Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 387 The angels are dead, so where is heaven?
In the editor-in-chief's office of Good Words magazine, Norman McLeod is discussing the publication of The Sign of Four after its completion with Lionel sitting across from him.

Lionel was wearing the suit Norman had prepared for him, and his face looked a little more refreshed than when he had just arrived in London, though his eyes still held a hint of weariness.

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside the office door, mixed with the secretary's anxious voice: "Mr. Wilde, you can't go in like this! Dr. MacLeod is meeting with someone..."

"Meeting guests? Even if the Prime Minister is inside, I still want to see him!" A loud voice pierced through the wooden door.

Lionel turned his head alertly toward the doorway.

The next moment, the office door was flung open, and Oscar Wilde appeared there.

He was slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed, and a few strands of curly hair fell across his forehead, yet his posture remained elegant.

His gaze first fell on Lionel, his eyes lighting up instantly with admiration and infatuation.

He strode forward, his voice fervent: "Léon! My dear Léon! I never expected to see you here! I thought you were still in France, still in Paris..."

Those damn politicians!

He almost reached for Lionel's hand, but stopped halfway through.

The infatuation in his eyes receded like the tide, replaced by an almost painful apology.

Oscar Wilde looked at Lionel and said in a low, sincere voice, “But, Lionel, please forgive me, I must tell you the truth.”

At this moment, my heart and my entire soul have been completely occupied by another person!
That was someone who had just conquered me, someone who made my soul tremble!

Lionel breathed a sigh of relief: "That's good, Mr. Wilde, very good, very good..."

Before he could finish speaking, Wilde stopped looking at him and abruptly turned to Norman MacLeod, who was standing behind his desk looking bewildered.

His voice was filled with urgency: "Dr. McLeod! Tell me! You must tell me! Who exactly is this 'James Bond'?"
Is this his real name? Or a pen name as beautiful as a nightingale's song? Is he in London right now, or somewhere in the world?

Could you arrange for me to meet him? Or at least invite him to our club's salon?

I guarantee he'll be the brightest star in London!

He was no stranger to Norman McLeod; they not only interacted frequently at the club, but his poems had also been published in Good Words.

But this barrage of questions, like a relentless drumbeat, kept Norman McLeod busy.

He opened his mouth, then subconsciously turned his gaze to Lionel sitting beside him, his eyes full of inquiry and pleading.

Lionel didn't speak, but lowered his eyelids slightly and shook his head gently but firmly, conveying a strong "don't say it" signal.

He even leaned back in his chair, as if trying to hide himself in the shadow cast by the office bookshelves.

Norman McLeod's face immediately showed a troubled expression, a transition that was very natural.

He cleared his throat: "Uh... Oscar, please calm down. I completely understand your enthusiasm."

However, I'm sorry, out of respect for his privacy, I am not authorized to disclose any information about his identity to you.

This is industry practice, please understand…

Oscar Wilde seemed to have been doused with cold water, and the flame in his eyes dimmed considerably in an instant.

He took a half-step back in disappointment, muttering to himself, "Convention? Privacy? Yes...yes...the true artist of beauty is always unconventional, refusing to conform to this filthy world."

He chose to hide himself, like a nightingale concealing its song in the deep forest at night…

He glanced at the silent Lionel, then at Norman, who looked utterly helpless, and sighed deeply.

That sigh seemed to carry the weight of all the world's regrets. Wilde slumped into his top hat: "In that case... I won't bother you any longer. Please tell Mr. 'Bond,' if possible—"

Oscar Wilde will forever be his most loyal reader and fellow believer in beauty!

After saying this, he turned and left the office with a forlorn expression as if he had lost a beloved person, even forgetting to leave behind his signature aphorism as usual.

Norman McLeod watched the door close behind him and let out a long sigh of relief: "My God, Leon, he really is..."

Lionel finally relaxed completely.

The little incident involving Wilde had barely subsided when Norman MacLeod placed the newly published Times in front of Lionel.

He clicked on an article above: "Lionel, it seems that 'The Happy Prince' doesn't make many people so happy..."

Lionel took the newspaper and the first thing he saw was the bold headline: "Fairy Tale? Fable? Or Reality?"

The article begins by acknowledging the literary value of "The Happy Prince," praising its language as "poetic and beautiful, with exquisite and symbolic imagery."

It is also believed that the author, James Bond, possesses "extraordinary narrative skills and the ability to create atmosphere."

But then, the author shifts focus, pointing out the "uniqueness" of this work. The article states:
However, we must point out that The Happy Prince is perhaps the most “cold” fairy tale we have ever read.

The author used the most beautiful and pure language to weave a story that is the most cruel, even despairing.

It uncompromisingly demonstrates the thoroughness of sacrifice—the Happy Prince becomes ugly, and the swallow freezes to death in the cold.

But their goodwill failed to change the city's indifference; the mayor and senators were still concerned with their own statues, and the lives of the poor remained appalling.

What's truly unpleasant is that the author wasn't even willing to give the victims a happy, comforting ending befitting a fairy tale. ...

After reading it, Lionel calmly placed the newspaper back on the table.

Norman McLeod said with some complaint, "Leon, honestly, you should have given them a nicer ending."

Lionel chuckled, then countered with, "For example?"

Norman MacLeod thought for a long time before speaking: "For example... for example, let God send angels to take the Happy Prince and the Swallow to Heaven, so that they can live a life of eternal happiness from then on."

Wouldn't this be more acceptable to everyone? Both the prince and the swallow deserve a better ending.

Upon hearing this, Lionel's lips curled into a mocking smile: "Norman, wasn't the Happy Prince an angel? But that angel is already dead on earth."

Then please tell me, where exactly is Heaven?

Norman MacLeod concluded that Lionel wasn't deliberately pursuing cruelty, but rather faithfully presenting the world as he understood it.

Goodwill and sacrifice, when faced with harsh social realities, can often end in such a tragic way; and any attempt to embellish them is to diminish the sacrifice itself.

He awkwardly touched his nose, wisely deciding not to argue about it anymore: "Okay, okay, I can't argue with you. So... let's talk about something practical."

What's the latest Sherlock Holmes story all about?

Lionel regained his composure and nodded: "I expect to be able to deliver it to you before December, just in time for Christmas."

Norman's face immediately lit up with a smile: "Great! I knew I could rely on you! Don't worry about the royalties, absolutely..."

Lionel raised his hand to interrupt him: "Norman, for this manuscript fee, I intend to use a different payment method..."

(End of this chapter)