Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 529 London, the beginning of its division!
The Bentham pub in East London is the same as always at night.

The kerosene lamp cast a yellowish glow in the room, where the smells of smoke, alcohol, and sweat mingled together.

The wooden table was surrounded by people—dockworkers, seamstresses, apprentices, and old drunkards.

They drank dark beer, ate cheap bread and bacon, and talked and laughed loudly.

The small table in the corner is still there. Almost a year ago, the French writer, using the pseudonym "James Bond," sat there writing letters for them.

The person sitting there now is the new newspaper reader, Tom Hardy.

Tom was in his fifties, with gray hair and deep wrinkles on his face.

He used to work in a printing factory, but his eyesight deteriorated and he could no longer work. Old Jimmy took pity on him and let him take over the job of "Old Pipe" Jim.

Right now, Tom is holding the latest issue of "Good Words" magazine and reading "Pirates of the Caribbean" at the top of his lungs.

"...Jack Sparrow swung across the zipline and casually took off the colonel's hat!"
He bowed as he landed, saying, "Thank you for your hat, sir! It suits me perfectly!"

A burst of laughter erupted in the bar.

A dockworker slammed his fist on the table: "That's how you deal with those lords!"

The person next to them nodded: "Let them be so arrogant! They always have such a long face, like everyone owes them money!"

Tom and the others' laughter subsided, and they continued reading.

He didn't read it as well as James Bond—Mr. Bond could imitate different people's voices and bring the scenes to life.

But Tom put in a lot of effort, had a bright voice, and used a lot of gestures, so everyone enjoyed listening to him.

The story goes that Jack hides in a blacksmith's shop and meets a young blacksmith named Will Turner.

Tom chuckled to himself when he read the part where Will drew his sword to grab Jack.

Will said, "I'm going to hand you over to the Navy!"

Jack blinked. "Kid, do you really think those wooden figures walking in a line can catch me?"

Another burst of laughter followed.

Amid the laughter, someone muttered, "That's right. What else can those officials do besides queue up?"

The speaker was an old worker named Bill, who had once asked "Mr. James Bond" to write a letter to his son who was serving in the army in India.

His son just returned home this year, but he's missing an arm and still can't find a decent job. The compensation? A pitifully small amount!
Bill now grits his teeth at the mere mention of the "Royal Navy".

Tom finished reading the climax of this issue—the cursed pirates attacking the port aboard the Black Pearl and kidnapping the governor's daughter—before closing the magazine and taking a sip of beer to soothe his throat.

People started talking about it.

"And then what? Did Jack save her?"

"We'll find out next time."

"They're making us wonder again!"

"That was really exciting! That Jack, he really lived life to the fullest!"

"Yes, do whatever you want, and don't be afraid of anyone."

Just then, the door opened, and a cold draft rushed in.

A young man squeezed in, holding a copy of The Times.

He was a clerk at a nearby bookstore and often brought over expired newspapers in exchange for a drink.

The young man walked up to the bar and said to old Jimmy, "Boss, today's newspaper."

Old Jimmy wiped the cup: "Just put it there. Anything interesting?"

The young man spread out the newspaper and pointed to a section: "Here it is, criticizing 'Pirates of the Caribbean'."

Several people gathered around.

"What are you scolding?"

"They say this story corrupts children, erodes the British spirit, and is a French conspiracy."

"Conspiracy? What conspiracy?"

"They say the French want our children to disrespect the navy so as to weaken the British Empire."

It was quiet for a few seconds.

Then someone scoffed, "Bullshit!"

The speaker was Sean Omara. He's the dockworker from Whitechapel, the one who asked Lionel to write the petition.

Ever since "Mr. James Bond" wrote him a letter, he has enjoyed coming to "Bendhammer" for a drink, even if it's an extra mile.

Sean Omara stood up, walked to the bar, and stared at the newspaper as if it could bite.

"Corrupt the spirit? My son almost died from a fever last year because the water in Whitechapel was dirty!"
Where were those gentlemen back then? Did they care whether our children would be poisoned by cholera?

The bar fell silent.

Sean Omara continued, "It was Mr. Bond who helped us write the letter! Later, when the city hall found out he was 'Lionel Sorel,' they installed more water pipes!"

Now they're saying he's plotting something? That he wants to harm Britain?

He got angrier and angrier as he spoke, and his face turned red.

Old Jimmy patted him on the shoulder: "Calm down, Sean. Sit down and have a drink."

Sean O'Mara didn't sit down; he looked at the people in the room: "Some of you have also asked Mr. Bond to write letters. Do you think he's a bad man?"

In the corner, the apprentice who had once asked Lionel to write love letters stood up.

He is no longer an apprentice but a full-fledged craftsman. He got married this spring, and his wife is pregnant.

His name was Joe, his face flushed, and his voice trembling: “Mr. Bond… Mr. Bond is a good man. Without him, I wouldn’t have been able to marry Mary. I couldn’t have written that letter.”

He paused, then raised his voice slightly: "Mary said that the letter made her cry every time she read it. She said no one had ever expressed her kindness so clearly before."

Mr. Bond...he understands us!"

Another woman spoke up. She was a seamstress who had asked Lionel to write a letter to her mother in the countryside.

“My mother is illiterate, so I asked Mr. Bond to write the letter. He wrote it... as if I were actually standing in front of my mother and speaking to her.”

My mother later asked someone to write back, saying that she heard the letter read to her three times, and she cried every time.

She wiped her eyes: "Someone like this can be a bad person? I don't believe it." People started chattering.

“I asked Mr. Bond to write to my brother, who is in Australia.”

“I asked him to write to my daughter, who has married and moved to Birmingham.”

"He only charges two pence for a letter. Two pence! Other literate teachers would charge at least six pence!"

"And he never finds us long-winded. Even if I talk incoherently, he listens patiently and can still make sense of me."

Tom Hardy sat in the corner, listening to these words. He had never met James Bond—Bond had already left when he arrived.

But he had heard too much about this person.

He cleared his throat and began, “I heard from old Jimmy that when Mr. Bond passed away, he left all the money he had earned to Jim’s family.”

Old Jimmy nodded: "Yes. A pile of copper coins, heavy with cash. Jim's wife cried terribly when I handed them over."

Sean Omara snorted: "The newspapers say this kind of person is plotting something? That he wants to harm Britain?"

He grabbed the copy of The Times, stared at the article, and suddenly laughed—

"Do you know who wrote this article? John Walter III, editor of The Times."

He lived in a large house in Kensington, with servants and carriages. His son would attend Eton College, and later join Parliament or become an officer.

Of course he had to uphold the 'honor of the Royal Navy'—that was his son's future!

After saying that, he threw the newspaper back on the bar: "What about our children? Can our son get into Eton? Can he become an officer? No!"
They could only work as porters at the docks, as factory workers, or, like Bill's son, as cannon fodder in the colonies.

He came back with a broken arm, and couldn't even get a decent meal!

Bill lowered his head, and tears streamed down his face.

Sean Omara stood in the center of the tavern: "In Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack is playing the governor, the officers, and those high and mighty lords."

Do we feel uncomfortable watching this? Yes! Because we usually have to bow and scrape to these people, be bossed around by them, and be looked down upon by them!

Here's a story about a pirate who completely outwitted them—why not have a laugh?

He looked around the room: "The newspapers say this story is a bad influence on children. Can our children become governors? Can they become military officers? No!"

Whether they turn out badly or not is none of our business! They'll end up just like us, working hard to earn a living!

Some nodded, some sighed.

Joe whispered, "I just like Jack. He's free, and nobody can control him!"

Old Jimmy poured Sean Omara a beer: "Drink up, don't get too worked up."

Sean Omara took the cup, took a big gulp, wiped his mouth, and continued, "I'm not angry. I just find it funny."

Those gentlemen live in the West End, we live in the East End. They read their Times, we read our Pirates of the Caribbean.

Originally, no one was bothering anyone else. But they insisted on interfering, saying we shouldn't like this, shouldn't watch that.

Then he sneered: "Have they ever cared if we drank dirty water and got sick? Have they ever cared if our children didn't have access to education? Have they ever cared if our wages were enough to buy bread?"

No! Now they're asking what story we're going to read!

These words struck a chord with many people. Indeed, when have those lords ever cared about them?

How many people died from cholera in Whitechapel?

How many people were killed in the dock accident?
How many people have been maimed by the toxic fumes in the factory?
Do the men care? No!

But now, they suddenly care—they care about a pirate story—and their words imply that everyone is forbidden from reading it anymore!
Why? Because they weren't good-looking in the story!

An old drunkard muttered, "They're just afraid. Afraid that after we read their stories, we'll think they're not so great after all."

Sean Omara nodded: "Yes. Normally they dress smartly and talk in a high-pitched manner, as if they were born to boss us around. But what about in the stories?"

Being completely outmaneuvered by a pirate! If this image gets into our children's minds, will they still be so afraid of them? Will they still be so obedient?

So they want to criticize it. They want to portray the story as poison and the author as an enemy. That way, we won't dare to read it, and the children won't be allowed to read it either.

Their arrogance can continue to be flaunted.

There was a moment of silence in the bar.

Then Tom Hardy spoke up: "Will I still read the next issue of Pirates of the Caribbean?"

Several people said at the same time, "Read it!"

Why not read it?

"We love to hear that!"

"Let them curse! Let's watch our own show!"

Old Jimmy laughed: "Yes, read it! We're in charge of this bar."

--------

A few days later, the situation changed, and the bookstore clerk brought news that several people who had asked Mr. Bond to write letters had gone to the newspaper office.

"What are you going for?"

“Go and speak well of Mr. Bond. Go and say that he is the real ‘gentleman’ who truly helps us poor people.”

The man spoke with great enthusiasm: "First it was the Palmer's, then the Star. Now several newspapers are talking about it."

A murmur arose in the bar.

"Great! You should have said so sooner!"

"Let those swearing officials hear this!"

"Mr. Bond is good to begin with!"

"Would the newspaper really publish that? Aren't they afraid of offending The Times?"

The waiter laughed: "The Times is a newspaper for respectable people. The Palmer's and the Star's readers are all ordinary people."

They're not afraid at all! Besides, this is newsworthy; people love to read about it.

Sure enough, in the following days, the idea that Lionel Sorel was the confidant of the British working class spread wider and wider in Britain.

The reporter began visiting this impoverished neighborhood, hoping to find more news material.

And the division in public opinion in London has only just begun!
(Second update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets)
(End of this chapter)