Chapter 40: This Answer Packs Fifty Years of Force—Can You Handle It?

If a writer from the 20th or 21st century were to hear this question, they would undoubtedly widen their eyes in astonishment before bursting into laughter.

In the eyes of later writers, whether a writer feels "pity" for their characters, and using that to deduce whether they possess a "humanitarian spirit," is an utterly fantastical and supremely absurd inquiry.

Yet in the 19th century, extending the critique of a work's moral orientation to a critique of the author's personal morality was an entirely commonplace occurrence.

A writer deemed "morally corrupt" faced prosecution in court, ranging from fines for lesser offenses to imprisonment for severe ones.

Following the publication of Charles Baudelaire's *Les Fleurs du mal*, the court imposed a fine of three hundred francs on the grounds of "outraging public decency," alongside an order to excise six major poems from the collection. At that time, only a tiny handful in the French literary world stood by Baudelaire.

Guy de Maupassant had also tangled in similar legal trouble. He once published a poem titled *A Young Girl* in the *Modern and Naturalist Magazine*, the content of which went roughly as follows:

[I am searching, searching in stories... / I am searching for a young girl. / A young girl whose body may yet be free, but whose soul is already bound, / Shackled by oaths, promises, or verbal commitments. / A noble young girl, well-educated, proud, self-respecting... / The kind of girl to whom a man can say: "You are mine!"]

Though the entire piece contained no explicit obscenity, the Étampes court nevertheless deemed the poem an affront to public morals and prepared to drag Maupassant into the dock.

Only through the behind-the-scenes maneuvering of his teacher, Gustave Flaubert, combined with the mobilization of connections and public opinion by a cohort of writers, did he escape a prison sentence.

Thus, Professor Gaston Boissier’s challenge was remarkably sharp, piercing straight to the core of the short story *The Old Guardsman*.

Naturally, Léonard could not straightforwardly copy over literary theories unique to the 20th century—concepts like the "bystander," "reportage style," or "the death of the author"—as that would merely incense the 19th-century scholars before him and cause them to brand him a lunatic.

Léonard did not flinch from Professor Gaston Boissier’s gaze. He stood up as well, and began his reply: "Respected Professor Boissier, thank you for your attention to perspective. On the contrary, however, I believe that this 'young lad's' perspective is the very pathway to the deepest pity.

Pity, Professor Boissier, does not always manifest in tears or shouts; sometimes, it hides beneath an 'ignorance' molded by the atmosphere of society."

This remark sparked a low murmur of discussion. Victor Hugo was evidently astonished by this concise and penetrating statement as well.

Having just finished reading *The Old Guardsman*, Hugo had harbored similar doubts about whether such a masterpiece could truly have been penned by the young man standing before them.

Yet Léonard’s words persuaded him by more than half.

Léonard’s youthful, resonant voice echoed within the vaulted hall of the ancient edifice: "The young lad, or the 'I' of the story, is not inherently cold-hearted; he is the product of that tavern world, of that rigidly stratified society.

His numbness mirrors the pervasive apathy of society itself. Therefore, I must have him 'see' rather than 'understand,' and 'record' rather than 'judge.'

Only thus can the reader fill in that vast emotional void—to feel, beneath that seemingly 'cold' narration, the silent scream of the old guardsman’s dignity being trampled over and over again, alongside the cruelty hidden within the laughter of the spectators."

"Spectators?" As soon as Léonard uttered the word, it instantly commanded attention. Even the erudite Professor Gaston Boissier paused for a moment, beginning to subconsciously ponder the inner meaning of the term.

For a fleeting second, he could find no more precise or profound corresponding work or figure within the grand expanse of French literature, nor indeed the entire European literary tradition.

Yet this did not mean "spectators" did not exist—on the contrary, "they" were ubiquitous among the French populace. "They" did not refer to any single individual, but rather to an attitude of detached observation and callous numbness toward the tragedies of life.

Most writers in France and other European nations remained immersed in grand narratives, never once bringing such people onto the literary stage.

Yet Léonard had accomplished this in *The Old Guardsman*. At this moment, Professor Gaston Boissier’s skepticism toward Léonard had essentially dissolved.

Had he not been the creator of the work, no one could have answered the question with such consummate perfection.

Yet Léonard’s reply was far from over: "This 'dehumanized' presentation is in itself the ultimate indictment of a society that devours humanity and forgets its heroes.

The object of my pity is not merely the old guardsman, but the spiritual wasteland—stemming from society as a whole—that renders the narrator numb.

Should not literary humanism be all the more inclined to expose the cruelty of this 'collective unconscious,' rather than merely offering a cheap, sensationalized perspective of sympathy?"

"Collective unconscious?" Professor Gaston Boissier once again plunged into contemplation of the term, feeling as though his brain were boiling.

Then he realized that this term, much like "spectators," mapped out from a psychological dimension the human behavior of unthinkingly following the masses in expressing emotions within a social environment.

This, too, was a realm previously untouched by French or European literature. Naturalism attributed all human psychological and behavioral motivations to the influence of hereditary disease; Émile Zola was even writing *The Rougon-Macquart* series to elucidate this philosophy.

To a certain extent, including Gaston Boissier and Hippolyte Taine, the majority of Sorbonne professors were devout believers in Naturalism.

This was linked to the society's collective introspection following France’s crushing defeat in the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. The French generally believed that the defeat stemmed from French socio-culture lacking "scientific" rigor, being overly "sentimental" and too worshipful of "art."

Simply put, they felt France had far too many "liberal arts students"!

Consequently, French society stirred up a vigorous movement to "embrace science and master the STEM disciplines." Many renowned writers and artists were driven out of university campuses, and the Sorbonne even briefly considered shuttering its faculty of letters.

Amidst this climate, literature, painting, and music alike began searching for their own "scientific foundations." Naturalism, grounded in pathology, genetics, and psychology, became everyone's life jacket.

Yet the single phrase "collective unconscious" from Léonard's lips felt almost magical, gently shaking the towering edifice of "Naturalism" in the hearts of Gaston Boissier and the other professors present.

*The Old Guardsman* was too refined and concise to afford them a full appreciation of the profound depth underlying both "spectators" and the "collective unconscious," yet it had already delivered a considerable shock to their inner worlds.

Through a mere exchange of attack and defense on a single question, Professor Gaston Boissier felt that this interrogation was no longer a test of Léonard Sorel, but rather the catalyst for this young man to leap onto the stage of history.

Inwardly, Léonard was secretly amused. The "spectators" of Mr. Lu Xun and Carl Jung's "collective unconscious" were terms he had meticulously curated, born in the early 20th century.

Even if these late 19th-century scholars could not accurately grasp their full connotations, they could undeniably feel their impact.

This single answer encapsulated fifty years of evolution in literature and psychology—could they catch this blow?

Just as the atmosphere grew subtly delicate, Professor Paul Janet, seated to the left of Victor Hugo, spoke up: "Mr. Sorel, you are the most adept young man I have ever witnessed at coining 'novel terms.'

However, let us discuss the structure. This story possesses virtually no 'plot' in the traditional sense. It consists of a series of fragmented scenes: the old guardsman enters, is mocked, interacts with children, discusses the past, and finally meets a tragic end with a broken leg, dying in silence.

There are no explosive conflicts, no dramatic climaxes, and it seems to lack narrative tension. How do you account for this narrative approach, which appears to defy the dramatic principles established since Aristotle?

Is it merely a matter of technical laziness or a failed experiment?"