shadow of britain

Chapter 915 "Revolutionaries" Who Sacrificed Their Lives

Before Disraeli could figure out why Albert was in their hideout, Albert had already reached out his hand to Disraeli.

"You haven't forgotten me, have you? My name is Albert, and I'm Sir Arthur's friend from Coburg."

Upon hearing this, the quick-witted Disraeli immediately understood that Albert did not want to put on airs as a prince today.

However, this naive and adorable young man clearly did not understand that his approachable facade was nothing but a facade in front of seasoned veterans.

Even so, considering that he was a relative of the Queen, Disraeli, a member of the House of Commons, decided to give Albert face.

The Jewish boy stepped forward warmly: "Of course I remember, how could I forget?"

Disraeli laughed so enthusiastically that his smile almost overflowed his cheeks.

He shook Albert's hand vigorously, as if trying to find a way out for himself: "Sir Arthur has mentioned you to me more than once. He said he had a very pleasant conversation with you in Brussels recently and praised your insightful views on literature and art. It is truly an honor to meet you on Fleet Street."

Albert smiled and nodded, with the frankness and curiosity typical of young people: "I'm honored. But I've heard that this is one of the most famous editorial offices in London. Since I'm here, I naturally want to see how the British publishing industry is made."

Disraeli was taken aback by those words. He glanced instinctively at the crumpled newspaper that Elder had made, which lay at Dickens's feet like several unburied corpses.

He took an awkward step to the left, as if trying to cover up the rather uncouth headlines: "How is the publishing industry made? Ah, well, to be honest, we're just guys who make a living by making up stories. Of course, that doesn't mean we don't have higher literary aspirations, but you know, Your Highness... uh, no, Albert, these days you can only make money by writing novels and screenplays. If you hand a publisher a book of poems, he'd practically spit on the cover, and look at you like you're trying to steal his money."

Arthur, also wanting to gloss over the matter, calmly stepped forward and continued, "That's right, poetry is indeed much harder to sell than novels these days. Even those works that have already gained public acclaim often have very poor sales. Take Robert Browning's recent book, *Pauline: A Fragment of Confession*, for example. If you covered up Browning's name, you'd almost think it was Shelley's posthumous work. Even the extremely discerning literary magazine *Blackwood* dedicated over ten pages to praising it, saying that Browning's style was reminiscent of Shelley. But guess how many copies Browning's book sold?"

Albert took the bait as expected. He frowned and thought for a moment before cautiously giving a number: "One thousand copies?"

Dickens laughed and shook his head: "No, Albert, a thousand copies is too exaggerated. Even if it were a novel, selling a thousand copies wouldn't be a bad result, let alone poetry."

“Well…” Albert considered for a moment, then gave an even more conservative figure: “Three hundred copies?”

Elder, reclining on his desk, looked at the young German man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and struck up a conversation as if they were old friends: "Selling three hundred copies of a poetry collection is considered a good result. Browning's 'Borinei' only sold less than fifty copies. In the last two years, poetry has long become a slow-selling item on the market. I even think that even new collections of poems by famous poets like Campbell, Rogers, or Wordsworth can only sell a few hundred copies at most these days."

Upon hearing this, Albert couldn't help but glance at Tennyson beside him: "Then..."

Elder immediately saw through what he was trying to say, and before Albert could finish, Director Carter interrupted, "Don't underestimate him. Alfred is an anomaly in the poetry world. Although his 'Elegy' didn't sell as well as the bestselling fashion novels, the first edition of 600 copies sold out within three months. I heard that because the sales were completely unexpected, the company reprinted it twice that year, and all in all, it sold nearly two thousand copies within a year. If you include the reprints in recent years, it's probably sold at least four or five thousand copies. One copy of 'Elegy' is almost equivalent to the lifetime sales of many poets."

Shy Tennyson felt embarrassed upon hearing Elder's words: "I was just lucky, Elder, don't exaggerate."

Dickens chuckled and patted Tennyson on the shoulder: “Where’s the exaggeration? Alfred, don’t be so modest. The last time a poetry collection sold like this in England was over a decade ago with Lord Byron’s *Don Juan*. So now almost everyone thinks you’re the only young poet capable of taking the mantle of English poetry from Byron. Come on, we’re not blind.”

Dickens's mention of Byron only made things worse, as soon as he did, Disraeli's heart leaped into his throat again.

After all, this morning's newspapers were full of comparisons between Liszt's love story and Byron's extramarital affair with Duchess Poncenby.

He quickly interrupted, saying, "Of course, poetry isn't the worst-selling genre on the market. If we're talking about which type of book has the worst reputation among readers, I bet it's philosophy. Nowadays, even if figures like Locke and Boyle were to come back to life, it would be difficult for philosophy books to regain readers' attention."

As he spoke, Disraeli observed Albert's changing expressions.

The young man seemed easier to fool than he had imagined. He didn't actually ask about the news from this morning, but instead joked, "I think the hardest books to sell are definitely not philosophy. Because from my observations when I was browsing bookstores in Coburg, I could occasionally sell two or three copies of philosophy books, but theological books often sat on the shelves for at least six months."

Disraeli breathed a sigh of relief and replied with a smile, “I had forgotten about theology. It seems the situation in Coburg is similar to that in London. In London, you could pick twenty or thirty theological works and not even one of them would break even. Theological works are a winner-takes-all category; most theologians’ works don’t sell for much, and all the sales seem to be concentrated on the works of a few theologians. For example, Robert Hall, Charles Simeon, and Alexander Fletcher, their books are often ten volumes or more, and the prices are in the pound, but that doesn’t stop them from selling two or three thousand copies every six months.”

Albert listened with great interest, and he asked with a chuckle, "Since poetry is hard to sell, and philosophy and theology are also ignored, what kind of books sell best in London? Or, if it's convenient, I'd like to know what the best-selling books from Imperial Publishing are. With so many bestsellers, surely there must be one that keeps the printing presses running all night?"

Upon hearing this, Elder couldn't help but puff out his chest proudly: "Of course, it belongs to Mr. Elder Carter..."

“It really is Carter!” Albert exclaimed excitedly upon hearing the name of Scott’s successor. “No,” Arthur replied, throwing cold water on his enthusiasm. “To be precise, it’s the ‘Hayster’s Journal’ published by Charles Darwin, a friend of Mr. Elder Carter.”

"The Beagle's Journal?" This answer was somewhat unexpected for Albert. He hadn't read the book yet, but his cousin Victoria had mentioned it before: "Do London readers enjoy this kind of travelogue?"

“That’s right, not only you, we also find the sales of this book unbelievable.” Arthur said with great familiarity, “Although we were very confident in this book, even the most optimistic person could not have imagined that the first edition of 1500 copies of the three-volume ‘Beagle’s Voyage Log’ would sell out in six months. After all, we priced the complete set at a whopping £8.8 shillings. After the first edition sold out, in addition to reprinting the hardcover edition, we also tried to launch a more affordable paperback edition without illustrations. The sales were even more astonishing this time. The paperback edition was reprinted four times in three years, selling a total of 10,000 copies, while the hardcover edition also sold a total of 3,000 copies.”

Arthur hadn't lied to Albert about the sales of the "Beagle's Nautical Log".

In terms of profit from book publishing alone, Darwin's "The Sailing Journal of the Beagle" is nothing short of a miracle.

Even after deducting costs for paper, copperplate printing, binding, taxes, and the author's share, the profit per copy of the hardcover set, which costs eight pounds and eight shillings, is still around three pounds. As for the ten thousand paperback copies, although priced as low as one pound and four shillings, the printing costs are significantly reduced because there are no illustrations or luxurious covers, so each copy still has a profit margin of five shillings.

All things considered, the two versions of the Beagle's voyage log alone have brought Imperial Publishing Company a profit of up to £2 over the years.

If we only consider publishing profits, Darwin's single-book sales would easily surpass those of several bestselling authors published by Imperial Publishing. Whether you're Dumas or Dickens, or even if you went to Paris and brought Balzac and Hugo, none of them could ever compete with Darwin in terms of single-book revenue.

Take Dickens' "Oliver Twist" for example. Although "Oliver Twist" is also a monster book with sales of nearly 10,000 copies and has both hardcover and paperback versions, the hardcover three-volume edition of "Oliver Twist" is priced at only £11.60, while the paperback edition is only a pitiful £8.

And what about Victor Hugo's *The Hunchback of Notre Dame*?

The 1831 edition of Notre Dame de Paris was priced at only 12 francs in France, which is less than half a pound.

In other words, the sale of one hardcover copy of Darwin's "The Beagle's Journal" was almost equivalent to 18 copies of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame".

If Hugo wanted to match Darwin's sales figures, *The Hunchback of Notre Dame* would need to sell at least 70,000 to 80,000 copies.

However, it is well known that such sales figures are completely impossible to achieve in the current European market.

Let alone 70,000 or 80,000 copies, Notre Dame de Paris has been published for six years now, and its original French edition has not yet sold more than 3000 copies. Even if you include the English edition published by Imperial Publishing, it has only barely exceeded 4,000 copies.

Hugo was naturally quite dissatisfied with this. A few years ago, when the sales of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" were dismal, he even complained in a letter to Dumas: "Parisian readers would rather spend money on some vulgar pamphlets than spend twelve francs on the story of an entire cathedral."

It has to be said that among the many talented authors at Empire Publishing, the first to achieve financial freedom through writing was actually that bald Charles Darwin, which is quite enviable.

The popularity of the "Beagle's Nautical Journal" even sparked a surge in sales of a range of travelogue books.

Works that describe captivating places and skillfully utilize the material are especially popular.

The imitation of Darwin's "A Voyage on the Danube" sold 1,400 copies, while Holman's four-volume "A Voyage Around the World," though lengthy and priced higher, still sold 700 copies.

While Captain Ross and Captain Baker's books on Arctic explorations were both high-priced publications, their sales were equally astonishing, with the former selling two thousand copies and the latter one thousand.

In addition, Bentley Books' *The Pilgrimage to Lamartine*, Stewart's *Three Years in America*, McFarlane's *Travels in the East*, Barrow's *Around Ireland*, and Reed and Matheson's two-volume *Travels in America*, published last year, all sold over a thousand copies. Even books like *Visiting American Baptist Churches* sold out their first editions within three months.

If it weren't for the fact that Sir Arthur's deeds on the European continent were too embarrassing to talk about, and many details were inconvenient to mention in public, he would have planned to publish a book such as "Travels on the European Continent: How I Covered the Escape of the Juan Party from Paris", "A Visit to Göttingen: My Friend Garibaldi and I", "The Druisk Horror: Was It a Demotion for a British Fourth-Rank Diplomat to Disguise Himself as a Russian Sixth-Rank Civil Servant?", or "A Journey from St. Petersburg: Who Is the Conscience of the Caucasus, Me or David Urquhart?"

Needless to say, just by looking at these titles, you can tell that any one of them would have sold over two thousand copies.

If you add the high price of a deluxe edition, wouldn't that easily bring in tens of thousands of pounds?
Ugh!
To sum it all up, you're picking up sesame seeds but losing watermelons.

If we had known that travelogues would sell so well in recent years, what difference would it have made if we had risked our lives for the revolutionary cause of young Italy, or if we had demonstrated the strategic composure expected of British diplomats during the Caucasus crisis?

(There will be one more chapter added today, later this month)

(End of this chapter)