shadow of britain

Chapter 922 Sir Arthur admires you; come work at Imperial Publishing!
If you ask a lower-class Irish laborer in London where he comes from, he will first tell you he is from Old Ireland, and then add, “There are good people and bad people everywhere.”

This assessment also applies to penny-cent journalists. If asked what profession in the world exhibits the greatest polarization between good and evil, it would undoubtedly be these. Among them are freelance investigative journalists who uphold the truth and are unafraid of power, and those who, driven by greed, fabricate stories and create trouble. However, it is heartbreaking that among penny-cent journalists, the latter far outnumber the former.

In order to deceive the associate editor in charge of reviewing the manuscript and thus achieve the goal of getting the manuscript accepted by the newspaper, penny reporters will even devise elaborate scams.

To maximize their profits, the two would sometimes collude, agreeing that one would submit the article on the same day, while the other would send a detailed rebuttal to the newspaper the following day, insisting that the first person's report contained errors in detail, in order to convince the reviewing editor that the bizarre report was not entirely fabricated.

Although newspaper editors will naturally keep an eye on subsequent submissions once such a scam is exposed, contributors have ways to circumvent the newspaper's ban. They may use a new pen name or pay someone else to submit their work on their behalf.

Many of the vaguely worded romantic tales and bizarre unsolved cases in London newspapers were the product of the imaginations of these penny-penny reporters.

In this line of work, some people can even earn £200 to £250 at a time by repeatedly using the same story template. Two or three years later, when forgetful London readers no longer remember the story, they can repeat the trick, change the details, names, and locations, submit it to a different newspaper, and earn another £200.

Mr. David Lewis was one of the best penny journalists.

He discovered the secrets of this industry early on, abandoned the low-end approach of working hard and relying on luck everywhere, and gradually figured out a set of reusable story templates through continuous practice.

His suicide reporting templates are practically a unique skill in the industry; he calls them "drowning narratives."

The stories always begin similarly: a London morning, fog, the Thames embankment—a few words sketching out that damp, hazy atmosphere. Then, he introduces a respectable yet unfortunate person who takes their own life. If it's a gentleman, he'll invariably have been at a club dinner the week before. If it's a lady, she'll always leave a note filled with depression, guilt, or betrayal.

In Lewis's writing, the reasons for suicide are always tinged with a vague romanticism: either love, debt, or the collapse of faith. Of course, given the increasing popularity of science in society recently, Lewis has also added "the nihilism of being trapped by science" to the motivation section...

These were all subjects Lewis repeatedly explored. He even kept a notebook with an alphabetical index of various motives for suicide. When he was lacking inspiration, he could simply flip to any page and immediately piece together a good story.

What truly gave Lewis his expertise was his attention to detail.

He could always concoct seemingly true but unverifiable details, such as "the gentleman had a broken pocket watch in the right pocket of his coat," or "he wore a ring with the letters ML on his left hand," and so on.

Of course, even details that are impossible to verify can sometimes coincidentally match up.

Earlier this year, Lewis gave a "detailed report" on the rumor that a gentleman had jumped to his death from Waterloo Bridge—I must say, I cannot call it a "factual report." Although Lewis claimed to have witnessed it firsthand and expressed deep sorrow for the deceased's reckless act in an extremely emotional tone, and even went to great lengths to describe the victim's physical characteristics, unsurprisingly, despite the Thames River Police's extensive search, the body was never found.

After the news appeared in the Morning Post, the two gentlemen visited the newspaper the following day, saying that the description of the unfortunate person in the news report was very similar to that of their relatives who had been missing for two days. They also pleaded with the newspaper to allow them to meet with the writer in order to verify the identity of the deceased.

When the newspaper informed Lewis, inevitably, in his own elegant words, he was in trouble.

However, he then had a flash of inspiration and became convinced that this idea would allow him to get out of his predicament with dignity.

He then went to the newspaper office, where two gentlemen were anxiously waiting for his arrival.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” As soon as Lewis arrived, one of the gentlemen immediately stood up: “But this is a truly heartbreaking case.”

“That’s true,” another gentleman sighed in agreement.

"You two are referring to that unfortunate man who drowned himself, aren't you?" Lewis adopted a solemn expression like a funeral director, seemingly expressing deep sympathy for the pain shown by the two gentlemen.

"Yes, that is the unfortunate deceased. We... alas, we are very worried that he may be a close relative, Mr. Lewis. Could you please describe his physical characteristics in detail? This way we can confirm whether he is indeed our relative."

What color is your relative's hair?

"Golden."

"Oh! Thank goodness! Then this unfortunate deceased was not your relative, because his hair was jet black."

A hint of joy flashed across the two gentlemen's faces: "Sir, I assure you, we are extremely grateful that you so readily granted our request."

"It was nothing, and I'm just as happy for you both."

"I am truly grateful! Please accept this small token of my appreciation as compensation for the trouble I have caused you."

With that, the gentleman slipped two guineas into Lewis's hand.

“You’re too kind,” Lewis said, putting the gold coins into his pocket.

Perhaps out of a pang of conscience, or perhaps out of concern that repeating the crime in the short term would expose him, Lewis immediately tore up the "news" article he hadn't yet submitted that night, which described a graceful and elegant lady who had committed suicide by jumping into the Regent's Canal.

However, since he couldn't make money with "drowning narratives" in the short term, Lewis's income immediately plummeted.

Some might say, can't Lewis just run around chasing trends and taking a gamble like his peers?
Of course not. As a high-end individual who stands at the pinnacle of the penny journalism industry and possesses a specialized skill, how could he possibly be willing to lower himself to write about those headless flies of idiots?
Instead of spending money on travel and exhausting yourself fighting in the fiercely competitive red ocean of the industry, why not be bold in exploring and innovating, and venture into the blue ocean market that few of your peers dare to touch, which is high-risk and high-return!
Riding the wave of Queen Victoria's accession to the throne, Mr. David Lewis has decided that he will focus his main efforts on royal news reporting!
Although it is already 1 a.m., Evans Restaurant in Covent Garden Market is still brightly lit.

However, the liveliness here is invisible from the outside, because Evans Restaurant is an underground restaurant, and perhaps the first music restaurant in London to use singing as its selling point.

In London, underground wine cellars were long notorious, regarded as a den of iniquity and a place of debauchery for the depraved.

But since the Evans Hotel was renovated in 1835, its once bustling underground wine cellar has been transformed into an elegant gathering place. Whether it's the peculiar rule of settling the bill at the door upon departure, the newly formed restaurant choir and lyric book, or the Evans recommended set menu that includes roasted potatoes, stout, and kidneys sprinkled with chili powder, everything feels fresh and exciting to Londoners.

The Evans Gallery in the lobby, adorned with portraits of celebrities, and the specially designed viewing boxes for ladies, reminiscent of Arabian Nights, make this place a coveted destination for socialites. Furthermore, its location in Covent Garden, a hub for theaters, makes it virtually impossible for the business not to thrive.

During the first half of this year, when Lewis was experiencing a financial crisis, he would never have dared to eat at Evans' restaurant every day.

However, to celebrate his new article securing space in two morning and two evening newspapers and helping him escape his financial crisis, Lewis felt that arranging a relaxation plan for himself wasn't such a luxury.

It's nothing more than staying at the Evans Hotel for three consecutive days, watching a play in a box at the Covent Garden Theatre, and dining at the Evans Restaurant...

Which of those truly upper-class people doesn't live like this? Lewis wiped the beer foam from the corner of his mouth with a napkin, put down the half-empty glass, and leaned back slightly in his chair.

The previous night's consecutive all-night writing sessions and rushing around the newspaper office had left him somewhat exhausted. The tension he felt while moving between sponsors and editors finally eased a little under the music and lights of Evans Restaurant.

He looked up at the stage ahead, where the restaurant choir was standing on one side of the steps, singing a passage from "The Red-Clad Sailor." Waiters carried steaming platters of kidneys through the crowd, and the air was filled with the aroma of spicy pepper and stewed meat.

Lewis was in a good mood. This time, he got three and a half pages in several newspapers, which meant that even if he stayed in Evans for a month, he would still have money to spare.

He forked a piece of roasted potato and put it in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that a man was also sitting alone at the round table across from him, dining alone.

The man was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark black suit, with the collar buttoned up tightly, his hair neatly combed back, and his boots polished to a shine.

His plate was barely touched; a few thin slices of grilled beef tongue and half a piece of bread were neatly cut, but only a corner was missing.

He didn't look at the stage or the lively guests around him; he just sat there quietly, holding a book in his hands.

Lewis thought to himself, "A person who eats alone must have some kind of story, right?"

Lewis raised his glass, smiled slightly, and leaned towards the table: “What a coincidence, sir! It seems we are two of the few lonely souls in the restaurant tonight.”

The person turned around at the sound, their eyes extremely clear.

"Perhaps." The person looked up from the book and replied calmly, "But I've always thought that lonely people mostly just don't want to be disturbed."

Lewis was amused by this remark, and he gestured to the waiter: "Two more drinks, one for me and one for this gentleman at the next table."

After speaking, he smiled and said to the man, "Let me offer you a drink as an apology for disturbing you."

The gentleman nodded slightly in thanks, but didn't say anything more.

But that's just the kind of person Lewis is; the more others ignore him, the more interested he becomes.

The penny reporter's professional instincts quietly awakened, and he deliberately inquired about the stranger: "I see that the food on your table has hardly been touched... Is the food here not to your liking?"

Upon hearing this, the gentleman, as if knowing there would be no peace and quiet that day, shook his head, put down his book, and said, "When the French have a late-night snack, it's nothing more than a plate of cold salad, a few slices of appetizer fruit, a tender partridge, a light omelet, and at most a bowl of bland soup with a lean steak. But even so, sometimes the French are awakened by nightmares, sitting up in bed, terrified, and vowing never to eat a late-night snack again. The Italians, on the other hand, spend three and a half pence on macaroni." A simple meal to fill the stomach. Spaniards spread garlic on a slice of bread, eat it, thank God, and go to sleep with a cigarette dangling from their lips. Rugged Germans prefer cold cuts of meat and salad for their late-night snack, then down this simple meal with beer. With late-night meals like those at Evans' restaurant, I really don't know which country they're targeting. Perhaps Americans? But Americans don't really eat late-night snacks, just as they never have proper breakfast, lunch, or dinner; they're always overeating and constantly smoking.

Lewis was stunned by the long list of place names and food comparisons. He was so dumbfounded that he inadvertently revealed his inadequacy in front of Arthur.

"Haha!" Lewis paused for a moment, then finally burst out laughing. He slapped the table, almost knocking over his wine glass. "I thought only journalists liked to fabricate stories about exotic customs, but I didn't expect you to be the real expert. You wouldn't happen to be a geographer, would you? Or perhaps you're in the import/export business?"

"Geologist? Import/export business?" The man shook his head: "No, I'm not."

“That’s even stranger.” Lewis leaned forward. “I’ve been covering the news for over a decade, and anyone who can talk about the eating habits of France, Italy, Spain, Germany, England, or even America is either a travel writer or someone stationed abroad for a trading company. What you’ve said is more vivid than any article I’ve ever read in the Illustrated London News.”

The man looked at him and smiled slightly, "Is that so? Even if this is just polite talk, I still want to thank you. After all, what you just said at least proves that my past diplomatic work was not in vain."

"Diplomatic work?" Lewis almost thought he had misheard.

He instinctively straightened his back, as if suddenly realizing that he might be talking to a gentleman who had seen countless monarchs and ministers.

“My God! You…you’re a diplomat?” Lewis repeated cautiously. “This…this is truly a rare encounter in London, sir! You must know many important people, right? Ministers, envoys, members of parliament…oh, even Her Majesty the Queen!”

“I do know some people,” the man smiled and said casually, “but most of the time, I’d rather they didn’t know me. That way, they won’t blame me whenever something goes wrong.”

“That’s truly remarkable!” Lewis solemnly raised his glass, his smile a little obsequious. “Then you must have seen many extraordinary things. We poor writers can only imagine what the world is like through hearsay, but you have truly stepped into it.”

Lewis racked his brains, recalling political cartoons from various magazines, trying his best to find one that matched the gentleman before him.

"Is your trip back to London a paid vacation, or are you about to be sent abroad again?"

"Unfortunately, it wasn't a public holiday or an overseas assignment." The respectable gentleman sighed, "I offended some people in the industry, so I was kicked out of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

"Kicked out?" Lewis's eyes widened, as if he had heard something utterly absurd.

He immediately put down his glass, his voice rising an octave: "Those idiots! There are enough idiots in London already, but I never imagined there were so many hiding in those houses on Whitehall!"

Lewis's expression held a hint of exaggerated indignation: "Sir, look at them. They keep saying they are the brains of the country, but what do they do? They spend all day locked in their offices yawning at maps. They don't understand the complexities and subtleties of foreign affairs at all! How could they possibly tolerate someone as knowledgeable as you? These idiots love nothing more than ostracizing people who are smarter than them."

The gentleman took a small sip of his drink, smiled faintly, and didn't reply.

Lewis, however, grew increasingly enthusiastic: "Am I right? They put on this high and mighty act all day, as if the world should revolve around their rules. But what are their rules? Documents, approvals, bureaucratic jargon! In this city, you get promoted not through talent, but through nepotism. You get credit not through courage, but through flattery. If you're really being ostracized for being too frank, it just proves your character is superior to theirs. I bet you spoke the truth on some important matter, and it embarrassed those old foxes. Right?"

The gentleman spun his glass halfway around, seemingly pondering for a moment, before slowly saying, "Perhaps. Diplomacy is sometimes more dangerous than news writing. If you miswrite a line, at most it just means your article won't be published. But if we miswrite a period, it could cost us a war."

“That proves I was right!” Lewis slammed his fist on the table, his voice trembling with emotion. “A man of integrity like yourself is the kind of person Britain should value! I know those people all too well; they would rather have a bunch of sycophantic good-for-nothings than trust a pragmatic person who understands the world.”

The gentleman smiled and looked at him: "You seem to know quite a bit about Whitehall?"

"Understand?" Lewis laughed heartily. "What don't we journalists know? We've squatted at the entrance of Whitehall, we know exactly how many guards are at the Foreign Office, which Treasury employees are slacking off, and who comes and goes through the back door of the Prime Minister's residence on which days. It's just that knowing too much is useless; if we write it down, we'll be banned, and if we don't, we'll starve. Haha, that's the beauty of London journalism!"

The gentleman raised an eyebrow slightly and asked with a smile, "You have to do everything yourself? Wouldn't that kill you? Don't you have any apprentices or informants to provide information?"

(End of this chapter)