The newly installed electric lights in Windsor Castle cast a steady, soft glow, enveloping the luxurious tapestries and furniture in the living room in tranquility.
Queen Victoria leaned back in a heavily cushioned armchair, flipping through the latest issue of Good Words magazine.
The opening description of the prince's statue in The Happy Prince – covered in pure gold leaf, sapphire eyes, a ruby on the sword hilt.
Seemed rather uninteresting to her, merely another literary and useless textual embellishment.
She was over sixty, having experienced too many national affairs, court trifles, and personal joys and sorrows; her heart was as numb as lead.
She had long lost her sensibility for such delicate and fragile aesthetic descriptions; however, her brow soon furrowed.
What caught her attention was not the prince's sacrifice or the swallow's kindness, but the diverse characters in the city of the story.
Especially the Town Councillor who claimed the prince was "as beautiful as a weathercock," then hastily added, "only he is not so useful as a weathercock."
His tone and demeanor were the spitting image of those bureaucrats in parliament who, while wanting to appear cultured, were also afraid of being labeled "impractical."
They were always weighing, calculating, every word revealing shrewdness and hypocrisy.
And when she read that after the prince's statue was pulled down and melted, the Mayor and Town Councillors argued endlessly over "whose statue should be cast"...
The Queen's fingers involuntarily clenched the pages, smooth paper crumpling.
["Naturally, we should have another statue," said the Mayor; "and it shall be my statue."
"No, it shall be my statue," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.]
This passage broke the Queen's inner peace.
She almost immediately found real-life counterparts for these fictional characters in her mind.
Those nobles who fought tooth and nail for titles and medals, and those ministers who toiled ignobly in government positions.
This cartoon-like depiction was too close to reality, making it particularly jarring.
What made her even more uncomfortable were the images of the destitute in the story.
The seamstress embroidered ball gowns for the Queen's maids in a dilapidated attic, with her feverish, groaning child beside her.
The little match-girl was left unnoticed in the cold wind.
And the stark contrast, "the rich people were making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars sat at the gate and froze."
Especially the scene under the bridge, which vividly appeared before her eyes:
[Under the archway of a bridge lay two little children, huddled close together to keep warm.
"How hungry we are!" they said.
"You must not lie here."
Shouted the Watchman, and they got up and went out into the rain.]
Every word reminded her of the texts that occasionally appeared in the reports submitted to her.
She, of course, knew how many poor children there were in London, but she did not believe it was her or the Empire's responsibility.
The Empire had provided sufficient policies and funds, even providing compulsory education a full decade earlier than France.
The Empire's burgeoning national power and expanding colonies provided many, even too many, opportunities for common people!
If anyone was still reduced to hunger and destitution, it could only mean that they either weren't working hard enough, or God had not sufficiently favored them.
But what especially displeased her was that this passage seemed to allude to a period of history she least wished to revisit.
Ireland thirty years ago.
That terrible Great Famine, a million dead, a million fled.
Even in London, a clear sense of despair and panic could be felt spreading across the entire nation.
Although years had passed, that cloud of gloom had never truly dispersed, and it remained a subject for moral condemnation against her to this day.
She had always held a grudge about this; after all, she believed she had personally traveled to Ireland, despite the risks of plague and rebellion, albeit in 1849.
But she had gone, yet the Irish still complained about it, completely disregarding the aid the Empire had provided them.
Queen Victoria vaguely felt that the Happy Prince, adorned with gold and jewels, standing in a city full of poor people, seemed to allude to herself.
Except that she, this "Happy Queen," had not pried the diamonds from her crown to give to the poor.
Especially recently, the Irish were conducting their "Land War" again, and there was the rise of the Irish Parliamentary Party led by Parnell.
These words forcibly dragged those scenes she had intentionally forgotten back into broad daylight.
The Queen's face, as she continued reading, alternated between turning pale and white.
A mix of anger, embarrassment, and unease churned within her.
But she possessed an iron will; she persevered, page by page, until the end of the story—
The lead heart could not melt, and was thrown into the dust-heap with the dead swallow.
She put down the magazine; the most powerful woman in the world felt a tightness in her chest, even a desire to vomit.
This was not due to physical discomfort, but a strong mental repulsion towards something.
She felt angry!
But this anger was not directed at any specific traitor or provocative political enemy, so it had nowhere to settle.
This seemingly harmless fairy tale, however, clearly illuminated the festering sores beneath the glittering surface of the empire she ruled.
It mocked the hypocrisy of bureaucrats, exposed the blatant rich-poor divide, and even pointed to the most ignominious page in her reign's history.
However, this anger found no outlet for expression – it was just a fairy tale!
The author "James Bond" was unknown, the story's background was vague; could she really throw a tantrum over a fictional story?
That would only make her appear narrow-minded and turn her into a laughingstock.
Thus, this unvented fury ultimately transformed into a stifling frustration, pressing down on her heart, lingering for a long time.
Just then, a soft knock came from the living room door, and subsequently, her grandson, sixteen-year-old Prince George, walked in.
The young prince's face still bore the innocence of youth, but at that moment, his bright eyes were streaked with red, and his eyelids were swollen.
Prince George held Good Words in his hand, his voice somewhat choked:
"Your Majesty, Grandmother, have you… have you read The Happy Prince?"
He didn't even bow as usual, but eagerly stepped forward, coming to his grandmother's side.
Queen Victoria raised her eyes, looking at her grandson, who had grown up within the walls of Buckingham Palace and had never truly witnessed human suffering.
Her voice was low:
"I have, George."
Prince George's tone was filled with confusion and pain:
"I… I felt terribly sad after reading it.
That seamstress, that little match-girl, and the children under the bridge…
Grandmother, on the land of our Great Britain, are there really… are there really so many people suffering from hunger and cold?"
The young prince's innocent and direct questioning unexpectedly struck the Queen's heart.
She looked at her grandson's clear, sad eyes, and uncontrollably recalled a passage from The Happy Prince in her mind:
["When I was alive and had a human heart," he answered, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter."…]
For a moment, Queen Victoria was speechless.
How should she answer?
Could she deny it?
Could she tell him in righteous terms how prosperous the Empire was, how effective charity efforts were?
Yet, could she admit it?
To personally crush his simple belief in "imperial glory" to this future king?
She opened her mouth, but in the end, nothing came out.
She neither wanted her grandson to think she was hypocritical in the future, nor did she want him to think she was incompetent now.
She could only reach out and pat her grandson's arm.
She tried to comfort the child, but could not offer any answers.
Prince George seemed to understand something, yet also seemed more confused.
He lowered his head, looking at the magnificent statue of the prince on the magazine cover, and murmured:
"That prince… his lead heart broke…"
He stopped questioning, merely bowed silently, and exited the study.
Leaving Queen Victoria alone, facing the thin magazine on the table, and the suffocatingly tranquil beauty of the scenery outside the window, surrounded by high walls.
——————
Meanwhile, the story of The Happy Prince also elicited distinctly different reactions across various strata of London society.
Unlike the fervent discussions sparked by "Sherlock Holmes," The Happy Prince brought silence and melancholy.
What it first touched was the readers' conscience, including regret for sacrifice and helplessness towards reality.
And like Oscar Wilde, everyone who read The Happy Prince felt a rising confusion.
"'Who is 'James Bond'?"
(End of chapter)