The speaker was Émile Zola, the standard-bearer of naturalism, who was both an old friend of Turgenev and always had reservations about his overly emotional writing style.
"To have the woman begin with the death of her child is the wisdom of Lionel, not the wisdom of that woman. She is the patient! All her actions are genetic defects and physiological pathologies!"
Zola's words were forceful and resonant, so much so that he didn't even glance at the author, Lionel.
Lionel, however, wasn't surprised—it's common knowledge that once a work is published, its interpretation no longer belongs solely to the author; this common knowledge, when pushed to its extreme, leads to the concept of "the death of the author."
Discussions related to Chinese college entrance examination Chinese in later generations often fall into a dead end of conflicting opinions due to a lack of such common sense.
For example, the fish with "a hint of eerie light in its eyes," according to the author's own explanation, was a hastily written ending under the pressure of a deadline, with no deep meaning.
But in the eyes of the examiner (who is also the interpreter), this fish and its eerie gaze had symbolic meaning.
So Lionel 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, speaking not only to Turgenev but to everyone: "Please allow me to view this character more 'scientifically'. She, and what she represents, are products of genetic disease and physiological instinct!
Her mother, have you noticed, her widowed, suspicious mother, was not concerned about her, never kissed her; this indifference was in itself an emotional pathology.
All her extreme behaviors—peeping, collecting cigarette butts, sacrificing herself, raising a child alone—went to another extreme, also an emotional pathology.
A pathological mother, a pathological woman, what is this if not heredity? Her extremely distorted behavior is because she is sick! Very sick!
'L' for her is no longer a concrete person, but a symbol of 'meaning' that she has imagined, the only thing she can grasp in her bleak life."
Zola's analysis swept through the salon like a cold wind, carrying a nearly cruel rationality, the most typical "naturalism" viewpoint.
Most of the writers present, including Flaubert, agreed with "naturalism" to a considerable extent and practiced it in their creative work.
Especially the younger writers, such as Paul Alexis and Henri Céard, were fervent adherents of "naturalism."
So they quickly reached a consensus, believing that the tragedy of the "unknown woman" was an inevitable outcome, determined by her being a "non-rational creature" as a woman, and the "hereditary disease" she inherited from her mother.
No matter 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 Lionel disagreed with this view, he had no intention of refuting it at the moment; he was more eager to hear Turgenev's opinion.
The Russian was indeed not easily convinced.
He inverted his pipe, 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 two words, 'inevitable,' erase that faint yet real light in her soul?"
He looked around at everyone, his eyes bright: "She was indeed confined by her difficult circumstances and pathological heredity. But within this confinement, she developed an astonishing, almost religious purity.
Her love was pathological, distorted, that's true. But in this love, was there not a glimmer of dignity belonging to 'humanity'?
Émile, you emphasize instinct, but would 'instinct' compel her, in her final moments, to ask 'L' to buy a bouquet of white roses every year?
This is not to demand, not to evoke guilt, not even to be remembered—she knew 'L' would not remember!
This is more like... an eternal ritual she constructed for herself, existing only in her imagination, her last faint manifestation of 'human' will against complete nihilism!
Physiological pathology shaped her, but in the deepest part of her soul, there remained a trace of individual spiritual resilience that neither illness nor environment could completely crush.
With all due respect, this is the value of A letter from an unknown woman! Do not limit it 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.
Lionel also looked at this Russian writer, whom he was not very familiar with, in a new light, and he felt he should say something.
Lionel cleared his throat softly, immediately drawing everyone's attention.
He did not start with the work itself, but instead talked about the horrific case: "Have you seen that appalling triple murder-suicide that happened near the opera house a while ago?"
Lionel's words immediately caused a stir.
This case was so famous; even now, there were occasional follow-ups in the newspapers, and those present were not living in a vacuum, so they naturally knew about it.
Emile Bergerat even joked, "Lionel, you must be the most affected..." But he didn't continue, strictly adhering to his professional ethics as an editor.
Lionel 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, and the two just happen to constitute two sides of Parisian emotional tragedy!
On one side is the 'unknown woman' who writes the letter—silently burning, perishing alone, using a suicide note as her final weapon, achieving 'revenge' on the fickle man on a spiritual level.
On the other side is the 'honest man' who pulled the trigger—exploding in anger, perishing together, using three bullets as his final farewell, achieving revenge on the betrayer and 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 nobler, more rational, and who is more base, more instinctive?"
No one spoke in the salon for a moment, only the silent curling of cigar smoke. The bloody scent of An Tan Street seemed to permeate this book-filled room, creating a suffocating resonance with the silent despair in A letter from an unknown woman.
It was Turgenev again who broke the silence, his voice imbued with a deep compassion: "Lionel, I have read about that case, and it perhaps offers a reflection that transcends the novel itself.
The tragedy of the triple murder-suicide stems from uncontrolled desire, the venting of violence, and utter despair, but it is not bestial instinct; it is merely an outward manifestation of pain.
And the woman in A letter from an unknown woman, although her love is pathological, she chose a... non-violent way, a way of internalizing pain.
Her 'revenge' is spiritual, a final affirmation of the meaning of her own existence. Although faint, although distorted, it differs from pure physiological pathology, and it is not an outward manifestation of genetic defect..."
Lionel met Turgenev's gaze and felt a sense of comfort; the two, in a harmonious exchange, finally elevated the discussion of A letter from an unknown woman beyond a simple physiological critique of women.
Charpentier, at the opportune moment, raised his glass, breaking the atmosphere, which had become somewhat heavy due to the depth of thought: "Gentlemen! A brilliant discussion! To 'Charpentier's Tuesday' for gathering such sparkling intellectual sparks—cheers!"
Flaubert smiled, and Zola also let go of his entanglement, each raising the glass at hand.
The crystal glasses clinked with a clear and pleasant sound, and the amber liquid shimmered under the lights.
The cigar smoke once again curled upwards, but the atmosphere was different from the beginning, filled with the afterglow and excitement of ignited thoughts.
Lionel quietly retreated into the shadows by the window, swirling the wine in his glass, watching the masters 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: "Thank you, Lionel! You are not only a good writer, but also a compassionate man."
Lionel smiled: "Actually, Mr. Zola is the truly compassionate one, it's just that 'naturalism'…"
He did not finish, and Turgenev did not press him, but instead extended an invitation: "There's a masquerade ball, it might be very interesting. Would you like to attend?"
Lionel asked with interest: "Oh? Who is hosting it?"
Turgenev gave a smile of ambiguous meaning: "My Russian compatriot, Baroness Alekseyevna."