Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 385 I'm getting emo!
The newly installed lights at Windsor Castle cast a steady, soft glow, enveloping the luxurious tapestries and furniture in the living room in tranquility.

Queen Victoria leaned back in her thickly cushioned armchair, flipping through the latest issue of "Good Words" magazine.

The opening of "The Happy Prince" describes the prince's statue as magnificent—covered in pure gold leaves, with sapphire eyes and a ruby ​​on the hilt of his sword…

—In her view, it was rather uninteresting, just another kind of literary, useless literary embellishment.

She was over sixty years old and had experienced too many national events, court affairs, and personal joys and sorrows, leaving her heart numb like lead.

She had long lost the ability to appreciate such delicate and fragile aesthetic descriptions; however, her brows quickly furrowed.

What drew her attention was not the prince's sacrifice or the swallow's kindness, but the diverse characters in the city of the story.

Especially the city councilor who claimed the prince was "as beautiful as a beacon," then hastily added, "but he's not as useful as a beacon."

His tone and demeanor were exactly like those bureaucrats in parliament who wanted to appear cultured but were also afraid of being labeled as "impractical".

They are always weighing and calculating; every word they utter is shrewd and hypocritical.

And when they read about how the mayor and senators argued endlessly about whose statue should be cast after the prince's statue was toppled and melted down...

The Queen's fingers unconsciously tightened around the pages, wrinkling the smooth paper.

"Naturally, we should cast another statue," the mayor said. "Then cast mine."

“No, cast my statue instead,” each city councilor said, and they began to argue.

These words shattered the Queen's inner peace.

Almost immediately, she found real-world counterparts for these fictional characters in her mind—

Those nobles who fought tooth and nail for titles and medals, and those ministers who schemed and plotted for government positions.

This cartoonish style of imagery is so close to reality that it appears particularly jarring.

What made her even more uncomfortable was the image of the destitute people in the story.

A seamstress embroiders a ball gown for a palace maid in a dilapidated attic, with a feverish, groaning child beside her.
The little match girl was ignored in the cold wind;
There was also the stark contrast: "The rich were enjoying themselves in their beautiful homes, while beggars sat outside their doors freezing."

The scene under the bridge, in particular, vividly appeared before her eyes:
Two children were lying under the arch of a bridge, huddled together, trying to keep warm.

“We’re so hungry!” they said.

“Don’t lie here!” the guard shouted.

They had no choice but to stand up and walk out into the rain.

Every word reminded her of the text that occasionally appeared in the reports presented to her.

She certainly knew how many poor children like that there were in London, but she did not believe it was her or the Empire's responsibility.

The empire had provided sufficient policies and funding, and even offered compulsory education a full decade earlier than France.

The empire’s growing power and expanding colonies provided many, even too many, opportunities for ordinary people!

If someone still ends up starving and without proper clothing, it can only mean that either they haven't worked hard enough, or God hasn't been kind to them.

But what particularly bothered her was that the text seemed to allude to a period of history she least wanted to revisit—

Ireland thirty years ago.

That terrible famine killed millions and forced millions to flee...

Even in London, a sense of despair and panic could be clearly felt spreading throughout the country.

Although time has passed, that shadow has never truly dissipated, and it remains a subject of moral condemnation for her.

She remained deeply troubled by this, considering that she had personally traveled to Ireland despite the risks of plague and riots, even though it was in 1849.

But she did go after all, and the Irish still complained about it, completely disregarding the aid the empire had provided for them.

Queen Victoria vaguely felt that the Happy Prince, adorned with gold and jewels and standing amidst a city full of poor people, seemed to be a reflection of herself.

However, this "Queen of Happiness" did not take the diamonds from her crown and give them to the poor.

Especially recently, the Irish have been waging their "land war" again, and there's been the rise of Parnell's Parliamentary Party...

These words forcefully brought back those scenes she had intentionally forgotten to the light of day.

The Queen's face turned pale and then bluish as she read.

Anger, embarrassment, and unease churned within her.

But she had an iron will, and she persevered, page by page, until the end of the story—the lead heart could not be melted and was thrown into the trash heap along with the dead swallow.

She put down the magazine. The most powerful woman in the world felt a tightness in her chest and even felt like vomiting.

This is not due to physical discomfort, but rather to a strong mental aversion to something.

She was furious!
But this anger is not directed at any specific traitor or provocative political enemy, so it has nowhere to go.

This seemingly harmless fairy tale reveals the festering sores beneath the glamorous surface of her empire.

It mocked the hypocrisy of bureaucrats, exposed the stark wealth disparity, and even pointed to the most shameful chapter in her reign.

However, this anger has no outlet—it's just a fairy tale!
The author, James Bond, is virtually unknown, and the background of the story is unclear. Could she really be so furious about a fictional story?

That would only make her seem petty and make her a laughing stock.

Thus, this pent-up anger eventually transformed into a suffocating depression, weighing heavily on her heart and refusing to dissipate for a long time.

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the living room door, and her grandson, sixteen-year-old Prince George, walked in.

The young prince still had the innocence of a teenager on his face, but at this moment, his bright eyes were filled with bloodshot veins and his eye sockets were red and swollen.

Prince George, holding a copy of "Good Words" in his hand, asked with a choked voice, "Your Majesty, have you... have you read 'The Happy Prince'?"

He didn't even bow first as usual, but instead hurried forward to his grandmother's side.

Queen Victoria looked up at her grandson, who had grown up within the walls of Buckingham Palace and had never truly experienced the hardships of life.

Her voice was low: "I've seen it, George."

Prince George's tone was filled with confusion and pain: "I...I felt extremely upset after reading it."

The seamstress, the little match girl, and the child under the bridge...

Grandmother, in our Great Britain, are there really... really so many people starving and freezing?

The young prince's innocent and straightforward question caught the queen off guard and struck her heart.

Looking into her grandson's clear, sorrowful eyes, a passage from "The Happy Prince" involuntarily flashed through her mind:

"When I was alive, when I had a heart, I didn't know what tears were."

Because I was living in the Palace of No Sorrow at that time, sorrow was not allowed to enter.

For a moment, Queen Victoria was speechless.

How should she answer? Could she deny it? Should she righteously and forcefully tell him how prosperous the empire was and how effective its charitable work was?
But can one admit it? To personally shatter the future king's naive belief in "imperial glory"?

She opened her mouth, but ultimately couldn't say anything.

She didn't want her grandson to think of her as hypocritical in the future, but she also didn't want him to feel incompetent now.

All she could do was reach out and pat her grandson's arm.

She tried to comfort the child, but couldn't offer any answers.

Prince George seemed to understand something, yet he also seemed even more confused.

He lowered his head, looking at the magnificent prince statue on the magazine cover, and murmured, "That prince... his lead heart has cracked..."

He didn't press further, but simply bowed silently and left the study.

Queen Victoria was left alone, facing the thin magazine on the table and the beautiful view outside the window surrounded by high walls, in a serene silence that was almost suffocating.

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At the same time, the story of "The Happy Prince" evoked drastically different reactions among different classes of London society.

Unlike the heated discussions sparked by "Sherlock Holmes," "The Happy Prince" brought silence and sadness.

What it touches first is the reader's conscience, including regret for the sacrifice and helplessness in the face of reality.

Like Oscar Wilde, everyone who has read "The Happy Prince" is left with a question—

Who is 'James Bond'?

(Two chapters tonight, plus a bonus chapter tomorrow)

(End of this chapter)