Chapter 41 The Most Vicious Question
Hearing Paul Janet's question, Lionel breathed a sigh of relief.
This question was a typical "technical question" and did not involve moral judgment of the work or the author.
Lionel simply did not sit back down, but stood facing the professors and Hugo, answering the question in a lighthearted tone: "Professor Janet, Aristotle's *Poetics* is undoubtedly a great cornerstone.
But for novels, especially those reflecting modern life, must the tension of their 'plot' only exist in intense external conflicts?"
In fact, by the mid-19th century, European novels had already shown a tendency to downplay plot, especially after "Romanticism" was largely abandoned by most first-rate writers, and literary concepts gradually shifted from "story is king" to "character-based," "environmental determinism," and "psychological analysis."
For example, Flaubert's *madame bovary*, although its core plot is "adultery," is very flat in its narration, even somewhat "anti-climactic."
The love in Turgenev's *A Nest of Gentlefolk* has no dramatic ups and downs, and the emotional story of the protagonists Lavretsky and Liza ultimately does not come to fruition.
Paul Janet's question was not a challenge, but more like an opportunity for Lionel to showcase himself.
Lionel, of course, would not let it pass: "The tragedy of the old guard's life does not lie in a dramatic duel or conspiracy, but in the day-to-day, slow 'lingchi'—
Oh, this is an ancient form of torture from the distant East, where the executioner uses a small knife to cut off pieces of the victim's flesh, up to three thousand cuts, lasting for three days.
And throughout the process, the victim is conscious; he can truly feel his body inch by inch moving towards fragmentation…"
Lionel had not finished speaking when a professor in the audience let out a low retch.
For the French, who were accustomed to the swiftness of the guillotine, medieval torture methods similar to "lingchi" had long become dusty memories, and Lionel's explanation awakened their inner fears.
Gaston Boissier quickly reminded him: "Alright, we understand about 'lingchi,' let's get back to the old guard."
Lionel, understanding, returned to the main topic: "For the old guard, 'lingchi' is the erosion of dignity, the fading of memories, and the process of being gradually abandoned by France—the France he loved and dedicated his life to.
Those 'fragmented' scenes—every burst of laughter, every argument over 'spoils,' every attempt to teach the young apprentice how to process game—even his action of laying out nine sous coins, each was a cut on his soul."
Lionel's words sent shivers down everyone's spines.
As members of the upper echelons of society, the Sorbonne professors mostly came from well-off families, earning at least 8,000 francs a year, frequenting salons of nobles and wealthy merchants every evening, owning at least one summer villa, and keeping at least one mistress…
They might have deep sympathy for the common people, understood the lives of the poor, and even vociferously advocated for their rights in newspapers or parliament.
But they could not comprehend the process of gradual destruction, like the old guard, sinking into the mire and ultimately perishing in silence.
"Interesting, I just thought *the old guard* was an excellent work, but I didn't expect it to reveal deeper meanings after your explanation," said a middle-aged man with a large handlebar mustache and a chin covered by a dense short beard.
His cheeks were thin, his eyes deep, and he had an elegant and subtle demeanor.
Gaston Boissier quickly said: "Mr. Mallarmé, this is an internal inquiry meeting at our Sorbonne; you may observe, but…"
"I won't participate in the judgment, but this student named Lionel's exposition of *the old guard* has moved me; may I be allowed to follow his words and say a few more sentences?" Mallarmé's voice carried an indescribable laziness and a faint hint of playfulness.
Gaston Boissier glanced at the poet who had caused a sensation in French literary circles with *The Afternoon of a Faun*, and finally nodded: "Please do, Mr. Stéphane Mallarmé."
Stéphane Mallarmé smiled slightly and stood up: "I originally only came to chat with Bachelard, but I didn't expect to witness such a 'grand show'—what you just said about 'lingchi' is very interesting, although it is very terrifying.
But the old guard's soul is indeed being cut, slice by slice, by people's words, expressions, and attitudes in every scene he appears in the novel. God, this is too cruel.
They superimpose, accumulate, ultimately leading to that figure 'walking' on his hands in the cold winter, in the mud—gentlemen, this is the greatest climax, a silent, cumulative destruction.
The 'flatness' of this structure is precisely to match the cruel 'ordinariness' of life itself! The tension of the novel is not absent, but internalized, permeating every seemingly ordinary moment!
This is not a failed experiment, my dear Paul, but an expansion of the very essence of 'plot'—capturing the rhythm of life's silent decay in the passage of time!"
By the end of Stéphane Mallarmé's speech, not only did his sentences become more like poetry, but his voice also became more modulated, as if he were reciting.
After speaking, he seemed to lose all strength and slumped back into his chair, a satisfied smile on his face.
Everyone, including Lionel: "…"
Allowing the poet to speak was indeed a mistake.
Gaston Boissier quickly cleared his throat and then asked: "Does anyone else have any questions?"
The professors exchanged glances and began to discuss in low voices.
Soon, a rare, beardless professor raised his question: "Mr. Sorel, the atmosphere of the Alps town tavern you depicted is very 'real,' and the details of the old guard are vivid.
However, according to our understanding, although you are from the Alps, your father's work would not have led you to work as an apprentice in a small tavern—since you could pass the secondary school examination to come to the Sorbonne, I believe you also wouldn't have had time to drown your sorrows in a small tavern.
May I ask, how did you acquire such precise knowledge, especially regarding the behavioral details of the working class? Where does this 'sense of reality' come from? Is it hearsay? Or… a rich imagination? Or did you draw upon the observations of certain lower-class authors whom we have not read?"
Lionel looked up and carefully observed the professor, who appeared to be in his fifties, with an arrogant smile on his fat face and undisguised disdain in his eyes.
This question was the sharpest and most malicious of all the challenges tonight, as it pointed to a direction difficult to self-prove.
Lionel had only occasionally seen this person at the Sorbonne but had never taken his class, so he asked: "And you are, sir?"
The fat man lifted his head: "Ernest Renan; if you are still at the Sorbonne next year, you will be in my class."
Lionel nodded and politely greeted him first: "Good morning, Professor Renan, your question is truly brilliant!"
Ernest Renan was stunned, not expecting Lionel to praise him.
But Lionel's next sentence immediately made him flush with anger: "You believe that one's insight is difficult to transcend the limitations of one's background, just as one's magnanimity does not grow with age, is that right?"