Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 530 Panic Among London's Elite! (Bonus Chapter 3 for 1000 Votes)

Sure enough, in the following days, there were more and more reports about "Frenchman Sorel being the protector of the poor in Britain".

The Palmer newspaper published a long article entitled "The Twopence Gentleman - Mr. Sorel in London".

A year later, the article once again detailed how Lionel read newspapers and wrote letters in the Bentham Bar, and how he helped all sorts of poor people.

It also specifically mentioned the petition letter from Whitechapel, saying that the letter later actually had an effect—

The city hall sent people to investigate and confirmed that the sanitation conditions were poor. They allocated funds to improve the water supply and also made special arrangements to isolate the dock to prevent the spread of cholera.

The article concludes by saying:
When some newspapers accused Mr. Sorel of “corrupting” British youth with his novels, they seemed to forget that during his brief stay in London, the French writer used his most precious talent—words—to help many of the poorest people in Britain.

He listened to their suffering, wrote down their stories, and accepted only a paltry two pence.

Does this demonstrate greater humanitarian values ​​than simply advocating for "imperial spirit" in newspapers? Readers are free to judge.

This article was reprinted by many tabloids.

Soon, ordinary people in London—workers, peddlers, housewives, apprentices—knew:
The Frenchman who wrote "Pirates of the Caribbean" helped many poor people when he was in London!

Along the Thames, London split into two parts, neither of which understood the other.

In the West End clubs, the gentlemen were unimpressed.

"Helping the poor write letters? Charity is commendable, but that's a completely different matter from the harm caused by his novels."

“Those tabloids just love to sensationalize.”

"People at the bottom of society are easily moved; a single letter can make them forget the bigger picture!"

"That's why they can never become elites like us!"

But in the East End, in Southwark, and in Whitechapel, people's opinions are quite different.

In the Bentham Bar, old Jimmy pinned articles from the Daily Chronicle to the wall so that everyone who came in could see them.

Sean Omara came every night, and when he saw the article, he laughed: "That's human language!"

He became an "authority" in the bar—because he was mentioned in the article.

People surrounded him and asked, "Did the city hall really come to install water pipes?"

Sean Omara held up three fingers: "Really! Three more public taps. It's not enough, but it's better than before."

At least when fetching water, we won't have to fight anymore.

"Is it thanks to Mr. Bond's letter?"

"I wouldn't say entirely. But when the letter is handed over, they have to take a look. Once they do, they'll know how bad the situation is."

Later, when Mr. Bond's identity was exposed and the newspapers reported it, they were under pressure and finally agreed to pay.

Some people lamented, "A letter can get a few taps. What do those gentlemen get after arguing in parliament for so long?"

What did they get in return? They didn't know. All they knew was that their lives hadn't improved.

The wages are still the same, the bread is still the same price, and the houses are still the same dilapidated.

But at least, someone spoke up for them. And that person was James Bond, a French writer.

Old Bill took a sip of his drink and sighed again: "My son was a strong young man before he went to India. When he came back, he was skin and bones and was missing an arm."

He said that in India, officers didn't treat them like human beings at all. They did the hardest work, were at the forefront of battles, and still didn't get enough to eat.

Why? Because they are children from poor families. Even if they die or are maimed, no one will care.

At this point, his voice trembled: "Those gentlemen say the Royal Navy is glorious. Where is the glory?"

My son's glory is that he came back with only one arm; he can't even find a decent job!

Sean Omara patted him on the back: "It's all in the past. As long as you're alive, that's all that matters."

Bill shook his head: "I can't get over it. Every night when I close my eyes, I see my son's broken arm."

I thought to myself, why? Why are their children officers while my children are cannon fodder?
Why should their children return with gilded resumes and promotions, while my child returns crippled and waiting to die?

No one could answer. The bar was quiet, save for the occasional crackling of the kerosene lamp wick.

Finally, Tom Hardy said, "That's why we love watching Pirates of the Caribbean. Because in the story, Captain Jack Sparrow isn't afraid of anyone."

Whether it's the governor or a military officer, he dares to act recklessly, laugh, and curse. We can't do that, but it's satisfying to watch.

Yes, that felt great!
In reality, they have to bow and scrape to the foreman, smile obsequiously at the police, and be respectful to anyone dressed better than them.

But what about inside? There's a burning anger inside!
Pirates of the Caribbean gave them an outlet. Watching Jack manipulate those big shots was like being manipulated themselves.

Even though it was just a fleeting fantasy, it was enough.

Faced with the backlash from the media, The Times was forced to publish a response article.

The article acknowledges that Lionel Sorel's "charitable act" in London is commendable, but maintains that the content of "Pirates of the Caribbean" is harmful.

The article argues that individual acts of kindness cannot offset the potential harm a work can cause to public opinion, and urges readers to "view it rationally."

At the Bentham Bar, Tom read the article aloud to everyone.

After reading it, Sean Omara laughed out loud: "To be rational? It means that Mr. Bond is good to us, but the stories he writes are bad."

We need to look at this separately. Can you separate them? I certainly can't.

"Yes, they can't be separated!" everyone said in unison.

To them, James Bond was a whole. He was the gentle gentleman who patiently listened to their ramblings and diligently wrote letters for them.

He only charged two pence per letter and left all his money to "Old Pipe's" family when he left. He was also the author who wrote Sherlock Holmes and Captain Jack Sparrow.

They like the person, and they like his story.

Because they felt respect from this person's actions; they felt relief from his story.

An old drinker muttered, "They just want to split Mr. Bond in two. Half philanthropist, half bad writer. But Mr. Bond is a man!"

Yes, all alone.

A talented, compassionate person who is willing to listen to the voices of the underprivileged.

How could a story written by someone like that be poison?

They don't believe it!

--------

The smoke was thicker than usual at the Carlton Club on St. James Street.

Several men sat in leather chairs with whiskey in front of them, but no one drank it.

They had just finished reading today's newspaper—

The Star published another article about "James Bond," telling the story of how a widow obtained help from relatives through letters he wrote.

Henry Cavendish put down his newspaper: "The fifth one!" He was a Member of Parliament, a Conservative, in his fifties, with his hair neatly combed.

Sitting across from him was Edward Gray, who scoffed, “The tabloids love these kinds of sensational stories.” He was young and worked at the State Department.

Robert Cecil, from a political family, chimed in: "The Daily Chronicle has followed suit. Now all the poor folks in the East End are talking about this Frenchman."

Silence fell over the club.

Henry picked up his glass: "Have you noticed? When these people talk about Sorel, their stories are frighteningly consistent."

"What do you mean?"

The dockworker said he helped Whitechapel install water pipes. The apprentice said he helped her get married. The widow said he got help from her relatives.

Everyone says, "He helped me"—but the key isn't what he helped with, but his attitude.

Edward didn't understand: "What attitude?"

"An attitude of gratitude, a collective gratitude. They actually showed a kind of loyalty to a foreign writer. This is not right."

Robert nodded. "I agree. If only a few people said he was good, that would be fine. But now it's a group of people saying the same thing in the same tone—"

"Mr. Bond is a good man," "Mr. Bond understands us," "Mr. Bond is different from those gentlemen." This made me uneasy.

Edward laughed: "Aren't you overthinking it? The common people have always had their heroes. Robin Hood, the chivalrous Dick... they were all figures who rebelled against authority."

Henry shook his head: “It’s different. Robin Hood and Dick were people from hundreds of years ago. Sorel is a living person, who just spent time in London and helped them write letters.”

Moreover, he has a body of work; in every issue of "Good Words," Jack Sparrow is making fun of the Royal Navy.

The poor people watched, laughed, and then remembered, 'Mr. Bond, who wrote this story, helped poor people like me.'

He looked worried: "This connects fiction and reality. Poor people will transfer their gratitude to the author to their identification with the characters."

They would think that Captain Jack was right to trick the officers—because the author of the story was on their side.

The club was silent for a few seconds.

Henry took a sip of his drink and continued, "And now there's the halo of the author. The common people believe that Sorel is a good man, someone who helped them."

Then the stories he writes will carry moral weight. They'll feel that liking the story is perfectly acceptable, because the storyteller is a good person.

Robert said softly, "The French are best at this!"

One sentence was enough to completely shatter the atmosphere.

None of the three spoke. They were all upper-class people who had attended the best universities, and they all knew what "this" referred to.

The French Revolution!
It's not just about the historical event itself, but about how Enlightenment ideas gradually eroded the authority of the old regime in the decades before it occurred.

How Voltaire made people laugh at the Church, how Rousseau made people doubt the monarch, and how Diderot made people think about new possibilities.

Those French writers didn't directly call for "revolution"; they just wrote stories, plays, and philosophical works.

They make people laugh, make people think, and make people stop taking the old order for granted.

Then, once authority has become a joke in people's minds, it becomes much easier to overthrow it.

Henry said in a low voice, "What the French nobles regret most is not that they didn't suppress the uprising, but that they weren't wary of those books, those plays, and those stories that made people laugh."

By the time they realized the danger, people were no longer afraid of them!

Edward's expression turned serious: "You think Sorel is doing the same thing?"

Henry stood up and put on his hat: "Think about Paris three months ago, think about 'The Old Man and the Sea.' The biggest problem is that we can't openly oppose it."

How should we put it? Should we say, 'You're not allowed to like a pirate story'? Or 'You're not allowed to be grateful to someone who helped them'? That would make us seem petty.”

Edward asked, "Where are you going? Aren't we going to play bridge later?"

Henry shook his head: "No, I need to go to the Interior Ministry. I have to tell them just how dangerous this change is!"

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(End of this chapter)