Hearing Paul Janet's questioning, Lionel, instead, breathed a sigh of relief.
This question was a typical "technical issue," not involving a moral judgment of the work or the author.
Lionel simply didn't sit back down.
Instead, he stood facing the professors and Hugo, answering the question in a light 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 already showed a tendency to downplay plot, especially after "Romanticism" was widely rejected by most first-rate writers.
Literary concepts gradually shifted from "story is king" to "character-centric," "environmental determinism," and "psychological analysis."
For instance, Flaubert's Madame Bovary, although its core plot is "adultery," is very understated 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 doesn't come to fruition.
Paul Janet's question wasn't a challenge; it was more like an opportunity for Lionel to showcase himself.
Lionel, of course, wouldn't let it pass:
"The tragedy of the Old Guard's life lies not in a dramatic duel or conspiracy, but in the slow, day-after-day 'lingchi'—
Oh, this is an ancient form of torture from the distant East, where the executioner would use small knives to cut off the condemned's flesh piece by piece, up to three thousand cuts, lasting for three days.
And throughout the entire process, the condemned remains conscious, truly feeling their body inch by inch crumbling into pieces...'"
Before Lionel could finish, some professors in the room let out quiet retches.
For the French, accustomed to the swiftness of the guillotine, medieval tortures similar to "lingchi" had long become dusty memories.
Lionel's explanation awakened their inner fears.
Gaston Boissier quickly interjected:
"Alright, we understand about 'lingchi.'
Let's get back to the 'Old Guard.'"
Lionel, understanding the hint, returned to the main topic:
"For the Old Guard, 'lingchi' is the erosion of dignity, the fading of memories, and the process of being slowly abandoned by France—the France he loved and dedicated his entire life to.
Those 'fragmented' scenes—every laugh, every argument over 'spoils,' every attempt to teach the young assistant how to handle game—even his action of laying out nine sou 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 aristocratic and wealthy merchant salons every night, owning at least one summer villa, and at least keeping a mistress...
They might have held deep sympathy for the working class, understood how the poor lived, and even loudly championed their rights in newspapers or Parliament.
But they could not comprehend the slow process of an "Old Guard" type 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 that after your explanation, it could reveal even deeper meanings."
A middle-aged man with a large handlebar mustache and a chin covered in thick short beard spoke.
His cheeks were thin, his eyes deep-set, and he had an elegant yet subtle demeanor.
Gaston Boissier quickly said:
"Mr. Mallarmé, this is an internal inquiry meeting of the 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 add a few words, following his?"
Mallarmé's voice carried an ineffable languor and a faint hint of playful mockery.
Gaston Boissier glanced at the poet who had caused a sensation in French literary circles with 'Afternoon of a Faun,' and finally nodded:
"Please do, Mr. Stéphane Mallarmé."
Stéphane Mallarmé smiled slightly and stood up:
"I only came to chat with Bachelard, but I didn't expect to witness such a 'grand spectacle'—what you just said about 'lingchi' is very interesting, although it's terrifying.
However, the 'Old Guard's' soul is indeed being cut, slice after slice, by people's words, expressions, and attitudes in every scene where he appears in the novel.
My God, this is too cruel.
They accumulate and intensify, ultimately leading to that figure 'walking' on his hands in the bitter cold, on the muddy ground—gentlemen, this is the greatest climax, a silent, cumulative destruction.
The 'ordinariness' of this structure precisely serves to match the brutal 'mundaneness' of life itself! The novel's tension hasn't vanished; rather, it's internalized and diffused throughout every seemingly ordinary moment!
This is not a failed experiment, dear Paul, but an expansion of 'plot,' capturing life's slow, silent decay as time passes!'"
By the end of Stéphane Mallarmé's speech, not only did his sentences sound more like poetry, but his voice also became more melodious and rhythmic, as if he were reciting.
After finishing, he slumped back into his seat as if losing all strength, a satisfied smile on his face, his urge to express himself fulfilled.
Everyone, including Lionel: "..."
Letting a poet 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.
Before long, a rare, beardless professor posed his question:
"Mr. Sorel, the atmosphere of the Alpine town tavern you depicted is very 'realistic,' and the details of the Old Guard are vividly portrayed.
However, according to our understanding, although you are from the Alps, your father's work wouldn't have you fall to being an assistant in a small tavern—since you could pass the secondary school entrance exam to come to the Sorbonne, we believe you 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 working-class laborers?
Where does this 'realism' come from?
Is it hearsay?
Or... a rich imagination?
Or did you draw upon the observations of certain lesser-known authors whom we haven't read?'"
Hearing this, Lionel looked up and carefully observed the man.
The professor was about fifty years old, with an arrogant smile on his plump face and undisguised disdain in his eyes.
This question was the sharpest and most malicious of all the challenges tonight; it pointed in a direction that was difficult to self-verify.
Lionel had only occasionally seen this person at the Sorbonne but had never taken his class, so he asked,
"May I ask who you are?"
The fat man raised his head:
"Ernest Renan.
If you're still at the Sorbonne next year, you'll be in my class."
Lionel nodded and politely greeted him first:
"Good morning, Professor Renan, your question is truly brilliant!"
Ernest Renan was taken aback, 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 surpass the limitations of one's background, just as one's breadth of mind does not become more generous with age, don't you?"
(End of this chapter)
---------------------
Support me on P@treon
[email protected]/charaz
$10 -> 300+ chapters in advance
Check my pinned post on P@treon