shadow of britain

Chapter 886 High-Quality Human Writers

If we're talking about diligence, you'd be hard-pressed to find a writer in Paris, or even in all of Europe, more diligent than Balzac.

Like his idol Napoleon, Balzac's daily routine was so strange that it was unbearable for ordinary people.

For several months each year, he follows this schedule: go to bed at 6 p.m., get up at midnight, put on a loose bathrobe, light four candles, pick up a quill pen, and work for sixteen hours straight. If the manuscript is urgent, he can work for twenty hours.

According to Balzac himself, he once worked continuously for 48 hours, with only a three-hour break in between.

He usually takes a shower and rests for a while at seven in the morning, and the publisher will send someone to pick up the manuscript at this time.

Such long working hours naturally result in an unparalleled output of updates, with this donkey often working on several works simultaneously on the same day.

He rushed to finish "Old Goriot" and "The Country Doctor," both of which were hundreds of thousands of words long, in just three days. This was because Balzac wrote with a quill pen dipped in ink, and the ink dried very slowly compared to Balzac's writing speed.

So he often had to lay the drafts flat on the floor and then sprinkle talcum powder on the paper to absorb the ink.

Therefore, throughout the night, the floor, the table, Balzac's hands, feet, and face were often covered with ink and powder stains.

Logically speaking, given Balzac's output and his current fame in Europe, he should have been financially independent and retired long ago.

Unfortunately, this chubby boy is terrible at managing money. He often finishes paying off his debts only to suddenly have another brilliant idea and start investing in some new "money-making" opportunity, only to end up with a mountain of debt again, and so on in a never-ending cycle.

This is why, despite being one of the world's most prolific writers, he still lived in poverty, burdened by debt, and constantly pursued by creditors. He was often forced to flee to avoid them, which sometimes meant he didn't even have a fixed postal address.

In addition, Balzac's consumption habits were not much better than Dumas'. He often stripped naked when he wrote at home, saying that this way he could save clothes so he could wear them for a few more days outside.

Yes, I don't understand why Balzac's clothes were all disposable.

Logically speaking, there shouldn't be such regulations in this industry!

Of course, a large part of the reason for Balzac's rapid deterioration in economic conditions in recent years was the unfortunate death of his "motherly" lover, Madame Berne. Without Madame Berne's selfless support, Balzac would have been lucky to avoid becoming homeless.

As is well known, Balzac was a coffee addict to ensure he was alert while writing, and whenever he had free time, he would go to the streets of Paris to buy coffee beans. However, the proprietress of the café he frequented did not feel proud of the great writer's regular patronage; instead, she resentfully called the chubby boy a "brigand."

Because whenever Balzac had to pay the bill, he would use his usual trick: he would reach into his pocket and exclaim, "My God, I forgot my wallet again! Put it in the bill! Put it in the bill!"

Judging from the landlady's angry attitude, one can probably guess that Balzac's bills were never settled.

In this respect, he is not even as good as Heine.

Although Heine also kept accounts frequently, this German poet would at least periodically select a "lucky spectator" to have the honor of settling the great poet's accounts.

These thugs should be grateful they live in civilized and open Paris. If they were in dark and damp London, Sir Arthur Hastings, the merciless Secretary of the Commissioner for Police, would surely have them all thrown into debtors' jail and kept under strict guard.

Of course, compared to Heine, Balzac was at least much better in terms of his emotional life.

In terms of looks, Balzac was far inferior to Heine, but he never stopped having many romantic encounters.

Portrait of Honoré de Balzac, painted by French painter Jean-Alfred Gérard-Séguin in 1842.

Portrait of Heinrich Heine, painted in 1831 by the German artist Moritz Daniel Oppenheim.

Although Heine has now found love with a Parisian shop assistant named Mathilde, his romantic experiences pale in comparison to Balzac's.

A few years ago, news that Balzac had fallen in love with the wife of a Polish landowner caused quite a stir in Paris.

Actually, it's not exactly news that a great writer has a lover in Paris, but it's well known that Parisians often contemptuously refer to people from other parts of France as "outsiders." If they treat their fellow Frenchmen this way, imagine how they would treat that little girl who appeared out of some unknown corner of Eastern Europe.

However, these rumors did not shake Balzac's passionate love; in fact, he treated the Polish woman, Madame Hanska, with even greater fervor than Madame Berni.

He kept writing to Mrs. Hanska, one letter every three to five days.

Use all sorts of cheesy nicknames to flatter the other person, such as Eve, the only love, the only life, the only angel, the rose of the East, the star of the North, the lighthouse, and so on.

He even changed his signature on the letter to "Onorski".

Ah, I also know someone named Hestingov, who must be some Eastern European relative of Mr. Honoreschi Balzac.

His behavior was indeed looked down upon by many in the Parisian literary world. Hugo, in particular, disapproved of Balzac's sycophancy towards the Russian nobility, especially after Balzac boasted that Madame Hanska's estate was bigger than the Louvre. Hugo even privately implied that the chubby boy must have had his head squeezed by a door.

Even though Balzac managed to marry a noblewoman whose house was larger than the Louvre, he did not receive much financial support from her.

Firstly, Mrs. Hanska was, after all, a married woman.

Secondly, Balzac insisted on putting on a brave face and didn't want Madame Hanska to look down on him, so he never spoke to her.

He even felt distressed that he couldn't reciprocate Hanska's gifts with something of equal value.

In short, this fat guy is desperately short of money right now.

Therefore, when Vidocq sent someone to inform Balzac that a British publisher had come to Paris specifically to discuss the distribution of English publications, Balzac didn't even hesitate. He jumped out of bed naked, put on the fine clothes he had specially left outside, and rushed to the pre-arranged location.

As soon as Vidocq's carriage stopped in front of the Hotel de France, two waiters in red coats immediately stepped forward, opened the carriage door, and bowed respectfully.

Before the French detective could even get out of the car, he heard hurried footsteps coming from upstairs. Then, a short man with disheveled hair and a slightly overweight build rushed down the stairs, panting. The man was dressed neatly, with a snow-white collar and crisp trousers, clearly a carefully chosen outfit. However, there were faint traces of ink and talcum powder on the cuffs and hems of his trousers, probably from accidentally getting them while writing.

“Mr. Vidocq! You are truly my savior!” Balzac wiped his sweat and stretched out his two fat hands, almost reaching for his cane with excitement: “Where is that British publisher friend you mentioned? Is he ready to take my work to London?”

Vidocq's eyes narrowed into slits with a smile: "Brother Balzac, no rush, at least tie your shoelaces before you run out, right?"

Elder followed Vidocq out of the car and looked at the writer in front of him. If he hadn't seen him with his own eyes, he would hardly have believed that this panting, greasy-faced fat man was actually the author of "Old Goriot" and "Eugénie Grandet," the guy known as the "French Dickens."

But soon, Elder felt that there was nothing surprising about it, since even the British Dickens was just like that.

It's not like he hasn't seen it before.

Even when he and Dickens went out to eat, the other person always paid the bill.

If the original Dickens was so-so, how much of a stir can this French version make?

Elder was sizing up Balzac, and Balzac was sizing up Elder.

The rumored British publisher was dressed in an elegant woolen long suit, complete with silver buttons on the cuffs, making it clear at a glance that he was someone of considerable status.

“Mr. Balzac!” Vidocq began. “Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Carter, a publisher from London. He greatly admires your work and has come specifically to meet you.”

"It's an honor, an honor!" Balzac said, panting heavily as he repeatedly reached out to shake hands.

Elder chuckled and stepped forward first: “Mr. Balzac, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Elder Carter, Director of Imperial Publishing Company, London. Your *Le Père Goriot* and *Eugénie Grandet* are selling like hotcakes in London, Londoners never tire of them and are clamoring for new ones. If you’d like, we can move your new works to the banks of the Thames.”

Balzac's face flushed red upon hearing this, his eyes gleaming: "Sir, you are very eloquent! I enjoy dealing with straightforward people like you!"

Several years ago, he signed a copyright agency agreement with Mr. Arthur Hastings of "The Englishman" and published an English translation. Although he did not go to London to investigate how well his book was selling, he was too lazy to worry about it too much because of the generous royalties from "The Englishman".

In terms of publishing, what has troubled Balzac the most in recent years is that Mr. Hastings has not come to him to renew the copyright agency contract.

He had always suspected that it might be the work of that fat, dark-skinned Alexandre Dumas, because he had previously heard Hugo say that Dumas and Mr. Hastings had a close relationship and had maintained a long-term cooperative relationship.

Given the bitter relationship between Balzac and Dumas, it's only natural that they couldn't bear to see each other doing well.

However, the appearance of this Mr. Carter gave Balzac a new opportunity.

Empire Publishing Company—just hearing the name tells you it's a powerful company, far superior to The Englishman.

“Imperial Publishing Company?” Balzac’s eyes widened, his voice even more urgent than before. “This sounds… almost like an official institution of the British Empire! Your Excellency, if I may be so bold, I have dealt with the London publishing industry over the years, but I have never heard of this company. May I ask, Mr. Arthur Hastings, do you know him?”

Upon hearing this, Vidocq laughed and covered for Elder, putting his arm around Balzac's shoulder: "No rush, brother, let's find a quiet place to talk slowly."

They entered the Hotel de France, found a quiet private room on the second floor, and after they sat down, coffee and brandy were quickly served.

Elder, holding his wine glass, spoke eloquently: “Mr. Balzac, you must know that truly powerful companies don’t let their names be casually mentioned in tavern conversations. Our legal advisors in London have all written opinions for Parliament. Some of our translators teach at Oxford and Cambridge, while others have drafted official documents for the Foreign Office. As for printing equipment… well, you should know Fleet Street on the Thames, right? We account for 30% of the production capacity there.”

"My God!" Balzac's eyes gleamed, as if he could already see stacks of pounds sterling bills floating down the Thames into his pockets. "If what you say is true... thirty percent? That's no small sum!"

Elder shook his head mysteriously and spread his hands, saying, "To be honest, our company is currently lacking a French Napoleon. A large ship needs a helmsman to sail, and we need someone who can plant their flag all over Europe in the literary world. Just like we have Goethe in Germany, Scott in Scotland, and in England... Mr. Dickens has indeed risen to fame recently, but in the end, he is still young, and recently his focus has been on playwriting. We've thought about it, and we can't find such a person in England, so we can only look in France. At least in my personal opinion, Mr. Balzac, you have great potential."

"Sir, you have a discerning eye!" Balzac was immediately flattered and his belly trembled with excitement. He gripped Elder's hand tightly: "I'm not just flattering you, but your words are a hundred times more fair than those sour literary critics!"

Vidocq watched from the side, his lips twitching. If he didn't know that Imperial Publishing Company was actually a front for "The Englishman," he would almost have believed it just because of Elder's righteous appearance.

Balzac leaned forward excitedly: "May I be so bold as to ask, what is the relationship between the Imperial Publishing Company and... uh, those newspapers and magazines in London? For example, The Englishman, The Times, and so on..."

"The Englishman?" Elder waved his hand dismissively. "That's all in the past. Nowadays, The Englishman is only being carried by that Walter Scott successor, but in my opinion, even he won't be able to carry the show alone for long. Do you know what the upper class in London is reading these days?"

"What are you looking at?"

“Read *Spark*!” Elder swirled his glass of red wine, his expression serious. “As for *The Times*, that’s under our umbrella. As a listed company on the London Stock Exchange, we have shares in *The Times*. Mr. Balzac, you must understand, *The Englishman* is, in the end, just a newspaper and magazine, while our Imperial Publishing Company can write your name into the entire history of world culture. However, although I personally support choosing you as the company’s representative writer in France, well…”

Balzac's heart leaped into his throat: "Is there something wrong?"

Elder calmly set down his cup, as composed as a seasoned businessman: "Of course, we can discuss the copyright issue. But London readers have different tastes; they're not just interested in the story itself, but also extremely sensitive to its background. Especially... since I came to Paris, I've heard rumors that the prototype for *Beatrice* is related to disputes in certain prominent Parisian salons. If we release it hastily without clarifying these connections, I'm afraid..."

Upon hearing this, Balzac quickly stood up and denied it, saying, "Absolutely not. This book contains no allusions or implications. I assure you."

Balzac was absolutely certain of victory, but Elder frowned upon hearing this and said, "Without allusions? What's the point of publishing this book then? Mr. Balzac, you should know that London readers love this kind of thing."

Balzac nearly choked: "You... what did you say? Are you saying that novels must be allegorical to attract London readers?"

Elder chuckled and reached out to refill Balzac's glass with brandy: "I didn't say it had to, but you're an expert yourself. You should know that Parisians live on rumors, and Londoners amuse themselves on scandals. Scandals are their breakfast bread, and rumors are their afternoon tea. Your stories, without some allusion, are like steak without pepper—no matter how good the texture, they're bland."

Balzac's lips twitched slightly, clearly hesitant, because he had promised George Sand that he would never divulge the secret.

"Sir, I never rely on scandals to grab attention."

“You may not need it, but the company does.” Upon hearing this, Elder’s expression immediately turned cold. “The agency agreement we’re offering you won’t be cheap. If you don’t have something to complement the promotion, what if sales are poor and everyone loses money?”

(End of this chapter)