallery for consignment?
The cost of being a painter in this era was also very high. Canvases, paints, and brushes were all expensive, and renting a studio and hiring models cost even more. Renoir also didn't want to share a room with other painters anymore.
Thinking of this, he nodded vigorously: "Good! Then transcribe the manuscript for me again, I want to take it back to my studio to read..."
——
Just as the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button was gearing up, the influence of my uncle jules was quietly fermenting across the English Channel in London.
As two countries separated by a sea, with deep historical ties, the most famous French periodicals would often appear on the bookshelves of London bookstores only a few days later.
They were mainly provided for elite individuals proficient in French and students learning French.
the old guard did not cause much of a stir in England.
Unlike France, England had not experienced half a century of turmoil, so apart from being "skillfully crafted and precisely worded," it did not evoke widespread resonance.
letter from an unknown woman was appreciated by only a very small number of people. Most readers' reaction after reading it was: "Hmph, Frenchmen..."
But my uncle jules was different—
England, London. The warm spring breeze could not disperse the thick, heavy fog, nor could it disperse the cigar smoke filling the office of Harold Thompson, editor-in-chief of The Nineteenth Century.
He was stout, with a thick Victorian beard, and sharp eyes, currently holding a pen and revising a manuscript.
"Knock, knock." A knock sounded. Before he could respond, a slightly hurried figure pushed open the door.
It was his young assistant editor, Edwin Morris.
The young man's face was flushed, and he tightly clutched a folded newspaper: "Mr. Thompson, I apologize for the interruption, but I think you must see this immediately. Le Petit Parisien has published a good short story."
Thompson didn't even lift his head, only casting an impatient glance over the top of his glasses: "Morris, I'm reviewing Wilde's critique on 'Aestheticism' right now. It needs major surgery... I don't have time for the gossip of those dissolute Frenchmen!"
"No, sir! It's not gossip!" Edwin eagerly took a step forward and spread the Le Petit Parisien over the messy manuscripts in front of Thompson: "Look! Lionel Sorel! The author of the old guard and letter from an unknown woman."
Thompson's pen finally paused. This name was not unfamiliar to him. As the editor-in-chief of England's most important literary periodical, he was well-versed in the literary trends across Europe, and of course, he knew Lionel Sorel and had read his two previous works.
"Sorel?" Thompson snorted, his tone clearly disdainful: "That fellow who writes about French old soldiers and neurotic women? What new trick has he pulled out now?
Is this a sentimental story from a Parisian brothel, or a hallucination experienced by some poet after smoking opium? Hmph, Frenchmen..."
He put down his red pencil, leaned back in his large leather chair, and crossed his hands over his stomach, adopting a "Alright, let's see what you've got" posture.
Edwin ignored his editor's sarcasm and spoke quickly: "It's this one, it's very short, it won't take up much of your time, sir! It's completely different! I just finished reading it, and I feel... I feel like I've been struck by something!"
Thompson heard this and began to tease: "Struck? Struck by what? Those stinky French cheeses?"
Although verbally sharp, out of professional habit, he still reached for the newspaper, intending to quickly skim it and send away his overly enthusiastic assistant.
"my uncle jules? Ha, what a mediocre title—of course, much better than his previous 'letter from an unknown woman' trying to be mysterious." Thompson grumbled.
But very quickly, he sat up straight, and his nonchalant gaze gradually solidified.