At the beginning of the novel, Lionel decided not to follow Zweig's plain and delicate original expression, but instead used a sentence structure that would later become familiar, but was absolutely groundbreaking in 19th-century European literature:
"Many years later, facing the woman in bed, the novelist "L" would recall that distant afternoon when he read a letter from an unknown woman."
The beauty of this sentence structure lies in its simultaneous inclusion of the future, present, and past tenses, creating a new imaginative space: recalling the past from the perspective of the future, in an uncertain present.
Its expressive features can only be fully displayed in strongly tensed languages like Spanish or French.
Then the main text of the novel begins—
"L spent three days by the Fontainebleau Forest and returned to Paris on a cold, overcast noon. The clamor of the train station, mingled with coal smoke and cold mist, assailed him. He bought a copy of Le Figaro, glanced at the date: January 18, 1879. The number lightly touched his mind—forty-one years old. Neither joy nor melancholy, not a ripple. He quickly flipped through the newspaper and returned to his residence amidst the sound of the hansom cab's wheels. The butler informed him of a visitor and several letters, then presented the accumulated mail on a lacquered tray. He lazily scanned them, picking out and opening a few with familiar handwriting. Only one letter, with unfamiliar handwriting and unusually thick, was carelessly placed by the enamel inkwell on his mahogany desk. A servant brought Ceylon black tea, and he leaned into an armchair upholstered in dark green velvet, beginning to read the newspaper and a few theater posters, then lit a fine Havana cigar. Not until the smoke curled, making the room's light hazy, did he reach for that unusual letter."
Compared to the original, Lionel specifically emphasized more details about the writer L's life, whether it was the "mahogany desk," "enamel inkwell," "Ceylon black tea," or "Havana cigar," all of which were fashionable pursuits for Parisians at the time.
After showcasing L's indifferent, nonchalant, and hedonistic attitude towards life, "an unknown woman" finally appeared—
"It was heavy, twenty or thirty pages thick, with wild, sprawling female handwriting, more like a poured-out manuscript. He instinctively squeezed the envelope, confirming there was nothing else inside. There was no address or signature on either the envelope or the letter. "Strange," he murmured to himself, his curiosity piqued. His gaze fell on the words at the top: "You, who never knew me!" This abrupt salutation or title made him pause slightly. Was it referring to him? Or an illusion? With this surprise, he read on:
"My son died yesterday—for this life, as fragile as a reed, I have fought with Death for three days and three nights. For forty hours straight, I did not leave his burning little bed for a step. The flu gripped him, and high fever turned his poor little body into a furnace… I know, I know for certain, that my son died yesterday—and now, in this vast world, only you remain for me, only you. And you know nothing about me; perhaps you are having fun right now and know nothing; or perhaps you are flirting with some girl. I only have you, a you who has never known me, yet I have always loved you."
The woman begins the letter by informing the recipient of her son's death—this is abrupt, but it simultaneously has a peculiar effect on both L, who is reading the letter, and the readers of the novel:
A person would not lie at the moment of their only son's death. The woman writing the letter, after losing the only person in her life, reveals herself to R for the first time. She uses her son's death as a moral collateral.
In the face of such immense pain, any lie would seem sacrilegious. Thus, this sentence is, first and foremost, an extreme guarantee of credibility—making both the recipient and the readers believe that the long life story that follows is by no means fictitious.
Because of this opening, the subsequent parts of the woman's letter could make L read patiently—
"I place the fifth candle on this wobbly table, and it is at this table that I take up my pen to tell you. In the boundless solitude of watching my dead child, how could I endure this terrible moment if I did not pour out the feelings accumulated in my heart throughout my life? To whom else could I speak if not to you? You were my everything, and you are still my everything now!…"
As night deepened, Lionel picked up the written manuscript, looked at the marks of revision, and suddenly realized that he also had copying work that he could give to Alice…
— — — —
The next day, Lionel woke up very early. As soon as he left his room, he heard Petty busy in the kitchen—ever since moving to An Tan Street No. 12, he had adjusted his eating habits to three meals a day, sometimes adding a late-night snack.
Petty prepared him a simple yet balanced breakfast: two slices of country bread, one spread with raspberry jam, the other with honey; a cup of warm milk, two fried eggs; and also a portion of curd cheese, and an apple.
Seeing only two portions of food on the table, Lionel asked, "Where is Alice's breakfast?"
Petty made a "shush" gesture, then whispered, "She was copying manuscripts until early morning last night. She told me not to prepare her breakfast yet; she wants to sleep more."
Lionel nodded, his movements also becoming a little lighter.
Recently, in addition to the orders introduced by the agency, he had also taken on the transcription orders from his Sorbonne classmates.
As students of the Faculty of Arts, these classmates more or less had a need for manuscript transcription, but not to the extent of needing to hire a copyist.
Since Lionel was willing to undertake the work, they naturally wouldn't refuse him—it was just strange how exceptionally neat Lionel's handwriting was.
The manuscripts submitted by his classmates were general texts, usually novels or poems they had written, sometimes essays, and did not require Latin or complex professional terminology, so the price was not high, 10 centimes per page.
However, at this price, there were no middlemen taking a cut, and Alice worked extremely hard, bringing in almost 50 to 60 francs a month.
Alice only kept 10 francs, giving the rest to Lionel as rent and meal expenses for her stay there—although it didn't quite cover the costs, it was better than nothing.
Lionel's headache was Alice; she couldn't hide in the dark forever, never seeing the light of day.
Although she no longer stayed completely indoors, her outings were limited to a walk around An Tan Street after most of the residents had left.
A while ago, a letter from home mentioned Alice's "disappearance" in Paris, asking him to look for clues—Lionel, seeing the living person right there at home, could only reply "okay."
Now he had no other way; he could only take things one step at a time.
After breakfast, Lionel bid farewell to Petty, grabbed his schoolbag, and left the apartment for Sorbonne to attend the last week of classes before the Easter holiday.
Walking on the street, he noticed that by the end of March, Paris had completely revived from the harsh winter!
Looking up, the sky was an unfurled sheet of pale blue; in the distance, the mist over the Seine River was just dispersing, and the gray-beige Haussmannian buildings on both banks gradually awakened in the morning light, their windowpanes, balconies, railings, and black iron streetlights all painted with soft contours by the morning glow.
The density of carriages and pedestrians on the road had clearly increased. Not only had gentlemen resumed their tradition of strolling, pacing along the Champs-Élysées with tall top hats and canes; occasionally, ladies veiled and wearing wide-brimmed hats adorned with long feathers could also be seen walking arm-in-arm with their lovers.
Lionel saw that it was still early and decided not to take a carriage today but to walk to Sorbonne.
As he reached Rue de la République, he heard someone exclaim, pointing at the sky. Lionel looked up and saw an enormous hot air balloon slowly drifting over the city. Figures moved in the basket, and he wondered if it was some young gentleman or an ambitious adventurer up there.
Lionel thought of the invitations he had recently received—clubs, balls, salons, art exhibitions, plays, excursions… one after another, so many activities that there weren't enough talented men and beautiful women to go around; anyone who could fill a spot would do.
It was just that in the previous two years, even when salons needed people to boost their popularity, no one had sought him out.
After about an hour of walking and observing, he finally arrived at the gate of Sorbonne. As usual, it was a bustling scene of carriage diplomacy, but now that he walked, no one mocked him anymore.
Because every morning, Albert de Rohan would wait for him at the entrance and then accompany him into the school.
After greeting him, Albert said with a snigger, "Whose lecture are you going to listen to today? Monsieur France's, or the pigtail's?"
Sorbonne usually had a more relaxed schedule before holidays, often inviting celebrities to give lectures, and students could freely choose between attending classes or lectures.
"Pigtail?" Lionel frowned. Whose nickname was that? He had no recollection of it.
Albert put his hands behind his back, made a motion of flicking a braid, and wiggled his waist twice: "Don't you know? It's the Chinaman! Don't they all wear an ugly pigtail? Haha… "