Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 536 The most refined form of oppression is polite silence! (Seeking votes at the beginning of the month!)
Before the turmoil in the council had subsided, a "gift" from across the strait had already crossed the ocean and arrived on the table in the reading room of the St. James Street Club.

Le Figaro was delivered daily from Paris by the fastest mail, and London gentlemen could see it every 12 hours.

Several members who had spent the day at the club sat in leather chairs and picked up a book to read.

For a well-educated English gentleman, French, like Latin, was a compulsory subject.

Today's front page features the striking headline: "Freedom Needs Explanation – Lionel Sorel on His Experience in Port Dover."

The interview was presented in a question-and-answer format. The reporter was the chief political correspondent for Le Figaro, and the questions were very direct.

The first few questions were about the situation in Dover that day. Lionel described it calmly:
He disembarked, filled out forms, waited, and was then asked to "wait a moment." Then reporters appeared, and finally, police escorted him away.

Lionel said, "I didn't resist, because resistance was pointless. At that moment, I had transformed from a visitor into an exhibit."

It demonstrates how the British Empire dealt with 'unpopular' people.

British readers who read this far began to feel uncomfortable, not with anger, but with a sense of shame.

They don't like being called "authoritarian," even in a euphemistic way.

The reporter then asked, "Why do you think the British government did this?"

Lionel's answer was straightforward: "I don't ask Britain to love me; I just believe that Britain will keep the promises it has made to itself."

That is, open law, not secret judgment. But now it seems that this commitment is being redefined in Britain.

Inside the club, several senior members looked rather grim. This wasn't insults, it was a warning.

It serves as a reminder of what Britain once prided itself on—the rule of law, procedure, and transparency.

Now, this pride is being used by a French writer to measure Britain's behavior.

They didn't want to watch anymore, but they couldn't help wanting to know what else the Frenchman had to say—

The reporter asked, "You were denied entry without receiving a formal reason. What is your opinion on this handling of the situation?"

Lionel replied, "The refusal to enter is not terrible in itself; what is terrible is that it is like a verdict without charges, without evidence, and without a court."

They didn't even give me a clear reason. The customs officer just said, "Please wait a moment," and that was it.

You never know what will happen after "wait a moment," because the decision has already been made, without your knowledge.

An elderly gentleman with snow-white hair and beard put down his newspaper, feeling a slight wave of nausea.

He was not a liberal fanatic; he was a conservative who believed in order and authority.

But he also believes in rules. Rules mean predictability, meaning you know what you can and cannot do.

Now, in the scenario Lionel describes, the rule has become "the mood in the office."

Today it's sunny, tomorrow it might be a storm; it all depends on what the person on duty thinks.

This made him uneasy! And what made him even more uneasy was the interview that followed—

The reporter asked, "The British government has yet to provide an official explanation for this matter. What do you think this indicates?"

Lionel's answer was calm: "In some countries, oppression is a loud roar; in others, it is a whispered threat."

The most refined form of oppression is precisely this polite silence.

All the British elites who saw the newspaper felt their cheeks burning.

Lionel continued, "When they refuse to explain, they are not protecting national security, but protecting their own power from being tested."

Silence is their shield; after all, no one can challenge what is unseen—it's an "array of nothingness!"

The club's reading room was quiet, with only the sound of turning newspapers and the occasional cough.

A young member couldn't help but whisper, "What he said...makes some sense."

No one responded, but no one objected either. Everyone just watched in silence.

The reporter asked, "Britain has always presented itself as a free country. Has this incident shaken that image?"

Lionel's response was even more pointed: "Britain has always wanted to be seen as a refuge of freedom."

But a shelter isn't just about having a "Welcome" sign on the door; it's about explaining why you're leaving when you close the door.

"If the standard of freedom can only be exercised anonymously, without explanation to anyone, then it is nothing more than a poster, a poster that will only be pasted on the wall of a colonial office."

The old man couldn't help but curse, "Damn it." His tone wasn't angry, but rather filled with extreme shame.

He recalled the books he had read in his youth—Milton, Locke, Burke.

The Britain described in those books is a bastion of freedom and a model of the rule of law.

Now, a French writer tells him: Your freedom is reduced to nothing but posters!

What's worse is yet to come—

The reporter asked, "Do you believe this is only directed at you personally?"

Lionel's answer sent chills down the spines of all the British elites reading the newspapers.

"Today, a foreign writer is rejected; tomorrow, an Irish speaker, an untimely Italian journalist, or an unpleasant Spanish scholar may be 'advised to leave.' This is because the system doesn't operate on charges; it operates on making people uncomfortable."

“When ‘making people uncomfortable’ becomes a reason for refusal, governing a country becomes incredibly easy. So easy that it requires no laws, only tacit understanding; no crimes, only the right atmosphere.”

In the reading room, a member abruptly slammed down his newspaper. He stood up, walked to the window, his back to the others, but his shoulders visibly trembled slightly. He wasn't afraid of Lionel; he was afraid of the future Lionel had described—

A future where dissidents can disappear without formal bans; a Britain that operates on "atmosphere" and "tacit understanding".

Is that still the British Empire I remember?

But Lionel's questioning wasn't over yet—

The reporter asked, "Do you have any advice for Britain?"

Lionel's reply was like a knife: "I understand that the empire needs order, but please don't call order freedom. You preach freedom to the outside world, but you manage dissent with silence at home—'freedom' has become your diplomatic rhetoric, not your inner belief."

Perhaps Britain didn't actually ban me from entering; it just invented a more modern way—to exclude people without them having to be convicted.

The interview ended there. There were some comments from the reporter afterward, but nobody had the patience to read them.

The reading room was deathly silent.

After a long silence, the old man finally spoke: "He turned what we are most proud of into our crime."

He said "we." Not "they," not "the government," but "we."

Because throughout the entire interview, Lionel used the word "Britain" instead of "the British government."

He is judging the entire nation, judging its traditions, judging its self-perception.

The young member murmured, “The scariest thing is, he’s right. We can’t argue with him.”

We can't just say, "Yes, we just don't want to explain," can we?

No one answered, because the answer was too obvious.

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The interview in Le Figaro spread throughout London within a day. Not everyone reads French, but enough people could understand it.

Clubs, universities, law firms, newspaper editorial offices—wherever there are intellectuals, this article is being discussed.

Retired Lord Chief Justice Sir Henry Caulfield sat in his study with Le Figaro spread out in front of him, which he had already read for the third time.

His wife walked in, saw his serious expression, and asked, "What's wrong?"

Sir Caulfield looked up: "This Frenchman has said what we fear most."

"what's up?"

"We are afraid of becoming the kind of people we despise. We despise Russia, we despise Prussia, we despise countries that maintain their rule through secret police."

We told ourselves, 'We are different. We have the rule of law, we have procedures, and we will be transparent with the public.'

He pointed to the newspaper: "But now, this Frenchman says, 'You are sliding towards that kind of rule, only not through violence, but through silence;'"

Not through laws, but through rules that cannot be made public.

And you don't even dare to explain why.

His wife sat down opposite him: "The government has its own considerations."

Sir Caulfield shook his head: “I know. But power needs to be tested. Power that cannot be tested is arbitrary.”

"That wasn't said by that Frenchman, it was said by William Blackstone!"

He stood up, walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a copy of "Commentaries on English Law," turned to a certain page, and read aloud:
“'Arbitrary power is contrary to the spirit of the British constitution, just as slavery is contrary to natural law.'”

He then closed the book: “Now we have arbitrary power, and we have dressed it up as ‘administrative discretion’.”

This is worse, because we've deceived ourselves.

His wife looked at him and said, "You're taking this too seriously. It's just a writer who was denied entry."

Sir Caulfield sighed. "No. If it were just a writer, I wouldn't care so much. I've been a judge for thirty-five years, and I believe in procedure."

Because programs protect the vulnerable. Now the program is being sidelined, replaced by a polite "Please wait a moment."

He stood up, put on his coat and hat, and his wife asked, "Where are you going?"

Sir Caulfield said, "Have Hank prepare the carriage; I'm going to the Ministry of Justice."

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Just as the shockwaves from the Le Figaro interview were still ongoing, another piece of news broke.

This news first appeared in a small column of the Publishing Weekly, consisting of only three lines:
It is understood that Arthur Conan Doyle's new Sherlock Holmes novel, "A Scandal in Bohemia," will not be published in a British magazine.

The work has been licensed for simultaneous serialization in the French magazine *L'Évêque* and the American magazine *Harper's Weekly*. The UK publication date is to be determined.

These three lines of text were like a heavy punch to the face of the British cultural world.

Who is Sherlock Holmes? He's a British detective! A symbol of London! One of the most successful British characters in recent years!

Now, new Sherlock Holmes stories are being published not in Britain, but in France and the United States.

what does this mean?
Finally, a London newspaper raised the question: "So we not only kicked out a French writer, but also our own detective?"

(Second update complete. Thank you everyone, and please give me a monthly ticket! Don't forget there's a bonus chapter for monthly ticket winners after midnight! Also, I'm taking a day off tomorrow!)
(End of this chapter)