Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 553 The Queen's New Portrait!

Two policemen walked in, holding handcuffs: "Turn around!"

Old Jimmy turned around, and soon the cold iron ring was fastened to his wrist.

In another detention cell, Sean Omara was also handcuffed.

Upon reaching the ground, a wave of cold air hit me. It was already November, and the London morning was damp and chilly.

A closed prison van was parked in the yard. The van was dark, with only a small iron window on each side.

"Go up."

The police opened the car door. Inside were two long benches facing each other, fixed to both sides of the carriage.

Old Jimmy climbed up first, followed by Sean, and then two policemen. The car doors closed quickly and were locked.

The carriage was dark. Only a sliver of grayish-white light shone through the small iron window.

The carriage started moving. The wheels rolled over the stone slabs with a dull thud. The carriage swayed and jolted as it began to move forward.

Gradually, the sounds of London awakening came from afar—the bells of milk carts, the cries of newsboys, and the whistles of factory steamers.

Old Jimmy went to the small window, and then he saw people.

At first there were only a few people, but the further you went, the more people there were.

At the intersections of streets, there are often a dozen or so people gathered together.

Some were wearing work clothes, some were wearing old coats, some were wearing hats, and some weren't wearing hats.

They didn't speak, they just stood there watching the prison van pass by.

The carriage continued on its way, and when it reached Ludgate Hill, there were even more people, filling both sides of the street, densely packed, stretching all the way to the top of the hill.

Men, women, the elderly, the young; workers, vendors, apprentices, female workers...

They didn't speak, shout, wave, or hold up any signs.

They just stood there, watching the prison van slowly climb the hillside.

Old Jimmy felt his eyes welling up, and he turned to look at Sean.

Sean also moved closer to the small window, pressing his face against the iron bars, staring intently outside.

“They’re watching us.”

"I know."

"They are seeing us off."

Old Jimmy was speechless. He looked at those faces—tired faces, pale faces, rough faces.

Those were all familiar faces—faces belonging to London's East End.

The carriage climbed over the hill and began its descent. Ahead lay the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, gleaming in the morning light.

To the left of the church is Newgate Street, the location of the Central Criminal Court of London.

Then old Jimmy saw an even more shocking sight.

The square in front of the courthouse was packed with people. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands.

They crowded together, filling the entire square.

At the very front of the crowd was a row of reporters, dressed in respectable coats and carrying notebooks and pencils.

Some people even set up bulky cameras, all pointing their lenses at the approaching prison van.

“My God,” old Jimmy whispered.

The carriage slowed down gradually, and the crowd automatically parted to make way for it.

Old Jimmy watched as those faces slid past the car window—some serious, some full of sympathy, and some just curious.

The carriage stopped in front of the courthouse steps. The policeman opened the carriage door.

"Come down."

Old Jimmy went down first. But as soon as his foot touched the ground, the flash went off suddenly, and the white light of burning magnesium powder blinded him.

Sean followed, and several more flashes of light appeared.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then a murmur arose, like the wind blowing through the woods.

"That's old Jimmy... the owner of the Bentham Bar..."

“That big guy is Sean Omara, the dockworker from Whitechapel…”

"They really made them..."

"For a few words..."

The policeman shoved them: "Go."

The courthouse doors were wide open, revealing a dimly lit foyer with rows of stone pillars and high ceilings.

Old Jimmy turned and slowly walked into the shadows. Then Sean followed him in.

The door closed behind them, shutting out the light and sound from outside.

Now, only the court remains.

------------

Buckingham Palace, the Queen's study.

Queen Victoria sat behind her desk, holding a document in her hand. It was a report from the Indian Affairs Department regarding the recent riots in Mumbai and Calcutta.

She read very slowly, occasionally writing a few words on it with a pencil.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

John Brown, the court secretary, entered and bowed: "Your Majesty."

The Queen didn't look up: "What is it?"

"The trial at the Central Criminal Court in London will begin at nine o'clock this morning, and that time will be here soon."

The Queen nodded, put down the documents, and looked out the window.

The mornings here are quiet, with frost on the lawn and bare branches swaying gently in the wind.

Brown waited a moment, and seeing that the Queen remained silent, he continued his report: "Those who have offended the dignity of the royal family will be punished today. Your Majesty can rest assured."

The Queen turned back to look at him. Her gaze was calm, but Brown felt a sense of unease.

He had served the Queen for twenty years and was familiar with her every expression—angry, satisfied, sad, tired.

But he couldn't understand the expression on her face at that moment.

"Brown, do you think I should be happy?"

Brown was stunned: "Your Majesty, I... those people insulted you, insulted the monarchy, and now they are to be tried, of course..."

The Queen interrupted him: "What is it, of course? Victory? Justice? Or something else?"

The study became quiet.

The Queen stood up and walked to the window: "Those people, those defendants. What are they doing?"

Brown quickly replied, "Bar owner, dockworker, seamstress, carpenter's apprentice, peddler..."

The Queen looked at her close advisor: "Brown, I am sixty-three years old this year. I have been Queen for forty-five years. Forty-five years... Do you know what that means?"

Brown lowered his head: "His Majesty is the second longest-reigning monarch in British history, second only to His Majesty George III."

The Queen shook her head: “No, that’s not it. It means I’ve seen too many trials—treason, sedition, murder.”

I have signed death warrants and I have signed pardons. I have seen people brought to court and I have seen people walk off the courtroom—some free, some never to return.

But that doesn't mean I should be happy about it. A monarch who is happy when her subjects are brought to court is not a monarch, but a tyrant.

Brown was sweating. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The Queen didn't look at him; she was lost in thought.

Her reign can be divided into two periods, with December 14, 1861, as the dividing line. That was the day her husband, Prince Albert, died.

Before 1861, even under constitutional government, Victoria was not a figurehead monarch who "reigned but did not rule".

She would personally participate in politics, expressing her opinions and exerting pressure by writing letters to the prime minister and ministers, and directing noble members of parliament who were members of the royal family.

In 1846, Prime Minister Peale wanted to repeal the Corn Laws, but there was strong opposition in Parliament. It was Victoria who wrote to Peale, praising his decision as "just and wise." That letter helped him regain his footing, and ultimately, the proposal to repeal the Corn Laws was successfully passed.

In 1858, Lord Derby's cabinet attempted to weaken royal privileges, but Queen Victoria again wrote to them accusing them of "renunciation of the monarchy," ultimately forcing them to concede.

During the Indian coup, then-Prime Minister Palmerston underestimated the enemy, leading to a worsening of the situation. It was Queen Victoria who personally urged the reinforcement of troops. Afterwards, people attributed the credit for the "timely intervention" to the royal family.

Back then, the Cabinet had to consult the Queen before making any major decisions. This wasn't just a formality; it was a genuine discussion, and the Queen had to be persuaded.

If the Queen doesn't approve, nothing can be done. This makes "the monarch must not be absent" a new constitutional norm in Britain.

But after her husband's death, Queen Victoria changed. She left London and lived for a long time in Windsor, Balmoral, and Osborne. She wore black, refused to receive guests, and rarely participated in public events.

Because of its long-term distance from London, the cabinet could no longer consult the prime minister on every matter, allowing the prime minister and ministers to make decisions independently. Over time, administrative inertia completely shifted day-to-day decision-making power to the cabinet and parliament. The constitutional monarchy was thus "passively perfected" in this process.

When Victoria began to return to the political stage and to public life in Britain in the 1880s, she found that London's political elites had become accustomed to the new balance in which "the Queen was merely a symbol, and the Cabinet and Parliament were in charge."

They still respect the Queen and still consult her on important matters, but that's more of a formality.

Real power is no longer in her hands.

Even if Prime Minister Gladstone respects her greatly now, he won't truly consider her opinions as a factor that was essential to take into account, unlike Peel or Palmerston did in the past.

This is not the British Empire she wanted!
The Queen walked back to the window. She looked at her reflection in the glass—a short, old woman dressed in black.

“Old lady…” she murmured the word, then smiled.

It wasn't a happy laugh, nor a mocking laugh, but a laugh that seemed to see through everything.

She whispered to herself, "Why not?"

Brown didn't hear clearly: "Your Majesty?"

The Queen did not answer. She continued to look out the window, but her gaze seemed to be fixed on something very far away.

She thought of the sharp-tongued French writer, the chaotic cabinet, the divided parliament, and the quarrelsome newspapers.

I also thought of the civilian defendants in court today—the bar owners, dockworkers, and seamstresses.

The Queen smiled again. This time it was a genuine smile; the corners of her mouth turned up, and the wrinkles around her eyes deepened.

Brown was stunned. He hadn't seen the Queen smile like that in a long time.

He cautiously stepped forward: "Your Majesty?"

The Queen turned around, a smile still on her face. That smile was meaningful, as if it concealed some secret, a secret known only to her.

“Nothing, Brown. I just think this is getting more and more interesting.”

She went back to her desk, sat down, and picked up the documents and pencil again.

"You can leave now. I need to continue reading this report."

Brown bowed and left the study. The door closed softly behind him.

The Queen did not begin reading the report immediately. She sat there until the light from the window gradually brightened, shining on the desk and on her hands—hands that were old, with loose skin and many spots.

But in any case, it is the Queen's hand! A name signed by these hands should have supreme authority in the British Empire!

She spoke softly to herself, her voice so low that only she could hear it:
"Old lady is watching you..."

Then he lowered his head and began to work.

------------

Central Criminal Court, London, Royal Court No. 1.

It wasn't even nine o'clock yet, and the gallery was already full.

The reporters in the front row were holding notebooks, setting up cameras, and whispering amongst themselves.

In the middle are representatives of citizens and elites—respectable gentlemen, businessmen in top hats, and nobles in gorgeous coats.

A group of workers, dressed in old work clothes, were crammed into the back row. They looked a little cramped, but sat up straight.

In the family section sat the defendant's relatives. Mary Carter, her eyes red and swollen, supported her elderly father. Joe Harris's wife held their sleeping child.

There were also some unfamiliar faces, who were probably relatives of the other defendants.

It was hot in the courtroom. Gas lamps shone from the ceiling, casting a yellowish light on the faces with their varied expressions.

People were talking in hushed tones, the buzzing sound like a swarm of bees.

"I heard they're only hearing twelve today..."

"Old Jimmy and Sean O'Mara are the main culprits..."

"What ringleader? They only exchanged a few words."

Shh—the judge is coming in.

The doors at the front of the courtroom opened. First, a court clerk in a black robe came out, carrying thick case files. Then came the court clerk, wearing a wig and with a serious expression.

People fell silent. All eyes were fixed on the door.

The defendants were brought in through a side door first. Old Jimmy walked in front, followed by Sean, and then ten other defendants—all men, of varying ages.

They were almost all wearing their best clothes, but they still couldn't hide the traces of poverty.

The twelve people were brought to the dock and sat on a row of wooden benches, facing the judge's bench.

Old Jimmy sat on the far left, with Sean next to him. The other ten people sat down in order.

Then the lawyers came in. There were three defense lawyers—Henry Brad was the lead one, in his fifties, with gray hair, wearing a gray suit.

There were two prosecutors, both dressed more elegantly than Henry Brad, and wearing their wigs meticulously.

The lawyers sat down behind their desks, opened their briefcases, took out documents, and placed them on the tables.

Finally, the door behind the judge's bench opened.

The entire audience stood up.

Sir John Colridge, a judge of the High Court, entered. He was seventy years old, tall and thin, with a snow-white wig, a solemn black robe, and a serious expression.

He walked to the center of the judge's bench and slowly sat down.

"Please sit down." His voice was very authoritative and devoid of emotion.

People then sat down, and a slight commotion arose in the room.

The clerk stood up: "The Central Criminal Court is now in session for the case of the Royal Prosecutor v. Sean Omarah and twelve others for seditious defamation."

The judge picked up the gavel and tapped it gently, the crisp sound echoing in the quiet courtroom.

But he didn't speak immediately; instead, he looked up and gazed at the back of the courtroom.

Many people followed his gaze.

Then they saw it—high up on the back wall of the courthouse, where a portrait of Queen Victoria had once hung.

Many people are familiar with that painting: the Queen is wearing a coronation dress, a crown, and holding a scepter, with a majestic expression, against a backdrop of a deep red velvet curtain.

But now, that painting is gone, replaced by a brand new portrait of the Queen.

The Queen in the new portrait wears a dark dress, still very beautiful, but less ostentatious. She is also not wearing a crown or holding a scepter.

She sat in an armchair, her hands folded on her knees, relaxed. Her face showed no arrogance or haughtiness, but rather was full of compassion, kindness, and gentleness.

She gazed ahead, her expression gentle, a faint smile playing on her lips. That smile didn't resemble that of a monarch, but rather that of a mother—a mother who had experienced and witnessed so much, yet still chose to forgive.

In the portrait, her eyes seem to encompass all her people and forgive all evil.

(I started my hospital stay today, so this is only one update. Sorry, I'll make up for it later. Also, I need to take tomorrow off because my pupils will be dilated for an eye exam, so I won't be able to use the computer or phone. Goodnight everyone, get some rest.)
(End of this chapter)