Lionel, of course, knew that "Mark Twain" was the pen name of Samuel Langhorne Clemens, but he hadn't expected to meet him at the ball tonight.
In 1881, Mark Twain had already become a hot commodity in American literature with "The Gilded Age" and "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer".
Mark Twain spoke English, and he was the first "New York elite" Lionel had met since coming to America who spoke to him in English.
One should know that previously, those who came to exchange pleasantries, no matter how terrible their French was, or even if it sounded newly learned, would speak without shyness.
Many times, this gave Zola, Lionel, and others the illusion that they were still in Paris.
Mark Twain gripped Lionel's hand firmly and shook it twice:
"It seems my pen name has already crossed the Atlantic?"
Lionel responded politely:
"I have read some of your works."
Mark Twain laughed heartily:
"Call me Sam or Mark! Honestly, Mr. Sorel, I've read almost all of your works.
I must say, I especially like 'The Old Guard,' 'Homeland,' 'Father Milon,' and 'My Uncle Jules'."
His eyes showed sincere appreciation:
"The humanitarian and realistic brilliance shining in these stories resonated deeply with me.
And I especially admire the children who often appear in your writing. Children's eyes are often better at piercing through the hypocrisy of this world than adults'."
Lionel nodded modestly:
"You can also call me Leon, Mark—speaking of a child's perspective, I must say, 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer' is the best children's adventure novel I have ever read.
Ha, St. Petersburg, and that clever boy Tom, are simply lifelike!"
At these words, a surprised expression flashed across Mark Twain's face, followed by an incredible burst of joy.
"My God! You... you actually read 'Tom Sawyer'? This book isn't selling very well here!
Those critics all say I wrote it too frivolously, lacking depth! I never expected it to reach Europe!"
Lionel's heart skipped a beat, realizing he had misspoken.
He certainly hadn't read "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" in this era; the novel's popularity in Europe at this time was probably very limited.
He quickly found a reason:
"I live in England, and I happened to see this novel on a friend's bookshelf. I found it very interesting, so I read it."
This explanation was reasonable, and Mark Twain clearly believed it.
He rubbed his hands excitedly, his mustache even perking up:
"Great! This is truly the best news I've heard tonight!
I never imagined it could actually cross the ocean and even get your attention and review! Thank you, Leon, sincerely thank you!"
Lionel added:
"The excellence of a work may not be recognized by everyone at the time of its initial publication. Think of Stendhal's 'The Red and the Black'—
The first edition of six hundred copies didn't sell out for several years, but now everyone acknowledges it as a masterpiece!"
His original intention was to comfort and encourage, but these words, heard by Mark Twain, carried too much weight.
The American writer's eyes widened even further, almost incoherent:
"You... you're comparing 'Tom Sawyer' with 'The Red and the Black'?
Heavens, Leon, that's too high praise, it leaves me a bit overwhelmed!"
Lionel: "..."
He immediately changed the subject:
"Speaking of which, Mark, I think another child in the book, 'Huckleberry Finn,' is also very interesting. I always feel like his story isn't finished yet, and I truly hope to see more of his adventures."
Mark Twain once again showed a shocked expression, lowering his voice:
"This is incredible! Leon, we're practically kindred spirits!
What I'm writing right now is 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn'! My God, you actually thought of the same thing as me!"
Lionel's face remained calm and composed:
"Excellent works and characters inherently possess vitality and the potential for continuation. This is not surprising!"
Mark Twain nodded repeatedly:
"That's right! That's absolutely right!"
By now, he already considered Lionel a kindred spirit!
He enthusiastically put his arm around Lionel's shoulder:
"Leon, seriously, I'm planning to start my own publishing company!
If we run it well, we can definitely break the monopoly of these big publishers!
At that time, I hope you can give me your manuscripts, and I guarantee you the most generous royalties in all of America!"
Here it comes... Lionel sighed inwardly.
He, of course, knew about this publishing company; Mark Twain's bankruptcy was mainly due to it, which forced the writer to embark on global lecture tours to pay off his debts.
However, this was not his only investment that led to financial difficulties; he even lost $300,000 on a single project, the "Paige Compositor"!
One must know that this was $300,000 in the 1890s, which, calculated at 2024 prices, is almost equivalent to $8 million.
If one were to rank 19th-century writers' failed investments, it's uncertain whether he or Balzac would be first!
Lionel showed a look of difficulty:
"Mark, in the short term, I won't consider publishing works in America; at most, I'll publish some novellas and short stories in newspapers.
America doesn't protect foreign authors' copyrights; my works can be freely reprinted and published here, yet I won't receive even a cent."
These words made Mark Twain somewhat frustrated:
"You're right, we Americans have too few influential writers in Europe.
The government believes that if we sign copyright agreements with Britain and France, we'll only face one-sided dumping... But regardless, this is a disgrace to America! I apologize."
Lionel consoled him:
"It's not your fault, Mark."
He then showed a teasing, mischievous smile:
"I believe that in the future, America will surely be the country that values copyright protection the most!"
Mark Twain sighed heavily:
"I hope so... However, for magazine and newspaper commissions, I will help you secure the best terms!
I have editors I'm familiar with at 'The Atlantic Monthly' and 'Harper's Weekly'!"
Lionel recalled the reporters who had gathered outside his cabin door last night, but still smiled and agreed:
"Of course!"
The two chatted for a while longer about literature and travel anecdotes until others came over and they parted ways.
The ball didn't end until late into the night.
On the way back to their rooms, Zola, Maupassant, and others were still in high spirits.
No one rushed back to their rooms to rest; instead, they gathered in the parlor of Zola's room.
Everyone drank the hot milk provided by the hotel and discussed the "fruits" of their evening.
Maupassant's face was flushed, and he twirled his large mustache proudly:
"A charming widow, a distant relative of the Vanderbilt family, invited me to visit her private art gallery tomorrow afternoon!
Do you know what that means?"
He winked, eliciting a few chuckles from Huysmans and others.
Henri Céard received a dinner invitation from a steel magnate, who straightforwardly stated that he had a niece of marriageable age who loved French literature.
Paul Alexis was pursued by a publisher, who directly wrote a check, hoping to buy the American rights to his next novel.
Even the older Daudet and Goncourt received several beautifully printed business cards, as well as invitations to speak from universities and literary clubs.
Alphonse Daudet also stroked his mustache, very satisfied:
"It seems we are quite popular in this New World."
Maupassant stood up and exclaimed:
"More than just popular! It's like falling into a honey pot! Americans are so enthusiastic, so direct! I like it!"
Émile Zola looked at Lionel, who hadn't spoken much:
"Leon, you seem very quiet? Didn't anything interesting happen tonight?
I saw you chatting with Mr. Mark Twain for a long time."
Lionel put down his cup and smiled:
"Yes, we chatted for a long time; he's a very interesting person. We talked about each other's works."
Maupassant leaned in, asking curiously:
"And then? I heard he's America's highest-paid writer right now!"
Lionel stated truthfully:
"He invited me to join his upcoming publishing company and also commissioned me for manuscripts."
Alexis interjected:
"Oh? That's good news!"
Lionel calmly said:
"I refused. Because of America's copyright issues."
Those present had all been active in the literary world for many years and naturally understood what this meant.
It was common for their works to be pirated in America, but this time, having come to America in person and being treated as honored guests, they had momentarily overlooked this issue.
Zola nodded, indicating understanding:
"It is indeed a problem. Were you thinking about this all night?"
Lionel shook his head, looking at Zola:
"Not entirely. Émile, I was just wondering, what is your impression of America?"
Zola pondered for a moment, then slowly said:
"Passionate, direct, wealthy, full of raw vitality.
They are certainly not like us French, but they are also not like the British, with that inexplicable arrogance.
They are more sincere and straightforward. You can feel that they are truly proud of everything they are creating—
Whether it's a bridge, a building, or their own way of life."
Huysmans added, slightly sarcastically:
"A pride built on steel, money, and steam."
Zola did not deny it:
"That's right—but you cannot deny this power, no one can ignore it.
Any civilization must first be built upon material foundations, and America already has all the basis to become a great nation.
Eventually, these steel, money, and steam will create an extraordinary culture, just as the French did back then."
Lionel didn't speak, but nodded; he naturally knew that Zola's observations were accurate.
America in this era was like a carefree youth, striding forward with confidence built from wealth and technology.
However, Maupassant and others were still somewhat skeptical, finding it hard to imagine what "extraordinary culture" a crude America could create.
Edmond de Goncourt yawned:
"Alright, gentlemen, there's a lecture tomorrow, so let's get some rest.
We need to spread the charm of French literature to the campuses of this New World."
Everyone then dispersed, returning to their respective rooms.
Lionel walked to his room door and found young John Morgan already waiting at the entrance.
Seeing Lionel return, the young man showed a shy smile:
"Mr. Sorel, my father wishes to invite you to our family dinner tomorrow night."
(End of chapter)