In August 1881 London, the morning mist had not entirely dissipated, and the sunlight struggled to penetrate the murky air, barely illuminating Baker Street.
At 55 Baker Street, the glass display window of "Elliott & Fry" photography studio was polished brightly, reflecting the blurred figures of passersby.
Inside the studio, Oscar Wilde had just finished a portrait session.
He wore a meticulously tailored velvet coat, a loosely tied cravat at his collar, and held his walking stick and top hat in his hand.
He stood sideways in front of the backdrop, his gaze languid yet detached.
"Perfect! Mr. Wilde, this is absolutely the best portrait I've taken today, no, this month!"
Joseph Elliott, the photography studio owner, peeked out from behind the bulky wooden camera, his face full of admiration:
"'Art for art's sake'! You've achieved it!"
A moment later, Wilde took the wet plate photo draft handed to him by the assistant and glanced at the frozen image.
He was indeed extraordinarily elegant in the photo, but the smile on his lips seemed a little empty.
He gently placed the photo on a nearby shelf, his tone weary:
"My dear Mr. Elliott, you truly flatter me. After all, a successful portrait, first and foremost, is when the subject themselves provides a work of art worthy of being recorded."
He paid, stepped out of the photography studio, and was enveloped by the hustle and bustle and coal smoke of the London streets.
In truth, his mood was not as relaxed as he had appeared in front of the camera.
Although the first print run of "Poems," self-published this year, had sold out, the critics' sneers and mockery still echoed in his ears.
Punch magazine mocked him with "The poet is Wilde, but his poetry is tame"; the Oxford Union voted to accuse him of "plagiarism".
Gilbert and Sullivan's popular operetta "Patience" almost overtly satirized his aestheticism.
Now, he seemed glorious on the surface, but he knew he was quickly becoming a private joke in London's social circles.
Wilde strolled idly along the street.
As he passed a newsstand, the vendor's shouts attracted him:
"Read the paper! Read Good Words! The latest issue!
The Sign of the Four reaches its climax! Exclusive premiere, Mr. 'James Bond''s touching fairy tale The Happy Prince! Heart-warming, not to be missed!"
"The Sign of the Four..." Wilde instinctively wanted to ignore it.
He admired Lionel, but he loved the fervent and desperate aesthetic emotion in "Letter from an Unknown Woman."
He had little interest in detective stories like "A Study in Scarlet" or The Sign of the Four, always feeling they lacked the necessary "beauty."
However, the four words "Happy Prince" resonated wonderfully with his current state of mind.
He stopped, his gaze falling on the newsstand, where the latest issue of Good Words magazine was displayed in the most prominent position.
The cover featured an exquisite woodcut:
A tall statue of a prince stood in the city, clad in a splendid robe, with a sparkling gem adorning the hilt of his sword, his face compassionate, his eyes like stars.
He overlooked the city below, like a model, and the ant-like tiny crowds, like a martyred saint.
There seemed to be tears in the prince's eyes, creating a strange contrast with his "happy" title.
A swallow perched at the foot of the statue, its head tilted upwards, as if listening, and also as if confiding something.
The entire image was exquisite and solemn, imbued with a profound pathos.
This image instantly struck Wilde.
He almost unhesitatingly pulled out money to buy a copy, then returned directly to his abode in Chelsea.
The furnishings of his abode reflected his consistent taste.
Oriental-style screens, peacock feather decorations, scattered books and fabrics, appearing disorderly, yet everywhere bore traces of meticulously crafted artistry.
He took off his coat, sank into the soft sofa, and eagerly opened Good Words, directly finding the page for The Happy Prince.
The story began—
[The statue of the Happy Prince stood on a tall stone column above the city.
He was covered all over with thin leaves of pure gold.
His eyes were made of two bright sapphires, and a large ruby glittered on the hilt of his sword.
...]
Wilde nodded slightly; the opening imagery indeed matched his aesthetic, being splendid and rich in symbolism.
He continued to read, and through the eyes of the Prince in the story, he saw the city's ugliness and poverty:
A seamstress embroidered a ball gown for the Queen's maids in a dilapidated attic, while her child was feverish.
A young playwright froze in his attic room, unable to write.
A little match girl shivered under a bridge arch...
So, the Happy Prince asked the swallow, who was preparing to fly south for winter, to take the gems and gold leaves from his body one by one and give them to the poor who needed help.
The swallow was originally in a hurry to go to Egypt, but was moved by the Prince's kindness, delaying its journey again and again.
Wilde's reading speed slowed.
He read that the swallow eventually died at the Prince's feet because it had delayed too long; and the Prince, having become dull and ugly, was pulled down by the townspeople and melted into a block of metal.
Only his lead heart could not melt, and it was thrown onto a refuse heap, along with the swallow's dead body...
—The novel, or rather, the fairy tale, ended.
Wilde felt a fierce pang in his chest, as if something was tightly clutching it.
He unconsciously clutched his chest with his hand, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the surging emotions.
Wilde put down the magazine, silent for a long time.
He walked to his desk, spread out a fine sheet of notepaper, picked up his quill pen, dipped it in ink, but his hand still seemed to tremble, preventing him from writing for a long time.
After a long while, he finally wrote a line:
"The Happy Prince's lead heart has cracked, and my heart too is about to crack..."
This was not just a story of sacrifice and love; it was the destruction of beauty, an ultimate sorrow and sublimity.
It told, in language as exquisite as poetry, the tragedy of something adorned with jewels and gold on the outside, but with a heavy, dull lead core.
This contrast, the contrast between the "worthless" lead heart and dead bird in worldly eyes, which nevertheless brought happiness to those who needed help.
Completely struck Wilde's deep disdain for worldly standards and his pursuit of pure beauty.
Who was this "James Bond"?
He had never heard the name, surely a budding young writer.
Someone capable of writing such a story must possess a sensitive and profound soul.
Wilde was determined to find this person and become his friend!
He tucked Good Words into his pocket, put on his top hat, grabbed his walking stick, and rushed downstairs.
He was going to the Gentlemen's Club in Piccadilly, London, to tell everyone that the aesthetic realm had welcomed a true prince!
He had often told many people that no "new writer" in England could compare to France's Lionel Sorel.
But today, in front of everyone, he would retract that statement!
"James Bond" was the British Lionel Sorel—even purer, even more aesthetic than the latter!
------
Meanwhile, the latest issue of Good Words magazine was also respectfully placed on Queen Victoria's desk in Windsor Castle, delivered by a court attendant.
The Queen was accustomed to browsing major publications to understand the currents of thought and developments within the Empire.
She was certainly aware of the colonial controversy surrounding The Sign of the Four, but she paid it no mind; in her view, it was merely an author grumbling, and she was used to it.
What she cared most about was The Sign of the Four's thrilling plot and rigorous deduction.
However, today a fairy tale was strongly recommended by Good Words magazine, which piqued a flicker of interest in the old lady.
The Happy Prince, hmm, the title seemed innocuous and pleasant, perhaps offering a moment of reading leisure.
After finishing The Sign of the Four, she picked up the magazine and turned to that page...
(End of chapter)