Albert chuckled a few times, then noticed Lionel wasn't laughing along, and his face was as dark as a pot bottom. He quickly reined in his smile.
This was the first time Lionel had truly been angered by Albert. He barely managed to suppress the urge to slap Albert's face and, with forced patience, said, "I hope there won't be a next time."
With that, he turned and left, leaving a bewildered Albert behind.
Albert watched Lionel's retreating back, feeling a surge of anger himself, but then he remembered what his father had written in the letter… He quickly put on a smile and chased after Lionel: "Hey! Leon, you should have told me you had a soft spot for Chinese people!
I have a cabinet full of porcelain at home, all genuine pieces my uncle got from China in 1860. You might be interested in…"
Before he could finish, he saw Lionel's face darken even more. Not knowing what mistake he had made, Albert could only close his mouth again and meekly follow behind Lionel.
Arriving at the foot of the Gothic teaching building of the Sorbonne Faculty of Arts, they indeed saw the poster for today's lecture. In the morning, a person whose Chinese pronunciation was roughly "Tcheng ki-tong" would be giving a lecture on "Chinese Theater."
According to the introduction on the poster, this "Tcheng ki-tong" had studied in various European countries, including France, England, and Germany. He was fluent in French and was currently studying at the Sorbonne Law School, while also serving as a translator for Guo Songtao, the Qing Dynasty's minister to England and France.
Lionel's tightly furrowed brow relaxed slightly. In this era, anyone who could study in Europe was no ordinary person, and later, many talents emerged.
If his memory served him right, the Chinese writing for this "Tcheng ki-tong" should be "Chen Jitong," one of the Qing Dynasty's government-sponsored students abroad.
Albert saw him pause for a long time in front of this poster, not even glancing at the clearly more appealing lecture poster for Anatole France next to it, so he cautiously asked, "Leon, you want to listen to this pig… this Chinese person's lecture?"
Lionel didn't speak, just nodded. He also wanted to see what kind of mental state the Chinese elites of this era would present.
Chen Jitong's lecture was in a small auditorium at the Sorbonne, with not many seats, fewer than a hundred. It was originally used by noble families for small ceremonies. Anatole France's lecture, however, was different; it occupied the largest auditorium, capable of accommodating three times the number of people.
As expected, when Lionel arrived at the small auditorium, it was sparsely populated, and it never filled up completely even after the lecture began. Several Sorbonne teachers were also present out of politeness.
The person who invited Chen Jitong to speak was the elderly scholar Charles-Antoine Latour, who had always been curious about Eastern culture. He hoped that through this Chinese diplomat, who was fluent in French and familiar with European culture, students could understand a real China different from European imagination.
When Chen Jitong entered the classroom accompanied by Professor Latour, the buzzing murmurs suddenly grew louder, then fell into an odd silence. He was dressed in a well-fitted dark Western-style formal suit, handsome, with a tall and straight posture, and a composed demeanor, a polite smile on his young face.
However, the oily, dark, and neatly combed queue at the back of his head was like a thorn, instantly piercing the eyes of many Sorbonne teachers and students filled with superiority, and Lionel's inner feelings were particularly complex.
In the eyes of mainstream European society at the time, this queue was a symbol of "uncivilized," "barbaric," and "subjugation," a characteristic symbol used to caricature Chinese people in cartoons and satirical plays.
Several suppressed snickers came from beside him, carrying undisguised contempt. A few of Albert's followers exchanged teasing glances, and one of them, like Albert just moments ago, exaggeratedly mimicked the action of flicking a queue, causing a low chuckle from the surroundings.
Albert was extremely embarrassed and quickly straightened his face: "You idiots, if you don't shut up, I'll beat you!" He said, raising his fist.
The followers then stuck out their tongues and quieted down.
A hint of embarrassment flashed across Professor Latour's face, but he did not reprimand them. Perhaps, in his view, it was merely harmless "humor" from young people.
He cleared his throat and, in a solemn tone, briefly introduced Chen Jitong's identity, praised his knowledge, and then invited Chen Jitong to stand at the center of the auditorium stage.
Chen Jitong seemed to not hear the murmurs. His gaze calmly swept across the audience, and he began his speech in pure, fluent, and even Parisian-accented French: "Respected Professor Latour, distinguished professors, dear students—
I am honored to be invited today to discuss the dramatic arts of China with you in this temple of knowledge and reason at the Sorbonne.
My homeland, China, possesses a dramatic tradition as ancient as that of ancient Greece and Rome. Today, I come not as an exotic curiosity seeker, but as a student who loves theater and yearns to bridge two great cultural traditions, to share my observations with you."
His opening remarks were neither humble nor arrogant, instantly capturing the attention of most of the audience. Lionel also relaxed—Chen Jitong's performance was unexpectedly steady and articulate, showing no signs of stage fright.
Lionel could even sense a familiar, deeply hidden contempt in his eyes and tone, understandable only to Chinese people, as if all the French people in the auditorium were insignificant barbarians, and only he possessed civilization and truth.
Chen Jitong first briefly outlined the origins of Chinese theater, from ancient sacrificial rituals and storytelling arts to the maturity of Song and Yuan Dynasty zaju. He mentioned the names of Guan Hanqing and Tang Xianzu, as naturally as Europeans would mention Aeschylus and Shakespeare.
"You are familiar with the brilliance of European theater: the passion torn by fate in Racine's pen, the pungent and witty satire in Molière's plays, Shakespeare's vast, ocean-like depiction of human nature.
But these are all built upon the foundation of 'imitation,' pursuing the illusion of reality on stage, the profound analysis of characters' psychology, and the logical progression of the plot."
He paused, seeing some students show expressions of understanding, even slight superiority. He smiled, raised his voice slightly: "Chinese theater, however, has taken a different path.
We call it 'xieyi' (freehand brushwork). It does not pursue a precise replication of the real world on stage. Our actors, through stylized movements, unique singing, symbolic facial makeup, and minimalist sets, construct in the viewer's mind vast armies, pavilions, and countless mountains and rivers.
One table and two chairs become the whole world. A horse whip signifies a thousand-mile gallop. The core of Chinese theater lies in 'conveying spirit,' in inspiring the audience's imagination, in conveying the richest emotions and artistic conceptions with the most refined visual images and the most beautiful auditory enjoyment."
As he spoke, Chen Jitong elegantly gestured a virtual
opening a door
movement from Peking Opera.
Chen Jitong then cited the example of Du Liniang's "A Stroll in the Garden and a Dream Interrupted" from The Peony Pavilion, describing how the young woman, on an empty stage, conveyed the full bloom of spring and deep lovesickness to the audience through her gaze, posture, and singing.
"This is not simplicity, ladies and gentlemen; this is a highly condensed artistic philosophy. Like your country's Impressionist painters such as Monet, they capture not the precise contours of objects, but the momentary sensations of light and color, the atmosphere and artistic conception.
Chinese theater, in the flow of time, uses sound, movement, and symbolism to depict the 'impressions' of the soul."
This analogy, comparing Chinese theater to the avant-garde European art of Impressionism, was novel and bold, finally causing some listeners to show thoughtful expressions. Professor Dupont-Vidal nodded repeatedly in approval.
His exposition was clear, fluent, and well-substantiated, and his profound understanding of European theater made many French students present feel inferior.
At this moment, a harsh voice rang out—
"Ha! 'Xieyi'? It sounds more like an excuse to cover up the inability to build truly magnificent theaters like the Paris Opera House, doesn't it? After all, His Majesty the Emperor's subjects are probably more concerned with how to fill their stomachs than with appreciating some 'impressions of the soul'!
Everyone looked in the direction of the voice, only to see a young student, quite elaborately dressed, already standing, his head held high.
"Louis-Alphonse? What's he going crazy about?" Albert muttered.
The person who stood up was Louis-Alphonse de Montferrand, a noble student in the class like Albert, but his family had successfully aligned with the republican government, with one minister and two deputies emerging from his family.
However, he was usually quite low-key, so it was unclear why he chose to stand out today.
Lionel's face showed no joy or sorrow. He calmly looked at Chen Jitong on the stage—it was not a skill to speak eloquently on stage, but to face the pervasive discrimination against Chinese people in Europe at that time was the true skill.
(Between 1877 and 1890, Chen Jitong gave several public lectures in Europe, especially in Paris, which left a considerable impact. The records of his disdainful expression towards Europeans during his lectures come from the writings of his friend, Anatole France.)