The Greatest Showman #1311 - Positive Humiliation
"God," Richard groaned. "Oh, God. Renly, please, please come back to the West End. Hollywood is just a child's playground. The theater is where you truly shine."
Beatrice, who had initially introduced the topic, now found herself unable to interject. She stood beside them, her wide eyes fixed on Renly, nodding fervently in agreement with Kate and Richard.
Renly chuckled. "You know, drama is an actor's art, television is a screenwriter's art, and film is a director's art. Strictly speaking, the stage belongs to the actor, and legends like Laurence Olivier stand as testaments to that. Even over the course of history, such figures remain rare."
This insight earned nods of agreement from those around him. However, William seemed disinterested, his attention elsewhere. Still, he managed a polite smile and cast his gaze toward the conversation to maintain decorum.
"In filmmaking, the actor is merely a piece in the director's vision, integrated into the larger artwork. A bad actor can ruin a film, a competent one can serve it well, but a truly great actor..." Renly trailed off, his eyes settling on Beatrice.
"Can illuminate the entire piece," Beatrice finished instinctively.
Renly smiled, nodding in approval. "Exactly. That's why I see theater and film as two vastly different experiences, yet with profound similarities. If you love the stage, you can find resonance in cinema. And if you love cinema, you can appreciate the power of the theater."
Richard contemplated this thoughtfully before flashing a knowing smile at Renly. "You know, many people have recommended films to me over the years, yet I've never stepped foot in a cinema. But I have to admit—you might have convinced me. Perhaps, one day, I should finally watch one and form my own opinion."
"You're welcome anytime." Renly responded with a bright smile.
"Rubbish." A coarse, phlegm-laden voice broke through the conversation from a short distance away.
Before anyone could turn, the grating sound of further expletives filled the air. "Nonsense! Utter drivel! Madness!"
And it wasn't just common profanity; the voice spewed authentic British slang, from Welsh obscenities to Scottish vernacular—so rapid and fluid that even a native Brit might struggle to catch every insult.
Wouldn't aristocrats avoid foul language? That would be a misconception. In reality, the nobility often wielded it best.
During childhood, while etiquette was ingrained into their very being, tutors would also educate them on the vast lexicon of profanity—not for casual use, but to ensure they never found themselves at a loss in any social situation. This education covered regional dialects, class distinctions, and even terms with discriminatory undertones.
For the nobility, one's speech, vocabulary, and tone could reveal an entire lineage. It was once said: poverty cannot be hidden, especially from those trained to see it.
Thus, even a destitute noble family like the Hall lineage maintained their airs. Their heritage alone allowed them to read people and assert their dominance in social interactions.
This was why nobles refrained from cursing in public—it was about maintaining decorum, not ignorance. However, older aristocrats, especially those well-versed in the art, could summon an arsenal of expletives with the fluency of a scholar reciting poetry.
With such an audacious entrance, there was no need to turn around to identify the source—Viscount John de Bioford.
George's shoulders eased slightly, as though a weight had been lifted, though his expression remained impassive.
"Sir," Richard greeted, attempting to de-escalate the situation.
John, however, had no intention of sparing Richard. Given his age, status, and connections, he had no need to accommodate the younger man's sentiments. He assumed the role of an elder reprimanding an insolent youth. "Shut up! Does your father know what you've become? God, you are a disgrace to the Vail family! Isn't this a midsummer party? Why is everyone wasting their breath on an actor?"
The insult hit its mark, and Richard's face stiffened.
"You should be thankful your father isn't alive to witness this, or he'd be clawing his way out of his coffin right now!" John sneered. "You must remember your place. How can you keep company with actors? They're nothing but lowly servants, scavengers who leech off our status and wealth—vermin lurking in the filth!"
Kate and Beatrice exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions betraying discomfort. Meanwhile, Richard, regaining his composure, straightened his back. "Sir! Mind your words! This is 2013, not 1913!"
"Yes, it is 2013!" John scoffed. "An age where even the monarchy must tread carefully under public scrutiny. The world is watching, and you must follow the rules. And yet, you invited an actor? And now you sit here entertaining his nonsense?"
"Viscount Bioford!" George stepped forward, his voice firm. "Please remember your decorum. My youngest son is an actor. You are entitled to your opinions, but kindly keep such remarks outside this gathering."
For the first time, George had openly defended Renly. It was an unfamiliar sensation—an acknowledgment, albeit begrudging, of paternal duty.
Renly, standing quietly by, merely raised an eyebrow.
Until now, John had directed his ire at Richard, hardly acknowledging Renly's presence. Clearly, he had only overheard snippets of conversation and, driven by his distaste for actors, had launched into his tirade without realizing whom he was attacking.
Now, after George's intervention, John finally registered the situation.
"So, this is the Vanity Fair darling?" John sneered. "And you are his father? You should be ashamed! This is a family disgrace! You should have cast him out, not paraded him at a party! Have you lost all sense?"
George's expression faltered.
John turned to Renly, his contempt palpable. He looked him up and down with disdain. "How many times have you sold yourself to climb this high? Are you here tonight seeking another transaction? Women? Or men?"
Renly remained unfazed, his smile unwavering. "Viscount Bioford seems far more familiar with the trade than I am. I take it you've sampled the market?"
The room tensed.
"If Her Majesty were in attendance tonight, would you be covering your ears?" Renly continued smoothly. "If I recall correctly, etiquette is a far greater lesson than mere bodily indulgences."
After a brief pause, he raised an eyebrow and added, "Oh, and I'm not interested in Jazz's business proposal. You see, we do have standards."
His poised, unwavering demeanor was a fortress of dignity. Renly, despite being the supposed target, radiated composure, while John, who had positioned himself above reproach, now appeared crude and petulant.
But Matthew, standing silently beside Renly, knew the truth—Renly's patience had reached its limit.
Before the evening began, they had anticipated tension. Renly had been prepared to let it slide, unwilling to cause a scene for George and Elizabeth's sake. But John's words had crossed a line, shattering any semblance of restraint.
Matthew's gaze flickered toward George and Elizabeth. He saw no warmth there, only the cold calculus of aristocracy.
Everyone envied the prestige of nobility. Few understood the rot beneath the surface.
And for Renly, no matter how often he returned to London, home would never offer him comfort.