shadow of britain

Chapter 918 Her Majesty's reputation rests on my shoulders!
The afternoon sun slanted in through the gaps in the brick buildings across Fleet Street, landing on the windowsill of the Imperial Publishing Company's third-floor office.

The joyful lunch had ended, and Albert, having satisfied his curiosity, even turned back to say goodbye to everyone before boarding the carriage.

Only when the black four-wheeled carriage disappeared around the street corner did the editorial office return to its usual bustling state.

Elder took out his pipe, lit it, put his feet up on the table, and lazily asked Tennyson, "Alfred, what do you think of Albert?"

"How is it?" Tennyson looked up and repeated as if he hadn't heard clearly.

“Yes,” Elder said with interest, blowing smoke rings. “I quite like him. The kid must come from a good family, but he’s a bit reserved. If he ever comes here to work for us, I’ll have him be my personal secretary.”

Tennyson recalled the scene of Elder and Albert acting like brothers during dinner and felt like he had seen a ghost: "I don't know what kind of person Albert is, but I think you probably won't last long in the Admiralty."

Although no one else spoke up in agreement, most people shared similar thoughts with Tennyson.

After all, everyone saw it: when this Second Secretary of the Navy got carried away with his drinking, he patted Albert on the shoulder and called him "my dear brother Albert." What's even more bizarre is that Albert actually gave Elder face, returning the favor by addressing Elder as "my dear brother Carter."

If we're really going to talk about seniority, based on Albert's words just now, Elder is already old enough to sit at the same table as Her Majesty the Queen.

After all, when Victoria addressed Albert, she called him "my dear cousin Albert".

According to the etiquette of European royal interactions, if Elder Carter were of the same generation as Victoria, then according to custom, Mr. Elder Carter would have the honor of being the brother of King Louis Philippe of France, Tsar Nicholas I of Russia, and Emperor Ferdinand I of Austria.

After all, these esteemed monarchs all sent letters to Victoria to express their condolences immediately upon learning of William IV's death, and without exception, they addressed Victoria as "my dear sister, Your Majesty" at the beginning of their letters.

In the span of just one meal, Mr. Elder Carter, a national treasure of British historical novels, successfully crossed social classes and became the most respected author at Empire Publishing Company.

Dickens, his face flushed and his shoulders trembling, said, “It seems the universities in Germany don’t start until September, so Albert will probably stay in London for a while longer. Elder, if you’re really interested in him, you can invite him to dinner a few more times and have him bring his resume.”

“Of course!” Elder raised his chin with a pleased look. “This kid is good-looking and speaks very politely. Although I don’t have much affection for Germans, to be honest, I dislike today’s English youth more than Germans. They are so easily startled and have no manners at all.”

Arthur suddenly blurted out, "Are you introducing yourself, Elder?"

Elder seemed oblivious to Arthur's sarcasm, completely absorbed in his own world: "When I see Albert, I'm reminded of myself when I was studying at the University of London. Shy, reserved, and timid, I couldn't do anything freely, but none of that matters. What matters is that we both had an idealistic spirit."

"Wait, wait..." Dickens burst into laughter: "What did you just say? Shy? Reserved? Embarrassed? You?"

Disraeli chimed in, adding insult to injury: "A shy person wouldn't be at Leicester Square every few days. You don't think it's a monastery, do you?"

“I’m telling the truth,” Elder said, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “When I was studying at the University of London, I was a notoriously introverted student. I could spend the whole day in a bookstore and never joined any of those fancy clubs or parties. You know, I’m an idealist at heart.”

Tennyson didn't believe Elder's claims either, but before questioning him, he decided to carefully verify with someone knowledgeable: "Arthur, was this guy really like that back then?"

Arthur shook his head: "I don't know."

Tennyson thought Arthur was just giving him the runaround: "How could you not know? Aren't you in the same grade as him?"

“Of course I don’t know,” Arthur said matter-of-factly. “He never takes me along when there’s a shy or awkward situation.”

"Nonsense!" Elder's face flushed red, and he sat up straight, provoked. "Arthur, you ungrateful bastard! Swear on your conscience, when has there ever been a good thing that I didn't think of you?"

Tennyson asked blankly, "So when you left Arthur, you were doing something bad?"

Dickens nearly choked on his tea upon hearing this: "Alfred, how come you've learned this trick now?"

“What do you know!” Elder was a little annoyed by the laughter, but he stubbornly raised his head: “That’s a symbol of youth! Young people are always a little impulsive, which just shows that I’m a passionate romantic! Just like Lord Byron!”

"Bloodlust? That should be called a fetish, right?" Tenny added abruptly.

Seeing that the atmosphere in the editorial department had turned to this place, Arthur figured that he wouldn't be able to work peacefully here today, so he reached out and took his hat off the coat rack. Just as he was about to put it on, he suddenly noticed that Disraeli was walking over from the window.

The Jewish youth said to Arthur in a low voice, "Do you have a moment? I'd like to talk to you about what happened this morning."

“Of course.” Arthur casually put his hat on.

"Don't stay too long!" Dickens called out half-jokingly as he saw them preparing to leave. "How are we going to arrange some romantic activities tonight without you two?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, shrugged without turning his head, and that was his response.

The two left the noisy editorial department, walked through the corridor piled with sample copies, and only stopped when they entered the balcony at the stairwell.

Arthur leaned against the doorframe and lit a lighter. "Speak, Benjamin, what is it?"

Disraeli took off his gloves and smoothed his hair. "What else could it be but those articles about Lister? To be honest, things are getting a bit out of control. Everyone seems to be trying to drag this into the court."

Arthur took a drag of his cigarette. "You mean those reports that allude to the Viscount of Melbourne and Her Majesty the Queen?" "That's right." Disraeli nodded. "Luckily, it's not Saturday, so most of the weekly magazines haven't gone to print yet. Right now, the main newspaper reporting on Lister's case is the Morning Post. Before things escalate, we can talk to those weekly magazines and at least get them to remove all the parts about Her Majesty the Queen when they edit their weekly news summaries."

If one were not an old Londoner, they would most likely not understand what Disraeli meant.

Why does he value weekly magazines so much, yet feel indifferent to attacks from the morning paper?
This is mainly determined by the current state of the publishing industry in the UK.

Although the Morning Post always provides the latest and most timely news, it is not only expensive for most people, but also too lengthy.

Many readers don't have time to read through all the parliamentary news, police and court reports, and railway and mining columns, while those who do have time are largely uninterested in most of it. Most readers prefer a leisurely approach to current events, neither seeking deep understanding nor wanting to be forced to consume a daily news feast.

Throughout London, only stockbrokers, insurance professionals, and politicians read every single morning paper, and they are willing to pay at least six pounds a year for it.

For the vast majority of the working class, who make up the majority of society, they lack both money and time, and in fact, they lack the desire to read daily newspapers. They might occasionally buy a morning paper, but generally speaking, they still prefer to read weekly magazines.

Weekly magazines were not only cheaper, but also more to their liking. Compared to daily newspapers, weekly news was often carefully selected, with more concise, easy-to-understand, and interesting content. Best of all, they included a large number of illustrations, providing enough reading material for the workers to digest for a whole week.

As one worker said in a street interview: “We live in a peaceful country where everything is in its proper place. Even if we find out a few days later, nothing can hurt us. Dissolve Parliament? Let them dissolve it; it's just a general election anyway. Cabinet resign? There are plenty of people in this country who want to be ministers; it's not worth the trouble. Foreign war breaks out? That's great; we're willing to pay for it, but thanks to the English Channel and the British navy, the French won't be able to invade England before the weekly is published. You see, all of this shows that people don't need to rush to know the latest news!”

That's why Disraeli was worried about the weekly's influence.

Because the weekly magazine's readership includes not only street workers, but also lawyers, pastors, teachers, real estate developers, and wives of politicians who live in the suburbs and have some spare cash. These people read slowly, remember well, and love to gossip. If they happen to see any ambiguous hints in the magazines on the coffee table, and add a few of their own imaginings, things will really blow up.

The pipe burned between Arthur's fingers, and the wind blew across the balcony, dispersing the smoke into a light haze.

He turned his head and glanced at Disraeli: "Benjamin, tell me the truth, did you spread the word about Lister?"

Disraeli paused for a moment, then frowned and asked, "What do you mean?"

“Literal meaning,” Arthur said calmly. “The current winds are so uniform that they don’t seem spontaneous.”

“How could you guess it was on my head? I have no grudge against Liszt.” Disraeli immediately waved his hand, his tone carrying a hint of annoyance at being wrongly accused: “Do you think I would do something so stupid? I’m not one of those poets and literary critics who make a living by inciting rumors and slander.”

“Don’t get excited, Benjamin, I just want to confirm something…” Arthur smiled and shook his head at Disraeli’s attitude. “If we were the ones who leaked the information, then all that’s left is to carry out the plan. If we weren’t the ones who leaked the information, then that would be even better.”

Disraeli's brow furrowed deeper and deeper. He didn't quite understand Arthur's logic: "What do you mean? Are you just going to let them make up whatever they want? Do you know who this will implicate? Lister! Melbourne! And Her Majesty the Queen! Didn't you make an enemy of Lister in Paris? They'll definitely suspect us."

“I do have a grudge against Liszt, but, Benjamin, you know me. I’m not the kind of petty person who holds grudges.” Arthur casually tapped his pipe. “Of course, if you don’t know me, I suggest you read the article I published in the Paris newspaper. I never denied Liszt’s talent from beginning to end; I just couldn’t stand his arrogant attitude. Liszt was indeed a piano genius, but that doesn’t mean my successor, Mr. Sigismund Thalberg, was a good-for-nothing.”

“Even if you didn’t attack Lister, you two must have had some disagreements, right? Besides, we just acquired the English rights to Beatrice, and the review of The Englishman has already been written…” Disraeli stopped abruptly at this point.

He suddenly realized something: the book review of Beatrice in The Englishman hadn't been published yet, and the latest issue of The Englishman was scheduled to be published tomorrow.

Disraeli's expression changed, and he turned around abruptly: "Damn it!"

He turned and rushed downstairs almost reflexively, without even having time to put on his gloves.

Before he could run two steps, Disraeli heard Arthur call out slowly from behind, "Benjamin, where are you going?"

"Needless to say? I need to get the article withdrawn right away!"

"No need for you to make the trip, I've already notified them."

Disraeli paused, then turned around and asked, "What...what did you say?"

“I said…” Arthur leaned against the iron railing of the balcony, his tone calm enough to be infuriating: “The manuscript has been withdrawn, and even the layout has been changed.”

"when will you……"

“Just now,” Arthur said, raising his hand, “when I was having dinner with Albert at Green Restaurant.”

Disraeli's mouth gaped open, unable to close for a long time. He even doubted whether he had heard correctly: "During dinner? How did you do that?"

Arthur smiled and took the pipe from his mouth: "It's not difficult at all. Just pass a note downstairs to the typesetting room and hand it over to the printing supervisor. The revision can be completed within half an hour. It's just a pity for Langworth. Not only will his hard-earned book review not be published, but he also has to write an article this afternoon, 'When the Piano of Paris Meets the Night of London,' to praise Liszt and Talberg's epic duel at Buckingham Palace."

"You...you anticipated this?"

“No, not at all.” Arthur looked up at the street corner in the distance. “I didn’t expect anyone to be so eager to do the dirty work for us just to get that news timeliness, but it’s a pleasant surprise. However, if we didn’t start the fire, then we have no obligation to put it out. Let the fire burn a little longer, and when someone can’t stand the heat anymore, they’ll naturally come to us for help.”

“But this is too dangerous…” Disraeli said with trepidation, thinking of the possible consequences. “All eyes are on Lister and Buckingham Palace right now. If the fire continues like this, even Her Majesty’s reputation might be at risk…”

“Benjamin, what are you afraid of?” Arthur interrupted him calmly. “When it comes to Her Majesty’s reputation, there is no one on this island of Great Britain who cares more about Her Majesty’s reputation than I do!”

(End of this chapter)