Chapter 20

April 8, 1838. The day the Select Committee’s final recommendations were submitted to Parliament.

The Court of Requests was nothing short of a bustling marketplace. MPs who couldn’t find seats ended up occupying the aisles, and outside, reporters and nobles eager to find out the fate of the Petticoat Petition left not an inch of spare room.

The members seated inside launched into a fierce debate from the very beginning regarding the contents of the recommendations.

“Respected Mr. Chairman! In accordance with the Select Committee’s recommendations, we must acknowledge that the laudanum trade is an immoral act staining Britain’s honor, and it deserves to be halted immediately!”

William Gladstone stood at the podium and raised his voice. With an invisible army of a thousand noblewomen backing him up behind his back, he appeared more confident and resolute than ever before.

“Therefore! The currently debated [Finalization of Army and Navy Budgets for Conducting Hostilities Against Qing China Due to a Lack of Prudence Regarding the Opium Trade] must be thoroughly re-examined! How on earth can we mobilize Her Majesty’s forces to protect such immoral profits? This is a betrayal of the conscience of our age!”

Supportive applause erupted from the Conservative benches at his impassioned speech.
The atmosphere certainly seemed to tilt toward Gladstone’s side. The aftermath of the Petticoat Petition was far fiercer than anyone had anticipated. Pressed by their wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters, MPs didn’t dare to openly clamor for war. Upon the faces of those who had already undergone judgment at the small courtroom of the dinner table, a look of surrender hovered.

Right at that moment, Viscount Palmerston—who had been watching the entire scene with arms crossed until now—rose from his seat.

“I am deeply impressed by the noble conscience of the esteemed Member for Newark.”

His tone was as soft and polite as ever, but a sharp blade was hidden beneath it.

“However, what we must discuss in this sacred chamber is not pie-in-the-sky morality, but rather the matter of bread and potatoes to fill the stomachs of our people right now, is it not?”

The chamber broke into a brief murmur.

“Bread and potatoes?”

Passing by Gladstone, who wore a bewildered expression, Viscount Palmerston surveyed every MP seated in the hall and continued his remarks.

“Let us assume we immediately halt the laudanum and opium trade, exactly as the honorable member demands. Very well. We might gain the satisfaction of having preserved a lofty conscience. The noble ladies of London might praise our courageous decision at their tea parties.”

He paused for a moment, gathering everyone’s attention.

“What is the price?”

The price.

Every scale tipped at that single word.

“Countless merchants who made their living through trade with Qing China will go bankrupt overnight. The factories supplying goods to them will close their doors, and countless workers will lose their jobs and find themselves cast out onto the streets.”

Sentence by sentence, images were being forged upon the faces of the MPs in the chamber.

The abstract was turning concrete. Merchants, factory workers, the hardened shoulders of a breadwinner who had lost his job, factories whose smoke stacks had ceased to smoke. In front of that procession of images, the army of conscience that had been firm until just a moment ago slowly began to waver.

“Gentlemen, can conscience truly fill their starving bellies?”

“…”

“I ask you, can conscience cover even a single warm blanket over children shivering in the cold!”

At his outcry, the atmosphere of the chamber began to shift subtly.

If Gladstone’s moral theory sounded idealistic and lofty, Viscount Palmerston’s economic logic was ruthlessly realistic and stark.

A Whig MP raised a hand as if waiting for his moment and shouted.

“The Right Honorable Viscount Palmerston is entirely right! What are we to do about the massive economic losses our merchants will suffer? Are we supposed to turn a blind eye to the unjust treatment and confiscation of property they received from Qing officials?”

“That’s right! Conscience is important, but isn’t the immediate issue of making a living far more urgent?”

Voices agreeing with Viscount Palmerston’s arguments burst out from here and there.

Conscience and honor.

Undoubtedly important values.

Yet there was nothing more terrifying than having an empty pocket right now and losing tomorrow’s bread.

Human beings were, ultimately, creatures that desired warmth. Even the fact that such warmth was sometimes a stove built upon the suffering of others was easily forgotten in the face of the cold.

Gladstone’s face hardened.

He had anticipated it, but he hadn’t expected Lord Palmerston to push forward economic logic even while knowing the laudanum trade was wrong.

Laudanum? I know it’s bad. But shouldn’t we sell it if we want to keep our subjects from starving?

Gladstone had thought he shifted public opinion with the Petticoat Petition, but before the monster of money and economic logic, he was at a loss as to how to respond.

After a lengthy debate that continued for quite some time, the Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir James Abercromby, struck his gavel.

“I ask for order. We will now reach a conclusion.”

At his declaration, all noise in the chamber ceased.

“…The recommendations submitted by the Select Committee shall be adopted at the parliamentary level, respecting their intent. There can be no disagreement that the laudanum trade is unethical.”

A flush of color briefly returned to Gladstone’s face. However, the Speaker’s next words snatched away even his last remaining hope.

“However, this is purely an ethical recommendation. I judge it to be a separate matter from the currently tabled [Finalization of Army and Navy Budgets for Conducting Hostilities Against Qing China Due to a Lack of Prudence Regarding the Opium Trade]. Therefore, the contents of the recommendations will not be linked to the budget vote.”

“Mr. Speaker!”

Gladstone cried out as if in despair, but the Speaker’s decision was not overturned.

The recommendations were adopted. Yet they were mere recommendations.
Conscience was recorded as honor, but it could not compel action.

In other words, Parliament had declared this:

[We officially acknowledge that this is a bad thing. However, we will continue it for the sake of the country.]

The separation of ethical declaration from action.

The documentation of conscience coupled with the reservation of practice.

By recording shame on paper, one gains the freedom to continue the shameful act.

Gladstone slumped back into his seat. His shoulders collapsed.

His face, which had been glowing with youth and conviction, looked as though it were aging for the very first time in this chamber.

On the other hand, a triumphant smile lingered at the corners of Viscount Palmerston’s lips as he gave a slight nod toward Gladstone without a word.

It was a relaxed smile, as if saying, ‘That is what politics is, my young friend.’

“Your Majesty, I have come to deliver rather regrettable news.”

Lord Melbourne’s face when he visited me after several days was an absolute wreck. Hollow eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a few nights at least, sallow skin, and deep wrinkles etched at the corners of his mouth—at a glance, one could tell how heavily the weight of state affairs was crushing his shoulders.

“The recommendations submitted by the Select Committee have been… ultimately voted down in the House.”

“Voted down…”

“Parliament respects the ethical intent of the recommendations, but it has decided not to link them to the military action budget bill against Qing China.”

“If that happens…”

“The recommendations remain mere recommendations, Your Majesty.”

In the end, it’s that absurd conclusion where we keep our conscience, but can’t give up the money?

Rage surged up, but I hid my emotions by lifting my teacup.

It had been fine to move the London Metropolitan Police to block laudanum distribution last time, but the Select Committee activities meant to influence the parliamentary vote ended up yielding the result Viscount Palmerston wanted, meaning the voting results might wander off into a fog.

“That is truly a regrettable matter.”

At my words, Lord Melbourne smiled faintly.

“Indeed. I think so as well.”

Pausing for a moment, he shifted the topic as naturally as if inquiring after my well-being.

“Sir Clark’s recent activity has been remarkable. I hear he delivered a very impressive testimony at the committee.”

“Is that so? Sir Clark was merely stating his own medical opinions, I suppose.”

I answered with a shrug. It was an obvious, transparent leading question.

Back in my corporate days when I blew the whistle internally, the audit team members used to probe me in this exact manner.

“Ah, about the report related to Interlock, Kim. Nobody except you and Assistant Manager Choi pointed out the flaws, but… I hope you don’t mean anything else by it, do you?” and the like.

“Of course not. And the testimonies of the housemaids that followed were truly touching as well.”

“Housemaids?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Ann and Mary, who work at Kensington Palace.”

“Ann and Mary. Now that you mention it, their faces come to mind.”

“Indeed. As mothers raising children, they reportedly made a deeply poignant and desperate appeal regarding the dangers of laudanum.”

“Is that so? They are brave housemaids.”

At my praise, Lord Melbourne nodded. Then he delivered the finishing blow.

“We also cannot leave out the story of the joint petition initiated by Mrs. Ashburton. Over a thousand noblewomen have reportedly signed it.”

“Hoo, the trends of high society are truly impossible to predict.”

I merely savored the fragrance of my teacup as if it were something entirely unknown to me, but cold sweat broke out.

Sir Clark, Ann and Mary, the noble ladies. These three separate threads were converging in one place, and I was seated at the exact point of that convergence.

He already knew that fact, yet he had not asked directly.

Instead, he was carefully placing mirrors reflecting myself one by one before my eyes.

Your Majesty, if you happen to harbor any other intentions, it would be best for you to stop here.

That was his hidden message.

The ancient tension between the wearer of the crown and the leader of the cabinet.

The boundary line between reigning and ruling. A gentlemanly warning not to cross that line.

Yet what could I do? I was someone hardened to this exact sort of pressure.

My managing director used to slam his desk with files and shout for thirty minutes in the meeting room, and the executive director had once called me out to an empty emergency stairwell to whisper, ‘You’re going to get hurt doing this.’ Compared to that, Lord Melbourne’s approach was practically gentlemanly.

While surviving as a whistle-blower in South Korea, leading questions of this caliber were child’s play. How could I feel pressured by this when I had been hauled before a parliamentary hearing to argue with lawmakers, and dragged into prosecution interrogation rooms for questioning?

Rousing memories of the past against this clumsy pressure, what had I said back then when the trade dispute with Qing China was first reported?

“Lord Melbourne.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Hearing your words makes me recall something I had momentarily forgotten.”

“…Pardon? What do you mean?”

“Simply that we should have led our fleet right over there and turned those arrogant Qing Chinamen’s ports into a sea of fire. With cannons, just boom! Boom! Like that.”

“…”

At my words, Lord Melbourne’s face turned ashen in an instant.

That was right.

My initial, official stance that I had first revealed to Lord Melbourne was ‘start a war without asking or hesitating.’

On the level of a warmonger even worse than Viscount Palmerston.

Perhaps recalling that fact, a look of bewilderment flashed across Lord Melbourne’s face.

“…You certainly did.”

With that, he could no longer say a single word. Like someone trying to pierce a shield with his own spear, only to realize that the shield was actually a mirror.

In the end, Lord Melbourne said nothing more and rose from his seat with a visibly exhausted expression. Bidding a half-hearted farewell, his retreating figure as he practically fled the office somehow looked rather pathetic.

Once he left and I was left alone, the tension finally eased, and a bitter emotion rushed over me.

I had known from the start that it wouldn’t be easy. Yet hearing the news that the recommendations had been voted down, my stomach churned, and I couldn’t help it.

Damn it, this is infuriating.

Yet strangely, a sense of despair did not take hold.

Despite all this situation, I felt a quiet spark burning unextinguished somewhere deep inside me.

Why was that? Why was I able to avoid completely collapsing right now?

Looking out the window, I sought the reason. The answer was not far away.

When I blew the whistle on my company back then, I was truly alone.

Everyone blamed me, pointed fingers at me, and turned away. Even my colleagues turned their backs.

The remark that hurt the most was asking why I was making such a fuss when I wasn’t the one who died.

Not a single person stayed by my side throughout the lengthy legal battle.

Justice was a lonely word, and a whistle-blower was someone forced to live like a dog driven from its home.

Yet now, I was not alone.

There was Sir Clark, who had stood at the parliamentary witness stand with unwavering conviction.

The human conscience hidden beneath the physician’s gown had responded to my call.

There were Ann and Mary, who had raised trembling voices before hundreds of gazes with a mother’s heart.

A mother’s heart hidden beneath the housemaid’s uniform had placed its hand over the hand I extended.

There was Mrs. Ashburton and a thousand noblewomen who had turned London’s high society into a quiet battlefield.

Over eleven hundred consciences hidden beneath silk dresses had taken up quills in their hands and become a single chorus.

Each and every one of them had become a whistle-blower alongside me.

While my past self had shouted alone in a dark alley, now we were shouting together.

And that very fact kept me from collapsing even at this bitter moment of defeat.

Right. We cannot let their aspirations and courage end like this.

Just as I was steadying my mind again and lifting my teacup, exactly then—

“Your Majesty, a visitor has arrived.”

At Baroness Lehzen’s voice, I tilted my head. Was there anyone scheduled to come today?

“Who is it?”

“They say they are the Frenchmen Daguerre and Isidore, and they insist there is something they must see Your Majesty about.”

Daguerre? Isidore?

Hearing the names of the two men after nearly a year gave me goosebumps all over my body.

“Show them in at once!”

Before long, the two men who entered the parlor looking deeply haggard had changed drastically compared to before.

The two men I had seen off a year ago and the two who opened this door and stepped inside now wore the same faces, yet were not the same beings.

Human beings are sculpted by the rivers they cross. They had crossed the ocean, crossed the opium dens, and crossed hell. That crossing was vividly engraved upon their faces.

Isidore, who had looked like a boy, had grown into a young man before I noticed. The anxious wavering had vanished from his eyes, and a tranquility deeper than the ocean had settled into his pupils instead.

On the other hand, Daguerre, who used to look greedy, exuded a somewhat detached impression.

The superficial passion of the artist who directed dioramas at the Paris theater had peeled away from his face.

Instead, the heavy serenity of someone who had witnessed the truth beneath it lay revealed.

“It has been a long time, Your Majesty.”

“I am glad you have returned safely.”

With that, the two of them unloaded the photographs securely fixed to the canvases inside the large boxes they carried on their backs, offering them up as they spoke:

“…Even a burning hell would be nothing compared to the opium dens of Guangzhou.”

“Hell, you say…”

Indeed.

Looking slowly at the photographs the two had brought, an opium den was barely described even by the word hell.

And tomorrow.

Tomorrow was precisely the day of the parliamentary vote deciding on war.

The Select Committee had collapsed.

The recommendations had remained mere recommendations.

Viscount Palmerston’s economic logic had shifted the mood of the chamber.

Just at the moment when every card seemed played out to the bottom, the final card had arrived from across the sea.

The card of light. The card of testimony. Images, not words.

Where numbers failed, where statistics failed, where speeches failed, images might perhaps succeed.

Because the human brain forgets numbers, but it cannot forget a face.

Because one can argue against logic, but not against a gaze. That was the power images held.

I slowly raised my head and looked at the two men.

“I have one last request. Can you grant it?”

“Please speak, Your Majesty.”

“Before tomorrow morning, I would like you to exhibit these photographs at the entrance of the Court of Requests in Westminster. Don’t worry about entry permits.”

“…These photographs, Your Majesty?”