London, Kensington, inside a respectable townhouse.
The gaslights of the night illuminated the living room warmly and brightly, and the air was filled with the faint scent of tea and beeswax.
The virtuous Mrs. Wainwright, wearing a silk dressing gown, sat by the bed of her young son, Thomas.
The boy had just bathed, his hair was still wet, and his small face was flushed.
Thomas blinked and asked,
"Mom, what story are we telling tonight? 'Jack and the Beanstalk'? Or 'Sleeping Beauty'? I'm tired of all these."
Mrs. Wainwright smiled gently, got up, and walked to the small bookshelf in the living room.
Her gaze swept over the familiar fairy tale books, finally resting on the "Good Words" magazine that had just arrived today.
She remembered her husband mentioning at dinner that this issue, besides "The Sign of the Four," also contained a new fairy tale titled "The Happy Prince," said to be beautifully written.
"The Happy Prince..."
She murmured softly, feeling that the name itself sounded reassuring, surely a warm and beautiful story, perfect for a bedtime read.
She picked up the magazine and returned to the bedside.
She said softly,
"Tonight we'll tell a new story, called 'The Happy Prince'."
Then she turned the magazine to that page.
Thomas eagerly pulled the covers tighter.
"The statue of the Happy Prince stood high above the city..."
Mrs. Wainwright began to read, her voice soft and soothing.
She described the prince's magnificent appearance, adorned with gold and jewels, and Thomas listened intently.
However, as the story progressed, the poverty of the seamstress, the hunger and cold of the playwright, the helplessness of the little match girl, the poor children under the bridge...
Mrs. Wainwright's voice gradually lost its cheerfulness.
She read about the swallow repeatedly delaying its flight south, taking the prince's jewels and gold leaf to help the poor; she read about the swallow dying at the prince's feet.
She read about the prince's lead heart breaking; she read about the mayor and councilors arguing over whose statue should be erected...
She abruptly closed the magazine, her heart heavy, and read no further—this was not the "warm fairy tale" she had imagined at all.
She looked at Thomas, thinking the child had long fallen asleep, but met a pair of teary big eyes.
The boy's lips were tightly pursed, his small chest heaving:
"Mom... the Prince... the Prince and the swallow... are they really dead?"
Mrs. Wainwright was speechless for a moment; she didn't know how to explain the sorrow, sacrifice, and indifference in the story to the child.
She could only lean down and hug her son, gently patting his back, clumsily comforting him, but her heart was as anxious as Thomas's.
————————
Meanwhile, inside the "White's Club" on St. James's Street, it was a different scene.
The predominant theme here was dark wood paneling, heavy leather seating, and the blue smoke of cigars.
Several gentlemen sat around the fireplace, the latest "Good Words" magazine tossed on the mahogany coffee table in the center.
Banker Sir Osbert snorted, then reprimanded,
"Nonsense! What is this fellow named 'Bond' trying to imply?
Implying that the prosperity of our empire is built upon the suffering of the poor? This is a slander against 'Imperial Glory' and the dedication of us gentlemen!"
Professor Mortimer, the historian sitting opposite him, spoke up:
"I, for one, think you're overly sensitive, Osbert.
This is merely a literary work that explores beauty, sacrifice, and compassion. Moreover, the phenomena described in the text are objectively real.
We cannot turn a blind eye!"
Retired Royal Navy officer Colonel Fitzwilliam couldn't help but retort,
"Compassion? I see incitement! Did you notice the Egypt described by the swallow?
'Water lilies blooming on both banks of the Nile,' 'lions and monkeys sitting on temple steps'... At a time like this? Hmph!
I see this as clearly alluding to the empire's actions in Egypt! Implying that we disturbed the 'tranquility' and 'beauty' of that land!"
In the corner, Lord Ashburton, the young nobleman who had been silent, gently swirled the brandy in his glass:
"My dear friends, why so agitated?
In my opinion, this story precisely shows that people should enjoy themselves while they can and not be too burdened by morality! The Happy Prince gave away everything, and what was the result?
He himself became a pile of junk, the swallow also died, and poverty and injustice still existed in the city.
Everything he did was futile! Society operates by its own rules, and poverty is inevitable!"
Professor Mortimer frowned:
"Inevitable? That's too cold-blooded. We need more effective methods of relief, rather than denying compassion itself!"
Sir Osbert, however, said unequivocally,
"Effective methods are order, discipline, and diligent work! Not this sentimental emotionalism! It will only disrupt the current order!"
The argument continued amidst the smoky haze; no one could convince anyone else...
——————
In the book-filled living room near Regent's Park, the lights were also on.
Friedrich handed Karl a cup of hot water, picking up the "Good Words" magazine from the table:
"Have you read it, Karl? This 'Happy Prince' is absolutely brilliant."
Karl's face was still tired; he took the water cup and nodded:
"A brilliant allegory, Friedrich. It uses the most poetic language to burst the bubble of 'individual charity' that governments and churches are most keen to promote today."
He leaned forward slightly, as if there were an invisible audience before him:
"You see, the Happy Prince can entirely be seen as a wealthy philanthropist.
He stands at a high vantage point, looking down at the suffering of the city, and tries to alleviate individual pain by giving away his wealth—even for many, many individuals!
Isn't this just like those factory owners and aristocrats who open charity factories and hand out bread?"
Friedrich lit his pipe:
"Yes, they hope to use almsgiving to prove that the existing society still has a 'conscience,' masking those sharp contradictions."
Karl's voice rose slightly:
"But what was the result? The Prince gave away everything, became unsightly, and was ultimately ruthlessly abandoned and destroyed.
The swallow, too, was buried with him. Did the fundamental problems of the city change? No! The mayor and councilors remained in their positions!"
At this point, he coughed a few times, and Friedrich grew concerned.
But Karl waved his hand and continued:
"Under current social relations, attempting to eradicate poverty through individual charity is a doomed illusion.
It might temporarily help a few individuals, but it cannot touch the roots of poverty. The 'awakened conscience' and almsgiving of a few wealthy people cannot save society.
What we need is not a self-sacrificing Happy Prince!"
Friedrich took a puff from his pipe, nodding in agreement:
"This 'James Bond' makes people realize, emotionally rather than rationally, the absurdity and hypocrisy of promoting individual charity. Who exactly is he?"
————————
Unlike elsewhere, a dramatic and sentimental atmosphere permeated the "Gentlemen's Club" in Piccadilly.
Oscar Wilde stood amidst a group of well-dressed young artists, holding "Good Words," and reciting excerpts from "The Happy Prince."
"...'Dear little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'you told me everything about the great beasts and flying birds in Egypt.
But the suffering endured by men and women is greater than any giant beast, stranger than any flying bird.
Nothing is more miraculous than human suffering...'"
The recitation concluded, and Wilde pressed the magazine to his chest, as if embracing a precious secret.
He looked around at everyone, his eyes seemingly glistening with tears:
"Gentlemen! We have always talked about 'art for art's sake,' about beauty detached from the material world.
But 'The Happy Prince' tells us what? It tells us that the deepest sorrow, the most extreme sacrifice, is in itself a breathtaking beauty!
That unmelting lead heart, that swallow dead at its lover's feet, they are closer to the essence of beauty than any jewel, any gold!"
Then, Wilde raised his hands:
"I declare that from the day 'The Happy Prince' was born, 'Aestheticism' has found its foothold in the human world!
Beauty can take root in suffering and blossom in sacrifice; sorrowful tears are as precious as the radiance of wisdom!"
He abruptly thrust the magazine into a friend's hand beside him, grabbing his cane and top hat.
"I must find him immediately! This 'James Bond'! He is a true poet, a priest of beauty! London, no, the whole world, should know him!"
Having said that, he rushed out of the club like a gust of wind, disregarding the astonished gazes of others.
He was going to "Good Words" magazine; he was going to ask Norman Macleod directly!
(End of Chapter)