shadow of britain

Chapter 914 Vicious Political Metaphors

The air in the offices on the third floor of Imperial Publishing was a bit stuffy.

The dampness of August, combined with the smell of ink, made people feel sticky and unable to resist sneezing.

Tennyson sat on a bench by the window, holding several manuscripts scheduled for publication next week. He looked at the lines of poetry over and over again, but he couldn't concentrate on them.

The melancholy poet sighed, "I shouldn't have stayed. If I had known Arthur was bringing important guests today, I should have asked for leave."

“What’s there to be afraid of?” Dickens peeked out from behind his desk, a pipe dangling from his mouth. “The prince of Saxe-Coburg isn’t going to eat people. It’s just a matter of chatting with him and telling him what the publishing industry is all about.”

“Charles, you make it sound so easy,” Tennyson said, fidgeting. “You know I dread these kinds of occasions. The moment I see those nobles, I freeze like a statue. And when they open their mouths, I don’t even know where to put my hands.”

Dickens chuckled. "But anyway, it's better than a trip to the East End, isn't it? At least the nobles won't be following you around stealing your wallet. Hmm... at least they won't be doing it openly."

Seeing that Tennyson was so nervous that he could barely speak, Dickens could only shake his head with a smile and give him some advice while writing with a quill: "If all else fails, you can learn from Arthur. Try to speak slowly. That way, even if you're just spouting empty words, every sentence will sound substantial."

Tennyson, gazing at the composed Dickens, suddenly uttered, "Charles..."

"what happened?"

"you've changed."

Dickens was taken aback: "What has changed?"

“Everything has changed.” Tennyson looked up and said seriously, “Do you remember when we first joined The Englishman? You were even more shy than me back then. I remember the first time we went to do business, to Mrs. Shelley’s house to discuss the publication of Frankenstein, you didn’t even dare to look her in the eye. But now? You can receive a German prince and chat with him as easily as if you were talking to your own neighbor.”

"What else can we do?" Dickens laughed heartily. "Living in London, you have to learn to deal with all sorts of people. The more you see, the bolder you become."

He leaned back, the chair creaking. "Honestly, Alfred, I was a coward in my younger days. But then I realized that people are just people, whether they wear a crown or a tattered felt hat. If you look at them long enough, you'll see they sweat, make mistakes, and get awkward silences. The only difference is that some people's mistakes are on the front page of the next day's paper, while most people's mistakes are just something their neighbors laugh at. Take it easy, Alfred, it's not a big deal."

Dickens had barely finished speaking, and Tennyson hadn't even had a chance to reply, when they heard light footsteps coming down the corridor.

Tennyson quickly straightened up and stuffed the manuscript back into the drawer, while Dickens tidied up his rather unrefined desk.

The two had just finished tidying up the table when footsteps outside the door stopped.

Immediately following was two short knocks followed by a long one, and Arthur's voice: "Charles, Alfred, I've brought a guest for a visit."

Dickens cleared his throat and said casually, "Come in."

The door was pushed open, and Arthur led Albert in.

Albert paused for a moment as soon as he entered the room.

He had imagined the editorial office of the Imperial Publishing Company to be an elegant and bright place—with oil paintings on the walls, neatly arranged manuscripts on the tables, and the air filled with the smell of parchment and red wax seals.

But the scene before my eyes was completely different.

The floor here is rough oak, and instead of paintings, there are a few hastily written proofread sheets hanging on the walls. The table is piled with manuscripts, envelopes, newspaper clippings, pipes, and teacups, as well as well-worn copies of Johnson's Dictionary and Walker's Dictionary.

Albert's gaze swept around the room, from the bookshelves slightly warped by the weight of various books to the gas lamp by the window, before finally settling on Dickens and Tennyson.

The new Shakespeare is only twenty-five years old this year, while the other hope of the British poetry world just celebrated his 28th birthday at the beginning of this month. However, these two literary giants do not look as imposing as legend has it. Dickens' cuffs are still stained with ink, and Tennyson's bow tie is tied crookedly.

"This..." Albert couldn't help but ask softly, "Is this the editorial department?"

“Exactly, you don’t need to worry about going to the wrong room.” Arthur was clearly surprised by his two friends’ casual attire, but he quickly smiled and said, “I was originally thinking of informing the company about the visit in advance and having a welcome ceremony for you or something. But then I thought, you’ve probably seen plenty of ceremonies and such. So, it’s better to just go with the flow and let you see firsthand how the publishing industry works.”

Albert suddenly understood, and was even quite pleased. His gaze was still sweeping around the room: "I really didn't expect... the publishing industry to be like this. To be honest, it's much simpler than I imagined."

Arthur smiled and turned to Albert, introducing him as Alfred Tennyson, chief poetry editor of Imperial Publishing, and Charles Dickens, chief columnist.

After speaking, Arthur turned to Tennyson and Dickens and said, "Charles, Alfred, this is..."

Unexpectedly, before Arthur could finish speaking, Albert preemptively extended his hand to the two of them: "No need for introductions, my name is Albert, I am from Coburg, and I am a friend of Sir Arthur."

This sentence was spoken very naturally, with a touch of the stubbornness unique to young people.

Tennyson and Dickens were both taken aback, and they exchanged a glance.

Fortunately, Dickens was the first to react. He quickly stood up, put his pipe on the table, and shook Albert's hand: "Arthur's friend from Coburg? That's wonderful. I always thought Germany only produced philosophers and sausages, but I never expected it to produce a literature enthusiast like you."

Hearing this, Tennyson, who was standing nearby, couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "Charles, isn't that incredibly disrespectful to Mr. Heinrich Heine?"

Dickens ignored Tennyson verbally, but simply lifted his boot and gently stepped on Tennyson's foot, reminding him not to speak carelessly.

Albert couldn't help but laugh at this, his smile brightening his eyes: "I like philosophy, and I like sausages, but I like your good stories even more. Mr. Dickens, to be honest, I am a loyal reader of yours."

Dickens raised an eyebrow, a smile immediately spreading across his face: "That's truly unexpected good news. And if I may be so bold, which of my books have you read?"

“The Pickwick Papers, and of course, Oliver Twist, which was serialized in The Englishman.” Albert said, a little embarrassed, “To be honest, I’ve only read those two, but I like them both very much. Actually, I’ve thought about collecting your other works, but in a small place like Coburg, there’s really no way to do that.”

At this point, Albert didn't forget to compliment Tennyson: "Mr. Tennyson, your 'Elegies' is also one of my favorites. My uncle had someone bring that book of poems to me from London to Coburg. 'For I know that Death will use you to make his darkness beautiful,' how did you manage to write such moving lines?"

Dickens had been wearing a businesslike smile, but when Albert said those words, his smile began to crumble.

As for Tennyson, the already shy poet was so embarrassed that his face turned green.

Unfortunately, while no one can deny that Tennyson's *Elegies* is the greatest collection of elegies in contemporary England, if readers knew that the people he mourned had actually risen from their coffins, even the best elegies would lose eighty percent of their power. Tennyson was speechless for a long time, his face alternating between pale and flushed, finally managing only a forced smile: "That collection of poems… well, it was indeed very difficult to create that collection. Those were… the darkest years of my life. My father had just passed away, I was forced to drop out of Cambridge because I couldn't afford the tuition, and my best friend had fallen… uh… under the gun…"

“I believe it.” Albert nodded sincerely. “The grief was so real, which shows the true friendship between you and your friend.”

Dickens shoved his pipe into his mouth, nearly choking. He turned his head and coughed lightly, pretending to organize documents to hide the twitching smile at the corner of his mouth.

Tennyson secretly pinched his thigh hard, forcing himself to maintain his solemn expression: "Yes... the pain of losing a friend is indeed hard to describe. It's an experience that plunges the soul into darkness. You know, the 'Elegies' are not actually poems about death, but about how to continue living."

At this point, he suddenly raised his head and continued in an almost preaching tone: "I believe that after true grief, one must reconcile with death. One must learn to understand that death is an indispensable part of life. 'For I know that death will use you to make his darkness beautiful.' This means that death is not the end, but a transformation. Each of us will be absorbed by death, and only love can make death seem less cruel."

Albert listened with great interest, his eyes filled with respect: "That's a truly great thought. It's admirable that you understand death so profoundly. May I ask... who exactly is the 'he' in that poem? Did he, like you, love literature?"

Upon hearing this, Tennyson nearly fainted on the spot.

Dickens covered his face with his hands, as if he were crying.

Tennyson turned to Arthur for help, but he noticed that although the man's face remained unchanged, his shoulders were trembling, clearly indicating that he was holding it in.

Seeing that neither he nor Dickens could be relied upon, Tennyson had no choice but to bite the bullet and continue: "I remember... he once said to me, 'Death is the most honest ritual of mankind, because it is a place where even lies must be silenced.' It was this sentence... that inspired me."

“That’s truly profound!” Albert exclaimed, clapping his hands. “If I had the chance, I would love to meet that gentleman.”

At this point, Dickens finally couldn't resist. He picked up his pipe and took a deep drag: "There will be an opportunity."

"What?" Albert was taken aback.

Arthur quickly stepped in to defuse the situation, saying, "It's not just you, Albert, we will all eventually meet him. Have you forgotten what Mr. Tennyson just said? Death is an integral part of life. You, me, and Mr. Dickens, we will all meet him one day."

Upon hearing this, Tennyson buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled as he spoke through his fingers: "There is no one worse than you and Charles in this world."

Albert didn't hear him clearly: "What did you say? Mr. Tennyson?"

“Nothing,” Dickens continued. “Mr. Tennyson is probably just reminiscing about his painful past.”

Albert's expression immediately turned serious, and the ease and curiosity typical of young people vanished.

He straightened up, looking somewhat flustered. "Mr. Tennyson, I...I am truly sorry. It seems I was too presumptuous. Please forgive me, I did not mean to remind you of that incident."

Tennyson looked up at the young prince with mixed feelings, then sighed and waved his hand gently, saying, “You don’t need to apologize. The work of a poet is to repeatedly reopen one’s own wounds that have not yet scabbed over. You are only touching them lightly, while I… every time I sit down in the editorial office, it’s as if I’m tearing them open again.”

As soon as he said that, the atmosphere in the room seemed to become a little heavier.

Even Dickens didn't interrupt, but silently looked up at the portraits of the board members hanging on the editorial office wall, among which Arthur's portrait was directly opposite Tennyson's desk.

Albert was moved by Tennyson's words. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded earnestly and said, "I think perhaps that's why you were able to write such sincere verses? My philosophy tutor at the University of Bonn, Fichte, often said that true art is born from suffering. But I never quite understood what that meant until today, after meeting you."

Tennyson said with a wry smile, "I would rather Mr. Fichte was wrong."

At this moment, Arthur spoke up at the opportune moment: "At least Mr. Tennyson's suffering was somewhat more fortunate than that of ordinary people. Because when he was in pain, the sentences he wrote still rhymed and matched the rules. Unlike some of the others in our company, for example..."

Before Arthur could finish speaking, he heard a commotion coming from the corridor.

"Damn it, where did the Court Magazine get its information from? I think there's definitely a mole in the company. We should have been able to get an exclusive on Lister's scandal, and we could have used it to boost the popularity of Beatrice. Now look what's happened. All that effort has gone to boost the sales of the Court Magazine."

“Elder, I don’t think you need to get so angry. Although we lost the exclusive story this time, the suspicion on us has also decreased, hasn’t it? Besides, you know what kind of people read *The Court Magazine*. They are all middle-class people who are keen to imitate high society and pay attention to court life. Now, with the coverage from *The Court Magazine*, it can only benefit the sales of *Beatrice*, and not harm it.”

"If it were just *The Court Magazine*, that would be one thing. But didn't you see *The Satire*, *The Age*, and *The Spectator* also following up with reports? Even *John Bull*, a magazine that usually focuses on satirical political commentary, has jumped in. The conservative media is collectively going crazy over a little Lister. Benjamin, tell me the truth, did this news leak from you?"

"What? Me? I don't have that kind of free time."

“Look at these headlines. The Times wrote, ‘From Piano to Bed: Liszt and His ‘Muse’ Nocturne,’ and The Satire’s editorial was even more shameless: ‘When the Queen Applauds a Prodigal Son, It’s the Beginning of Civilization’s Decline.’ And John Bull went so far as to paint a picture of last night’s concert, depicting Liszt kneeling at the piano bench, with his Parisian mistress sitting beside him, and behind him… behind him was the shadow of Her Majesty the Queen!”

"Let me see... Ever since Lord Byron wrote poetry for married women, a new field of study has emerged in English literature: how to use rhyme to whitewash sins. Today's Liszt is nothing but an echo of Byron, and today's Queen is a projection of Caroline Poonsbury..."

"These conservative newspapers and magazines are all subtly criticizing the Prime Minister, saying that the Queen's taste comes from the 'Melbourne School,' implying that Her Majesty was influenced by the romance between Lord Byron and Duchess Poonsbury, the late wife of the Viscount of Melbourne! They can say whatever they want, but if we let them continue like this, it's questionable whether 'Beatrice' will even be published. After all, anyone who reads that book now will think it's a veiled criticism of the Prime Minister."

The door was kicked open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang, even making the gas lamp by the window shake twice.

"I've fucking had enough!" Elder stormed in, clutching a crumpled newspaper. "These hypocrites, taking our record ad money and then releasing this garbage editorial without even consulting us! They're shameless!"

Dickens glanced at Arthur and Albert beside him, and almost instinctively tightened his grip on his pipe. He knew very well that it was best to keep quiet at times like this.

Following closely behind was Benjamin Disraeli, whose vest had been polished to a gleaming silver button and whose shirt collar was impeccably tailored.

“I told you so, Elder…” he complained as he pushed open the door, “It’s fine to swear, but you’d better not let anyone else hear you. This is Fleet Street!”

He lazily took off his gloves, just about to say a few more words to Elder, when he suddenly noticed out of the corner of his eye that there were other people in the room.

A tall young man was standing next to Arthur, looking calm and composed, as if he had just seen him last night.

For a fleeting moment, Disraeli's lips twitched.

He blinked, then narrowed his eyes, his confident smile freezing on his face: "This...this isn't..."

“Hello, Mr. Disraeli, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Albert smiled slightly and nodded at him, then slapped his forehead as if he was a little annoyed: “I should have known. You must be a collaborator with Imperial Publishing. After all, I just saw your ‘Young Duke’ downstairs.”

(End of this chapter)