In September 1881 in Boston, the air began to cool, but the streets were still full of hustle and vitality.
Boats shuttled back and forth on the Charles River, the sound of steam whistles from the docks intertwined with the roar of factories; red brick houses were tightly arrayed, carriages rumbled down the streets, and gentlemen and ladies moved through them…
It was a vibrant urban scene of the North American East Coast, pulsating with the burgeoning pulse of a rising nation.
In the editor's office of The Atlantic Monthly on Tremont Street, Thomas Bailey Aldrich was engrossed in the manuscript at hand.
The editor, known for his keen eye, was currently reading the latest chapter of Life on the Mississippi sent by Mark Twain.
On the manuscript paper, Mark Twain's distinctive writing style, which blended vivid slang with sharp satire, brought the scenery of the Mississippi River to life:
"...The river water is a thick coffee of mud and sand...A pilot's job isn't poetic; he has to engrave the entire river's temperament into his mind...As for those romantic legends about the river? Come on, in a pilot's eyes, it's a capricious, life-threatening bitch."
A knowing smile appeared at the corner of Aldrich's mouth.
Mark Twain's brushstrokes peeled away the Mississippi River's mysterious romantic veneer, giving it a rough, authentic vitality.
It was this style, boldly combining dialectal slang with realistic satire, that blazed a trail for American literature distinct from European tradition.
Starting with Mark Twain, "American English" shed the shadow of "British English" and found its unique voice.
Aldrich appreciated this vitality, even though it sometimes seemed too direct or even crude, challenging traditional aesthetic tastes.
Just as he was completely immersed in the bizarre river world penned by Mark Twain, there was a rapid knock-knock on the office door.
Aldrich's brow immediately furrowed.
He detested being disturbed while reviewing important manuscripts, but still suppressed his displeasure and said in a deep voice,
"Come in!"
The door was pushed open, and the young assistant Ezra Pym nervously walked in:
"Sir, I'm very sorry to disturb you, but..."
Ezra Pym gasped, clutching a piece of paper tightly in his hand.
Aldrich was clearly impatient:
"But what? Pym, I've told you many times, when I'm reviewing manuscripts..."
Pym quickly explained:
"It's a telegram, sir! Just received, sent from Paris! The news is very important, I think you must read it immediately!"
As he spoke, he handed the note onto the desk.
Aldrich glanced at the telegram paper, then at Pym's eager eyes, and finally put down Mark Twain's manuscript and reached for the note.
He unfolded the note, his gaze casually sweeping over the words—
At first, his expression still carried residual anger and nonchalance; but soon, the muscles on his face tightened, and his face was filled with disbelief.
His eyes began to widen, and his fingers even trembled slightly.
He couldn't believe his eyes and re-read the few short lines two or three times.
Clearly written on the telegram paper were:
"Confirming news. Émile Zola, Lionel Sorel, Alphonse Daudet, Guy de Maupassant, Edmond de Goncourt, Joris-Karl Huysmans, etc., will arrive in the United States in late October for a one-month visit.
—U.S. Embassy in Paris."
The office fell into a dead silence, with only Aldrich's heavy breathing remaining.
French writers?
Such a luxurious lineup of French writers?
Coming to visit America?
Zola! The master of naturalism who shook the European literary scene with L'Assommoir and Nana!
Lionel Sorel!
The playwright and novelist who has recently risen to fame in Europe!
And Daudet!
Goncourt!
Maupassant!
Each of these names resounded like thunder in the literary world!
They represented the pinnacle achievements and latest trends of French literature at the time.
They were actually going to cross the Atlantic collectively and come to this country, which Europeans regarded as a "cultural desert"?
This was incredible!
It was as shocking as a flock of peacocks collectively migrating to a swamp to display their feathers.
Moreover, this news was sent by the U.S. Embassy in France, so it couldn't possibly be a prank.
Almost simultaneously, similar shock spread through nearly all important newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses on the East and West Coasts of the United States.
New York, headquarters of "Harper & Brothers Publishing Company" on Broadway.
Elderly Fletcher Harper was discussing the next season's publishing plan with his editors when a telegram was delivered directly to his desk.
After reading it, he abruptly stood up from his chair, so excited he almost knocked over the ink bottle on the desk.
The old man repeatedly instructed his son by his side:
"Quick! Immediately send a telegram to our agent in Paris! Spend more money to try and get them to visit us! Go now!"
Not far away, "Charles Scribner's Sons" on Bond Street was also in a similar commotion.
Charles Scribner clutched the telegram, almost running to the telegraph office, not even having time to write a note for his secretary to send.
In the newsroom of The New York Herald, editor James Gordon Bennett Jr., after seeing the telegram, immediately shouted to his reporters:
"Headline! Also, reserve the October pages!
I want you to dig up everything about these Frenchmen! Their itinerary, their hotels, every word they say, even what they eat for breakfast!"
Even the Sunshine Southern Weekly in the South felt this shockwave.
Besides their surprise, the editors began to consider how to introduce these writers, representing the "Yankee" allied nations, to their Southern readers.
For a time, from the East Coast to the West Coast, from the industrial cities of the North to the Southern heartland, the American publishing and press industries were completely ignited by this sudden news.
It must be known that in America during this era, although English was spoken, the upper class and middle class had an almost obsessive fervor for French culture.
In large cities along the East Coast, whether New York or Boston, having "Parisian heritage" became a passport to identity.
High-end women's fashion was almost entirely imported from France, and nearly two-thirds of the finished products from top Parisian fashion houses were sold to foreigners, most of whom were Americans.
Many shops simply used "that American" to generally refer to all foreign customers.
For a wealthy American family, the sign of a "tasteful life" was being able to go to France to "shop till they drop" twice a year.
Jewelry, clothes, shoes, telescopes... all daily necessities had to be bought in Paris to complete a fashion pilgrimage.
In galleries, the collection of French paintings completely overwhelmed native American works, and the largest buyers of Monet's paintings were Americans.
Posters, interior decorations, and even the exteriors of residential houses in the United States almost directly copied French styles.
For many American artists, going to Paris to "breathe some Latin air" almost became a compulsory course.
Left Bank cafés, the Comédie-Française, the Paris Opéra, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame... these were all "holy sites" that repeatedly appeared in their writings.
Even Black people at the time regarded France as a "sanctuary" and a "benchmark of civilization."
Black intellectuals who came to Paris often found themselves treated with politeness and kindness everywhere, experiencing almost no discrimination, to the extent that some directly exclaimed, "France made me feel human again."
Even Franklin once said, "Everyone has two homelands, one is the country where he was born, and the other is France."
So, the top French writers were coming to America for a full month's tour?
And a group, not just one!
This was enough to drive every American with even a little culture and taste for life crazy.
——————————
Paris, inside the U.S. Embassy in France, the atmosphere was completely different from usual.
Ambassador Levi Morton's desk was almost buried under a deluge of telegrams, coming in like snowflakes.
Those slips of paper, bearing the logos of different telegraph offices, were piled up, layer upon layer, like a constantly growing small mountain.
These telegrams came not only from major publishing houses, famous bookstores, and newspaper giants in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago, but also from renowned institutions like Yale, Harvard, and Columbia.
They also eagerly hoped to invite Zola, Lionel, and others to give lectures, to enhance their academic prestige and international influence.
In addition, there were countless private meeting invitations, with senders including Washington politicians, New York railway tycoons, Pittsburgh steel magnates...
They viewed this visit by the French writer delegation as an opportunity for ostentatious socializing.
Most telegrams were quite direct in their wording, openly stating that if they could be included in the French writer delegation's itinerary, they would be willing to pay "reasonable" and "generous" sponsorship fees for it.
Many telegrams also specifically noted that even if not all writers could be invited, generous remuneration would still be paid if only a few of them, especially Zola, Lionel, Maupassant, and Daudet, could be invited.
Levi Morton leaned back in his chair, rubbing his slightly throbbing temples; this was the first time he truly understood what "happy worries" meant.
How to sift through this enormous volume of invitations to create an itinerary that would yield the greatest benefits while also balancing the relationships between all parties became a difficult problem.
"You can't just look at money, but you certainly can't ignore money..."
Levi Morton murmured to himself, savoring the words Lionel had told him.
Time was pressing, so he no longer hesitated.
He picked up a pen, quickly wrote the first list on a piece of letter paper, then called for his assistant and instructed him to immediately go to the post office and mail it to Lionel.
————————
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Paris, at the edge of the Fontainebleau Forest.
"Beep—!"
As Lionel puffed out his cheeks and forcefully blew the whistle in his hand, a loud, high-pitched whistle cut through the silence.
Thousands of bicycles, one after another, sped off!
(End of Chapter)