shadow of britain

Chapter 917 Elder, I'll handle the Queen, you go and take care of Albert.
Greene Restaurant is located on the corner of Strand Street, not too far from Fleet Street.

This restaurant is different from the high-end restaurants frequented by royalty and nobility. The exterior walls are simply painted with a layer of dark green paint, and a few menus with curled edges from the wind are pasted on the window, which is considered decoration.

A thin layer of condensation covered the restaurant's windows, and looking inside from the street, you could only see blurry silhouettes of the guests.

The moment you open the door, the air is immediately filled with the rich aroma of beef and onions, along with the warm scent of beer mixed with hot soup.

Elder, familiar with the place, led everyone through the narrow passageway and waved to the boss: "The usual place, the table by the window!"

The owner recognized him and immediately smiled, pointing to the empty table by the window, saying, "Mr. Carter! You're in for a treat today. The beef ribs just arrived at ten o'clock."

The group had barely sat down, and before the tea was even served, Albert steered the conversation back to the publishing industry: "Mr. Carter, so you're saying that a book like *The Blood of Lancaster* is considered a success if it sells three thousand copies?"

“Three thousand copies? That depends on the person.” Elder lit his pipe. “Let me give you an example. If it’s one of the authors that Blackwood often praises, three thousand copies would indeed be considered a big hit. But if it’s one of the people sitting here having dinner today, three thousand copies would just be considered barely passing.”

This leading figure in British historical fiction named them one by one: "Look, Mr. Dickens' *Oliver Twist* sold 5,000 copies when it was first published, and after it was adapted into a screenplay and released last year, its total sales are now approaching 10,000 copies. Mr. Disraeli's *The Young Duke* did not perform well when it was first released, but over the years it has accumulated sales of 4,000 to 5,000 copies. As for Arthur's *The Murders of Hastings*, it was already very popular with readers when it was serialized, but because the book is very long, it was published in three parts. However, any one of these three parts alone is an absolute bestseller with sales of over 4,000 copies."

Upon hearing this, Tennyson couldn't help but feel a little inferior: "Sigh..."

Seeing Tennyson's expression, Elder couldn't help but comfort him, "Alfred, you don't need to be like this. You suffered because of the subject matter, not because you lack ability. In the end, publishing is all about luck. If the subject matter is right, even if the writing is mediocre, it can still sell. If the subject matter is wrong, even if you write something brilliant, it will still be a slow-selling product."

Dickens chimed in, “That’s right. Everything has its pros and cons. If we’re talking about literary standing alone, how can we novelists compare to poets? Alfred, you know, ever since you published *In Memoriam*, every literary magazine that mentions your name is almost entirely filled with praise. And what about us? You must have seen the criticisms of fashionable novels in all sorts of literary magazines.”

Upon hearing this, Albert couldn't help but ask curiously, "What are they criticizing?"

Disraeli chuckled dismissively: "Actually, it's nothing much. Most of it is just clichés, saying that fashion novels are vulgar and low-class, and promote bad social trends."

“It’s not all clichés.” Arthur stirred his teacup with a spoon. “I saw John Bull coin a new term the other day, ‘Modern Servantgalism.’ The only good thing is that John Bull doesn’t seem to be targeting us alone.”

"Modern maid syndrome?" Albert seemed to have discovered a new continent. He truly enjoyed the atmosphere of the conversation, which was far more interesting than courtly socializing: "What is modern maid syndrome?"

"Hmm... how should I describe it?"

Arthur organized his thoughts: "According to John Bull, this is a social phenomenon mainly found among London housewives, manifesting as vanity, affectation, arrogance, and ignorance. Of course, this phenomenon doesn't only occur among maids, nor is it limited to gender. You can see it in housewives, shop assistants, seamstresses, and all sorts of small business owners. The common characteristics of this group are vanity, attention to clothing, and arrogance, and they are also the main consumers of various cheap serialized publications."

John Bull felt that much of the content in these publications, including domestic tips, celebrity quotes, and ladies' columns, while seemingly tedious and harmless, and even possessing a certain educational value, was misleading. To boost sales, these publications frequently incorporated distorted worldviews, excessively extravagant clothing and luxurious scenes into their serialized novels. Furthermore, these stories were always filled with unrealistic plot points, allowing the protagonists to achieve illogical and overwhelming victories and rewards. Poor but virtuous young girls always married wealthy and noble husbands, and impoverished clerks or wandering artists invariably transformed into wealthy nobles by the end of the story…

Albert suddenly realized what was going on, and he even thought of a few similar novels: "Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice? No, her Mansfield Park might be closer."

Arthur chuckled and shrugged. "That's right, you guessed it. Jane Austen got slammed by that John Bull article. That's why I said this attack wasn't really aimed at us. Because whenever Fleet Street wants to criticize The Englishman, they usually use a few other excuses."

"What did they say?"

Dickens practically knew by heart the criticisms he'd received from Fleet Street over the years: "In recent years, a group of writers have emerged in the London publishing market who call themselves 'friends of the people,' whose depictions of misery and misfortune are merely meant to please middle-class readers who enjoy voyeuristic views of poverty. The suffering of the poor is portrayed as an exotic landscape rather than a social problem worth addressing. This is about me."

However, compared to the criticism of Elder, Fleet Street's attack on Dickens was relatively mild.

According to Blackwood, "Elder Carter always tried to imitate Walter Scott of Scotland, but he failed to inherit Scott's national spirit and only learned Scott's extravagance and affectation. The England in his writing seems to be forever raining, the peasants are forever shouting slogans, and the nobles are forever drawing their swords. Without bloodshed and intrigue, his novels are like a hollowed-out heart."

Even though Elder has been criticized so harshly, compared to Disraeli, his suffering seems insignificant.

In its 1827 review of Disraeli's debut novel, Vivian Grey, The Edinburgh Review bluntly stated: "This is a novel driven by ambition and narcissism, in which the author seems to be trying to convince the world that they are smarter than anyone he has written about."

After Disraeli became a senator, the situation not only did not improve, but it deteriorated rapidly.

When The Quarterly Review published Young Duke, it published a lengthy review: "Mr. Disraeli dresses his fantasy like a dandy dresses himself. In short, there is more glitter than substance."

Blackwood, the arch-rival of The Englishman, was even more scathing in its review, stating bluntly: "It is difficult to judge whether Mr. Disraeli wanted to be a politician who writes novels or a novelist who engages in politics. But there is no doubt that he does both very poorly."

However, if we're talking about who gets the most creative criticism, it has to be their chairman of the board, Sir Arthur Hastings.

—The Hastings Mysteries delighted the legal community but embarrassed the arts and literature world.

—A novel worthy of being used as teaching material in police academies, but not necessarily worthy of being collected by literature departments. Its strengths are clarity, composure, and legality; its weaknesses are the same as those mentioned above.

If Dickens brought the image of London's poor to life on paper, then Arthur Sigmar put all the living people of London into their coffins.

—Congratulations! The literary branch of Scotland Yard is thriving.

But no matter how much Fleet Street criticizes them, at least Arthur can honestly say that he hasn't written too many melodramatic plots.

Although The Englishman could be considered a pioneer in the field of fashion fiction in some respects, seven years after its founding, it has been swept aside by the waves of newer publications thanks to the relentless efforts of its peers, losing the honor of being constantly attacked by Fleet Street.

Of course, Spark, which focuses on cheap novels, remains Fleet Street's primary target.

But there's nothing we can do about it; after all, that's the kind of money "Spark" makes.

That's why, in order to boost sales, you always have to write some kind of story.

The most popular novel in Spark magazine is roughly about how a woman of humble origins uses her wit to thwart the schemes of the Duchess of Bloomington, a cunning and devilish noblewoman, and eventually marries a mysterious young man with jet-black hair and a marbled forehead who works in the shawl department of a West End department store (the Duchess and readers know that he is actually the true heir to the richest earldom in England).

Sigh... Actually, Spark magazine isn't happy to publish articles like this either.

However, there's nothing we can do; the readers just can't resist reading it.

After chatting for a short while, the owner personally brought out the plate of freshly cooked beef ribs.

Steam billowed from the edge of the plate, filling the air with the aroma of butter, malt, and caramelized onions.

"Gentlemen, please be careful, it's hot," the owner said with a smile, before having a waiter bring over several wine glasses.

Elder picked up the perfectly marbled beef rib with his fork and nodded with satisfaction: "See, Albert, this is the best beef rib in London."

Watching everyone chatting and eating beef ribs in a relaxed atmosphere, Albert couldn't help but feel envious and said, "I really hope that one day I can work in the publishing industry."

“You’re being modest,” Disraeli said with a smile. “You could easily pursue a more high-end career.”

Arthur picked up his glass and casually smoothed things over, saying, "I remember you haven't graduated from Bonn University yet, have you? Don't worry about work for now, you'll have plenty of opportunities later."

“That’s right.” Elder adopted a seasoned, experienced demeanor, offering guidance to the young man: “But I must remind you, young man, publishing is no romantic endeavor. When you’re writing a book, you’re like a god, but when you’re publishing, you’re a beggar. Printers are watching you, demanding their wages, and publishers are watching you, pushing for sales. But by the end of the month, you’ll find that your only loyal reader is your creditor.”

Disraeli couldn't help but laugh when he heard this: "I can relate to that."

Elder cut off a piece of beef rib with his knife, dipped it in the gravy at the bottom of the plate, and continued speaking: "Albert, if you really want to make it in the publishing industry, I have to give you a piece of advice: don't start by thinking about becoming a writer. There are too many people writing books, and too many people printing books. But experienced editors? These days, good editors are rarer than honest politicians in Westminster Palace."

“Editor?” Albert raised an eyebrow, seemingly not having considered the idea.

“Yes,” Elder said, waving his fork. “Editors are the helmsmen of the publishing world. Authors are like the wind, printing presses are like sailors, and publishers are like ladies clamoring on deck. Without an editor who can steer the ship steady, it will either run aground or sink.”

Albert listened thoughtfully: "So... if I really did become an editor, where would I start learning?"

“Start with the hardest work.” Elder answered without hesitation: “Revising manuscripts, typesetting, proofreading, arguing, and getting scolded. Especially the last two. An editor who hasn’t been scolded by a sugar daddy isn’t a real editor.”

At this point, Elder wiped his mouth with a napkin and said solemnly, "To be honest, young man, if you're really interested, after you graduate from Bonn University, if you can't find a job for a while, just write me a letter. I can't guarantee anything else, but I can find you a place at Imperial Publishing. Whether it's proofreading or editing, there will be a position for you."

Disraeli's face turned green upon hearing this.

Although Imperial Publishing was a large and powerful organization, it was not yet wealthy enough to hire the prince of Saxe-Coburg as an editor.

Of course, if it's the chairman's secretary, then it's a different story.

After all, Louis Bonaparte had been Arthur's secretary, so it wouldn't be too unfair for Albert to be his secretary.

Disraeli's hand, holding the wine glass, froze in mid-air. Looking at Dickens, the man almost immediately lowered his head, busy cutting bread, while Tennyson followed suit, pretending to be busy wiping his knife.

Arthur was the only one who seemed truly sober, but he showed no intention of speaking. Instead, he calmly drank his wine, leaving the stage entirely to Elder.

Eld, oblivious to everything, continued enthusiastically, "I'm telling you, Albert, the barrier to entry for editing isn't high; the key is having a sense of responsibility. Although this is our first meeting, you seem like the kind of steady, punctual, hardworking, and reliable young person I've met before. Since we've hit it off so well, Imperial Publishing's doors are always open for you if you ever need anything. Don't be shy; after all, I'm a college graduate myself, and I know how difficult it is for college graduates to find a suitable job when the job market is bad."

Albert nearly choked on his own drink and quickly coughed a few times, trying to remain polite.

He certainly wasn't worried about finding a job. Although his earlier statement about wanting to work in publishing was partly a genuine expression of his feelings, he also understood that as the second son of the Grand Duke of Coburg, he didn't have much power to decide his own future until his marriage was settled.

However, Albert was still moved by Elder's heartfelt and enthusiastic invitation: "Mr. Carter...you...you flatter me too much. I...I dare not claim to be competent as an editor."

“Humility is a good thing.” Elder laughed even more heartily. “But I must remind you that the publishing industry fears humility the most. Manuscripts that need to be deleted must be deleted, and authors that need to be criticized must be criticized, even if the other party is a lord. The pen in the editor’s hand is more valuable than a member of parliament’s vote.”

Arthur took a sip of Bordeaux and complimented with a smile, "Eld, what you said is quite philosophical."

This seemingly casual response made Disraeli glare at Arthur fiercely, as if blaming him for not stopping Elder.

Arthur pretended not to see it, and instead raised his glass slightly in a gesture of respect: "Come on, everyone, let's toast to the future editor."

"Cheers!" Elder smiled broadly and was the first to drink it all in one gulp.

Seeing everyone raise their glasses, Albert followed suit and laughed heartily, "Cheers!"

He mimicked Elder's posture, tilting his head back and gulping down the half-full glass of Bordeaux.

However, perhaps because he drank too much, Albert couldn't help but cough repeatedly.

The attentive Tennyson quickly handed over a handkerchief, his face filled with anxious concern, saying, "Be careful, don't choke."

Elder, instead, slapped the table and laughed heartily, completely oblivious to the subtle shift in the atmosphere: "Well done! That's more like a man! When drinking Bordeaux, you should down it in one gulp. What's a few coughs? You're destined for greatness!"

Albert choked, his eyes reddening, but he still smiled: "Cough cough cough... This liquor is much stronger than I expected. But it's alright, Mr. Carter, it's a pleasure to meet you today. How should I put it, you truly deserve to be the man who wrote 'Robin Hood,' I really admire you very much."

(End of this chapter)