British readers, especially the intellectual class, were more familiar with Indian affairs.
The phenomena Lionel described were things they had heard of or witnessed firsthand, to varying degrees.
The fact that a French writer now revealed them so clearly and sharply created a huge shockwave.
The Manchester Guardian commented in an "Editor's Note":
["Mr. Sorel, with the unique acuity of a writer, has touched upon the long-ignored crisis of cultural identity within the British Empire's colonial rule. He shows us that the Empire is not only expanding on the map but is also carving painful marks onto the souls of the conquered."]
However, the real storm took place among Indians in London.
In a coffee shop in Bloomsbury frequented by Indian students, the latest issue of The Manchester Guardian was passed around among the young men.
The room was hazy with smoke, but the atmosphere was unusually tense; even the young Indians here who hadn't participated in last week's protest had heard about it.
A young student named Rajiv Bhattacharjee murmured:
"How... how could he see it so clearly? 'Spiritually rootless individuals'... 'suspended between two worlds'... isn't he talking about us?"
His voice trembled, containing both the sting of having his heart's secret exposed and the relief of being understood.
Another student spoke with more agitation:
"We study hard at Oxford and Cambridge, trying to make ourselves look like English gentlemen. We thought this would earn us respect. But what was the result? In their eyes, we are forever 'clever Indian lads,' never 'one of their own'!"
A more radical student sneered:
"Those princes who accepted peerages, and our fathers, they thought they had gained the Empire's recognition... But that was a tool to appease and utilize them! They wear the ceremonial robes of investiture, yet they must obey the orders of the colonial officers on their own land!"
The article illuminated the deep-seated contradictions, anxieties, and pain hidden in the hearts of many Indian elites, sparking an intense debate.
Rajiv Bhattacharjee from Bengal cut out the article from The Manchester Guardian and mailed it to his friend in Calcutta.
Weeks later, in Calcutta, India, a young Indian poet received the letter.
He had a refined face, was barely twenty years old, and had only half a year ago concluded his studies in England.
He opened the letter Rajiv had sent from London.
Initially, he casually glanced over the clipping, but soon, his gaze was firmly drawn, his reading speed slowed, and his expression grew increasingly solemn.
The sentences in the article pierced his soul like needles:
"...not allowed to possess their own lamp..."
"...knowledge becomes an iron chain binding their soul..."
"...the more perfectly they imitate, the more they are viewed as alien..."
"...spiritually rootless individuals..."
He put down the article and remained silent for a long time.
He recalled his time studying in England, the sense of alienation that, no matter how hard he tried, he could never fully overcome.
He also thought of those Indian intellectuals who constantly quoted Shakespeare and Mill.
Lionel Sorel's article was like a strong beam of light shining into his heart.
He had never imagined that a French writer far away in Paris could so thoroughly understand the suffering of colonized people.
He had even exposed the deepest spiritual crisis facing the intellectual class here.
"Our own lamp..." he muttered, repeating the words from Rajiv's letter, his gaze directed toward the vast and profound sky outside the window.
A flame surged up within him, and in the sixty years that followed, it never extinguished.
Of course, not everyone appreciated Lionel's sharpness.
"Shameless betrayal!"
Jules Ferry fiercely slammed the newspaper onto his desk with a muffled sound.
His face was livid, and his eyes burned with rage.
He roared at the Count of Rohan, his deputy in the Ministry of Public Instruction and Fine Arts:
"Lionel Sorel has forgotten who gave him his position today? Who tacitly approved and even supported the staging of his plays at the Comédie-Française? A supporter of education reform? He's riding that title for fame, isn't he benefiting from the Republican government's policies? Now, when we need solidarity the most, he stabs us in the back!"
He paced frantically around the office, his anger palpable:
"And Vaillant! And Clemenceau! Those damned Communards and Radicals! What do they know about governing? All they do is incite and destroy! They are in league with this ungrateful Lionel! They are shaking the very foundation of the Republic!"
He abruptly stopped, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk, staring at the Count of Rohan:
"We must counterattack! We must organize public opinion and thoroughly discredit them! Let Paris, let all of France see what kind of traitor Lionel Sorel is! And what kind of selfish demagogues Vaillant and Clemenceau are! I will ruin their reputations!"
The Count of Rohan remained composed in his chair, a sharp contrast to Ferry's agitation. He nodded slightly:
"Mr. Prime Minister, I understand your anger. Lionel's article is indeed ill-timed. However..."
He stood up, walked to the map on the wall, and pointed a finger at Tunis:
"Our operation here is at its most critical moment. The Bey's resistance is crumbling, but the eyes of international 'enemies,' especially Italy and Britain, are fixed on us. The budget debate in the Chamber for the expeditionary force's expenses and the subsequent protectorate status has reached its crucial stage."
The Count of Rohan turned and looked at Ferry:
"At this time, is it wise to launch a war of words against a well-known writer and opposition parliamentarians?
This will only divert the public's attention from the 'brilliant victory' we are about to achieve and drag us into endless bickering. Vaillant and Clemenceau are hoping for us to do exactly this; they can use it to frame the government as 'suppressing free speech.'"
He took a few steps closer and lowered his voice:
"Victory on the battlefield, Mr. Minister, is the most convincing argument. When our soldiers plant the tricolor flag on the fortress of Tunis, when we successfully incorporate Tunis into our protectorate, opening up new territories and markets for France... all controversies, all doubts, will vanish in the face of a great victory.
At that point, Lionel Sorel's words, and Vaillant's roars in the Chamber, will appear pale and powerless, dismissed as the incoherent babbling of losers. The opposition, in the tide of national celebration, will only become irrelevant clowns."
He paused, observing Ferry's reaction, and saw his face gradually regaining its composure.
The Count of Rohan continued:
"What we need most now is not to tangle with them in the newspapers but to concentrate on ensuring the budget passes smoothly. We must also ensure the military action in Tunis is foolproof. The best way to quell public opinion is not through arguments. It is to silence the opposition with undeniable success. Temporary patience is for ultimate victory."
Jules Ferry finally calmed down. He glanced at the Count of Rohan and suddenly asked:
"I heard Lionel is quite friendly with your young son?"
The Count of Rohan smiled faintly:
"Just classmates from the Sorbonne."
Jules Ferry walked to the map, gazing at Tunis, as if already seeing the scene of triumph.
He suddenly turned:
"Handle the public opinion as you suggested. Let the newspapers that support us speak out appropriately, but don't get overly entangled. The focus must be to guide the public to pay attention to our 'civilizing mission' in North Africa and the imminent victory."
He was silent for a moment, and his tone grew cold:
"But Lionel Sorel... that young man, he must pay the price for his 'betrayal.' Not now, but certainly not never. Once the Tunis affair settles, once we are free to act..."
(End of this Chapter)