Zola's smile faded:
"Oh? Lion, you believe the scientific method cannot be applied to literature? Should we not pursue truth and accuracy?"
He could not interrupt Lion as he had interrupted Maupassant.
Although Lion was the youngest of the seven, his literary achievements were second only to Zola's, and he was quite influential in the Parisian literary world.
Lion met his gaze:
"The truth we pursue may not be the same truth, Émile. I believe there are several perhaps insurmountable difficulties in your theory."
Zola's breathing quickened slightly, but he ultimately just took a deep drag on his cigar:
"Tell me about it, Lion. Perhaps, perhaps it's just some misunderstanding..."
Lion tidied his thoughts and chose the most direct point of entry:
"Firstly, it's about the 'experiment' itself. In a laboratory, a chemist can control temperature, pressure, purity... all variables, and then repeat the experiment countless times, obtaining almost identical results.
But you, Émile, how does a writer 'control' the characters he creates?
Could Balzac guarantee that Rastignac, at the end of Father Goriot, would definitely say to Paris, 'Now, it's a battle between the two of us!'?
Perhaps at some point, the writer, out of inner compassion or narrative necessity, might make his characters make slightly different choices.
But this 'control' is incomplete; literary 'experiments' cannot be precisely repeated and verified like scientific experiments!"
Maupassant slapped his thigh:
"Exactly! That's it! Characters sometimes come alive on their own! Lion is absolutely right!"
Zola's face darkened:
"But that is precisely the direction we need to strive for! Through deeper research, more rigorous settings..."
Lion gently interrupted him:
"This leads to my second doubt, Émile, concerning 'determinism.'
Your theory seems to suggest that once a character's hereditary illnesses and environment are set, their fate is as unchangeable as a physical law.
Is this judgment of human nature too simplistic and crude?"
He paused, taking a moment to find an appropriate analogy:
"A person's alcoholism might be due to a genetic predisposition, or the oppression of poverty, but it might also just be due to an inexplicable emptiness and boredom.
Can the randomness of such choices truly be entirely covered by heredity and environment?
If everything is predetermined, then where does the tragedy and power in works like Oedipus's struggle, Hamlet's hesitation... or even the workers' rebellion in your Germinal come from?
Don't these moments of humanity refusing to submit to fate shine with literature's most moving brilliance?"
Huysmans nodded thoughtfully:
"That makes some sense. Absolute determinism does seem... boring."
Zola frowned deeply:
"But we are revealing laws! The inevitability of society and physiology!..."
He found it hard to continue, because Lion had used his own work as an example.
Lion persisted with his viewpoint:
"The third point is about the writer's 'objectivity.' You demand that writers be as calm and neutral as scientists, not intervening in the narrative, not passing judgment—this itself is a paradox."
Céard asked in surprise:
"A paradox? Isn't that what you did in The Old Guard?"
Lion looked at him:
"If The Old Guard was truly so 'calm,' why would everyone sympathize with the 'old guard'?"
Céard was momentarily speechless.
Lion then turned back to Zola:
"Émile, when you choose to depict miners instead of aristocrats, that itself carries strong emotion.
The choice of what to write, how to write, from what perspective to write—all of this is permeated by the writer's subjectivity.
Demanding absolute objectivity is like asking a person to lift themselves off the ground by their own hair.
We might strive for the greatest possible calm description, but we cannot completely eliminate the self.
Your sympathy for the laborers in L'Assommoir is its most important power in moving readers!"
Zola also found himself speechless; his work was indeed filled with strong social concern and moral passion, something even he could not deny.
Lion began to summarize, his tone earnest:
"My concern is that overemphasizing 'experimentation' and 'theory verification' might shackle or even harm the creative process itself.
If a writer conceives a novel solely to verify the 'law' that 'alcoholism inevitably destroys families,' the characters are likely to be mere symbols from the outset.
They will lack vibrant life, serving only as arguments to prove a theory, rather than living, breathing people.
I believe that what ultimately moves us in great literature is precisely that spiritual touch that cannot be calculated by formulas."
After Lion finished speaking, a long, almost awkward silence fell over the living room, broken only by the tireless burning of oak logs in the fireplace.
Zola's face appeared somewhat shifting and uncertain in the glow of the fire.
His theory, which he had poured immense effort into, had been left battered and bruised by Lion's rebuttals, leaving him feeling somewhat hurt.
The others exchanged glances, not daring to speak.
After a long while, Zola finally spoke slowly, his voice low and weary:
"Lion... your insights... are very profound. I need... I need to think about this carefully, to refine it..."
He reached out and took back the stack of manuscripts, clutching them tightly in his hand.
The enthusiastic atmosphere that had filled the salon was gone, replaced by a heavy awkwardness.
After sitting for a while longer, drinking the remaining wine in his glass, Lion was the first to rise and bid farewell:
"Thank you for lunch and the sharing, Émile. It was as generous and delicious as ever. Please excuse me for leaving first!"
Zola merely nodded, not warmly urging him to stay as he usually would.
Maupassant also took the opportunity to stand up:
"Oh, I must go too; I have some things to attend to back in Paris."
Huysmans and the others usually stayed overnight at Zola's house to sober up, returning to Paris the next day.
Zola silently saw Lion and Maupassant to the door.
Leaving the Médan villa and walking down the small road to the train station, both Lion and Maupassant involuntarily breathed a sigh of relief as the cold winter wind blew.
Maupassant looked back at the villa with lingering apprehension:
"Good heavens, Lion, you really dared to speak your mind! It's the first time I've seen Émile so speechless. But what you said was brilliant! It clearly articulated all those vague feelings of unease I had!"
Lion shook his head:
"I merely expressed my thoughts. I hope I haven't hurt Émile's feelings too much. He is a true giant, though sometimes too stubborn, always wanting to set rules for everything."
Despite saying that, Lion knew that an irreconcilable rift had already formed between him and Zola.
Maupassant shrugged:
"He wants to block the rushing Seine with a small dike. But, Lion, what exactly is your philosophy? Don't give me that 'writing for humanity' line—those words are beautiful, but I know they aren't your true feelings..."
Lion did not answer Maupassant's question, instead pointing forward:
"The train station is ahead. Where are you heading today?"
Maupassant looked a little awkward; in the past, after attending gatherings, he would usually take a carriage to the Gare d'Austerlitz, located in the 13th arrondissement, where he had familiar brothels.
He would carouse there all night and then return to his apartment smelling of liquor.
Lion's question reminded him of Flaubert's instructions to him, and his expression began to turn unnatural...
(End of Chapter)