The beginning of "letter from an unknown woman" not only captured the attention of a noblewoman in a manor on the Normandy coast but also Emile Bergerat, the editor-in-chief of "Modern Life."
Not everyone could go on vacation when the Seine River water was stinking—
Just like Emile Bergerat, as a renowned poet, playwright, and essayist, even if he had a villa in the countryside, he could not leave Paris.
Especially as the editor of a weekly newspaper, he had to be locked on the second floor of Charpentiers Bookshelf, coffee cup after coffee cup, cigarette after cigarette, until all the articles and layouts were finalized.
Mr. Georges Charpentier, although a passionate patron of the arts and a discoverer of naturalism and impressionism, was not good at business management himself.
Modern Life was an illustrated weekly he impulsively founded. Because of its high costs, each copy sold for 10 sous, five times more expensive than "Le Figaro."
Although Mr. Charpentier insisted that this was the future of newspapers, the dismal sales had already overwhelmed the entire Charpentiers Bookshelf.
And he insisted on giving the highest standard of manuscript fees to the contributors of Modern Life, which was simply insane.
As editor-in-chief, Emile Bergerat looked at the mountain of manuscripts in front of him with a worried expression—
Generous manuscript fees would naturally attract many opportunists, and he had to weed them out one by one.
Modern Life was positioned as high-end and avant-garde, covering not only short stories, poetry, art criticism, and cultural essays but also frequently publishing reviews and works by Impressionist painters such as Monet, Manet, and Renoir.
Even Pierre Renoir himself was one of the magazine's main illustrators.
No news, no scandals, no gossip, no spread of rumors… a newspaper like this selling for 10 sous a copy was really too difficult to survive in Paris.
He wiped his bald forehead and picked up a thicker envelope.
"Lionel Sorel? That second-year Sorbonne student?" Emile Bergerat frowned.
He had read "the old guard," and Mr. Charpentier had mentioned that he had already secured a manuscript from this young man, but he hadn't expected to receive it so quickly.
These days, writers stopping updates… delaying manuscripts was the norm; submitting a work in a few weeks was rather unusual.
"Another realistic piece like 'the old guard'? Although a bit old-fashioned, it might help the newspaper sell a few more copies…"
Emile Bergerat opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it, discovering it was a manuscript with signs of revision.
"Does he not have money to hire a copyist?" the editor-in-chief grumbled—he naturally didn't know that the author had decided to travel abroad with the copyist at the last minute, resulting in only one copy being made.
However, there weren't many revisions to this manuscript, so it didn't severely affect readability, and he patiently began to read.
The first sentence, however, made his eyes widen—
[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 is this?
Emile Bergerat rubbed his eyes and reread it twice, only then truly comprehending the profound meaning of the sentence.
For a moment, he was so excited that he stood up, went to his assistant Joseph, slapped the manuscript on his desk, and pointed to the first line, saying, "Look at this! 'Years later… would recall… distant afternoon'! This completely breaks the shackles of time! It compresses a vague future scene, the current act of reading, and that 'distant afternoon' being recalled into one sentence! It's so powerful!"
Joseph was bewildered. He took the manuscript and glanced at it, quickly becoming captivated by the opening as well, instantly sensing that this letter would have the power to change 'L''s life!
He wanted to read on, but Emile Bergerat snatched the manuscript away, and he complained anxiously, "Oh, Mr. Bergerat, how can you be so cruel, only showing me such a wonderful opening but not letting me read on…"
Emile Bergerat was the editor-in-chief, so he naturally had priority in reading. He was just excited and needed a place to vent.
Then, the first-person narrative of the novel's main body, filled with despair and suppressed passion, completely conquered him.
Bergerat, having long been immersed in France's most avant-garde literary circles, had seen countless works attempting to depict female psychology and emotions, but such an extreme, pure, and destructively powerful female voice was rare.
"Psychological depth! Unparalleled psychological depth!" Bergerat exclaimed, once again drawing Joseph's attention.
He put down his own manuscript, took the pages Bergerat had finished, and began 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 into the depths of the soul of Paris!"
He particularly appreciated the novel's vivid depiction of Parisian urban life—
Through the perspective of the "unknown woman," those scenes related to L: brushing shoulders on the staircase, the light from the apartment, waiting outside the theater, the helplessness when the child was sick…
These details were so real, full of Paris's unique sense of detachment, serendipity, and secret passion.
They were not like the environmental descriptions in traditional realistic novels, merely serving as a backdrop for characters' activities.
They were the indispensable, cold dramatic stage that constituted the woman's tragic fate.
Joseph was also deeply moved after reading it and immediately stated, "This is simply tailor-made for 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—you replace this issue's headline for me; this piece must be published as quickly as possible!"
Joseph hesitated then: "Will the length 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, immediately transcribe two copies of it, one for the typesetter, and the other send to Mr. Renoir! Believe me, Mr. Renoir will love it!"
— — — —
In a bright but slightly cluttered studio on Queen Street in the Ninth Arrondissement, the air was dominated by the smell of oil paint and turpentine.
Pierre Renoir had just returned from a day of outdoor sketching, bringing back a canvas depicting elegantly dressed tourists by the Seine River in spring—
Although the stench of the river in reality might force the models to hold their noses, in his paintings, life always filtered out the coarseness, presenting warm light and shadow and flowing joy.
A thick letter was delivered to his 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, savoring it with interest.
But as the "unknown woman's" outpouring surged like a tide, Renoir's usual relaxed expression, accustomed to depicting the sweetness of life, gradually faded.
He took a deep drag from his pipe, his brows slightly furrowed, his eyes becoming focused and complex…
After a long while, he extinguished the cigarette in his hand, took down the unfinished work from the easel, tossed it aside, and re-nailed 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…
Unbeknownst to him, one hundred and twenty years later, at an auction at the turn of the century, this painting, "letter from an unknown woman," would eventually fetch an astronomical price of 83 million US dollars.
It would rank among the ten most expensive oil paintings, alongside Van Gogh's "Portrait of Mr. Lionel Sorel."