Chapter 602: Crawley's Fantastic Journey (V)

"Honored gentlemen, Robert Crowley of the Crowley family, from Yorkshire in the Kingdom of England, is most honored to meet you."

Hat in left hand, right hand behind his back, bowing at the waist — once introduced, Crawley immediately stepped forward to salute the hosts of the banquet.

"Yorkshire? Crowley?"

Seeing this noble-style self-introduction, Li Hao, who had been talking the most with Old William earlier, gently swirled the fruit wine in his glass, a hint of a teasing smile appearing on his face. "The Crowley family castle — it wouldn't happen to be called Downton Castle, would it?"

The moment Li Hao's words left his mouth, a few cheerful chuckles sounded from nearby.

Crawley was a bit baffled. He had no idea what they were laughing at; he'd never heard of any Downton Castle in his life. So Crawley honestly replied, "In fact, the castle passed down through the family has always been called Crowley Castle by the common folk."

"Yes, I know." A trace of melancholy nostalgia for old times surfaced on Li Hao's face. "I was only joking."

After this slightly peculiar introductory exchange, things proceeded more conventionally. Crawley and Old William were granted chairs as they had hoped, and were able to raise their glasses at the long table to toast the great Earl's good health.

After this, Crawley joined the conversation at the table. And this time, Crawley confirmed that these Easterners had studied English systematically. Because whenever they spoke with him, an Englishman, several people at the table switched directly to English.

How to put it — though it would have been impertinent to inquire who the private English tutor behind these great Eastern figures was, as time passed, Crawley still discerned some differences: the Easterners' English not only diverged grammatically from Crawley's standard London accent, but also contained new terms he had never encountered before.

The only explanation for this, Crawley surmised, was that their English teacher had added modified vocabulary from his own people when giving lessons.

He had a rough idea about this: the Easterners' English teacher was definitely not an Englishman. Most likely he was a half-baked clergyman from some European country — or perhaps a Jewish merchant. That people were always wandering the world; they spoke many languages, and altering and adding vocabulary suited their survival environment.

The only remaining question was: why would these great Eastern figures collectively spend time learning a language of such limited utility?

But the next moment, Crawley cut short his speculations about the mysterious tutor. Someone was asking him another question, and he had to focus his attention to respond to the great figures' inquiries.

"Mr. Crawley, given your family background and age, you must have had the chance to hear Shakespeare's plays in London, yes?"

Without a doubt, this was another question that secretly astonished Crawley. Although Shakespeare's great name would thunder through later generations with influence spanning the globe, it was now 1632 — a mere sixteen years since Shakespeare's death.

In the seventeenth century, when information traveled at a crawl, Shakespeare was merely a playwright admired within England itself; his influence had not crossed the English Channel, nor even extended beyond London.

Even the nearest neighbors, the French, would not learn of Shakespeare and his works until the next century, the mid-eighteenth century, after he was championed by the great literary figure Voltaire.

Suppressing his surprise, Crawley thought back for a moment, then replied, "In fact, I obtained my first job away from home in the London theatrical world. Because of that, I had the good fortune, a few months before Mr. William's death, to serve as an assistant scriptwriter for the theater and travel to Stratford to sit in on some of his discussions with theater managers about play texts."

"Whoa, now that's interesting! Come, tell me — what illness did Shakespeare ultimately die of?"

The transmigrator asking the question was clearly a man of culture. This gentleman seemed deeply interested in the evolution of various national cultures during the Renaissance, and he proceeded to fire off a string of follow-up questions.

To meet someone in a foreign land, ten thousand miles from home, who loved the culture of his homeland — and a powerful, influential figure at that — Crawley felt an indescribable sense of wonder and excitement.

He quickly immersed himself in the one-on-one exchange.

Perhaps because it was rare to encounter a foreign merchant who could clearly explain the ins and outs of the cultural world, or perhaps because they wished to affect refinement and show that they too were men of culture, Crawley soon found himself needing to converse with more than one person, overcoming all manner of accents and vocabulary obstacles.

The exchange turned into a cultural salon.

For a time, Crawley became the center of attention. In a clear, slightly rapid cadence, he answered question after question.

The questions were diverse — some abstract inquiries about the cultural atmosphere of seventeenth-century Britain, others a series of practical questions about theaters, scripts, poetry, and the inner workings of noble social circles. They were, in a word, wide-ranging and complex.

Yet Crawley's eyes shone; he welcomed every single one.

He knew how long it had been — since the moment he stepped onto that ship's deck — since he had last encountered words like "nobility" and "literature." And in all that long time, how many times had he lain in his dim hammock, listening to the faint, lewd songs drifting from beyond the cabin boards, despondent and lost, murmuring to himself the elegant operas he had once taken such pride in?

The salon atmosphere was warm and enthusiastic. As time passed, aided by fine glass goblets and excellent wine, Crawley threw himself into it even more.

He gave full play to the fine manners and education of his noble upbringing, displaying the profound knowledge of poetry and stage drama he had accumulated over the years.

In the end, Crawley, having completely forgotten his station, even rebuked a great Eastern figure for "pretending to know what he didn't," and expressed contempt for some eighth-hand script the man had copied from who-knows-where.

The next moment, Crawley rose to his feet. He struck a pose — one leg forward in a lunge, arm outstretched — his eyes gazing into the distance. With intense theatrical flair, elegant and impassioned, he loudly declaimed: "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, singe my white head!"

After this highly professional impromptu performance, he himself was the first to come to his senses. Sensing the utter silence around him, Crawley's heart cried "Damn!" and he hurriedly bent at the waist, preparing to apologize to his host.

But the next moment, a burst of applause mixed with whistles cut off the words Crawley was about to speak.

One of those who had participated most enthusiastically in the cultural discussion earlier, Li Hao of the Ministry of Commerce, now rose to his feet. Saying "L" repeatedly, he pressed a glass of white wine into Crawley's hand. "Professional — now that is professional! I like professionals, no matter the era."

Looking around and seeing everyone nodding in agreement, Li Hao pointed at the big-bearded Old William and sighed with emotion. "In all my years here, everyone who's come running to East Asia — aside from the illiterates, it's been brawlers, gamblers, and desperadoes. High and low, inside and out, men and women, young and old, the whole stinking lot of them — every last one a goddamn bastard!"

At this, Li Hao burst out laughing and threw an arm around Crawley's shoulder. "Except for this one — a man of talent!"

"Come, a true gentleman of nobility — brothers, let's drink to you!"

Though he had not understood the preceding passage of Chinese, Li Hao had spoken the last two sentences in English. Crawley, now grasping the situation, realized he had unwittingly earned their appreciation. He quickly raised his glass and said, "Please, call me Robert, honored Li."

With this interlude behind them, Crawley was even more relaxed and at ease for the remainder of the salon. Setting aside his identity as a merchant and entering a purely "cultural exchange" state of mind, Crawley proceeded to give his hosts a solid primer on the real London theatrical world of the seventeenth century.

In truth, much like the Chinese concept of the "nine lowly trades," the so-called artistic performances of this era were likewise an industry exploited for amusement and held in contempt by the upper classes.

At the end of the sixteenth century, theatrical performance was far from a respected profession. The trade was rife with "thieves, horse-stealers, whoremongers, swindlers, and rebels"; its practitioners were of low character. The reason London's theaters were clustered in the Southwark district on the south bank of the Thames was precisely because that area fell within a jurisdictional gap — a so-called no-man's-land.

And Crawley honestly informed his amateur enthusiasts: Shakespeare included, when they entered the trade, they all had to start in the lowliest of jobs, working for those disreputable theater owners.

In that age, running a theater was not much different from running a brothel; both were places where the middle and lower classes went in search of pleasure. Theaters were filled with loitering thugs, pimps, and prostitutes; the audience's interest in the stage performance was, in fact, the least of it.

After this earnest conversation, Old William — who had long since been unable to get a word in and was merely gulping down free drinks on the side — noticed that Crawley had become the most popular person in the salon.

This astonished Old William, who kept muttering "Good Lord" under his breath.

Of course, all banquets must come to an end. As the sky darkened, this wonderful salon gathering finally reached its conclusion.

But the matter was not yet over.

After the gathering dispersed, Li Hao of the Ministry of Commerce first asked Old William when he would be returning to Batavia. Upon learning that the Dutch planned to remain in the Ming country until the monsoon season in the latter half of the year before setting sail, Li Hao nodded. This was unsurprising; most European merchant ships coming to the Ming country followed this rhythm.

The next moment, Crawley finally received the most precious invitation of his life thus far.

Before leaving, Li Hao patted Crawley on the shoulder and told him, meaningfully, "Don't spend all your money. Before you leave the Ming country, come find me at the Ministry of Commerce. I have a business deal there that would suit you very well."

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Overjoyed, Old William went back that very night and opened his treasured iron cask of rum, then dragged Crawley into drinking through the night. No one understood better than Old William the immense business opportunity contained within a "special invitation" from a big shot at the Ministry of Commerce.

In the end, Old William passed out drunk, hugging the cask, but one sentence kept mumbling from his lips: "Crawley, you lucky bastard... whatever deal you get, you have to let Old William buy in for a share — it's what I deserve!"