Fantasy Writers 1860

Chapter 85. Maupassant: How wonderful it would be if I could write such a work! (Seeking first subscription)

Similar earnest admonitions are playing out all over Lentinion. Countless people who were initially attracted to buy the newspapers by the erotic or sensational advertisements by the newsboys find themselves in a state of sage-like clarity after reading them carefully.

They were ashamed that they had initially used such an inappropriate idea to speculate about this profound and serious work.

And so, word spread, and with countless people who had already seen it spontaneously recommending it to those around them, the original 2000 copies and the remaining stock were all sold out on the very first day.

"Mr. Bentley, I need at least 500 more copies. If you have any in stock, please prioritize allocating them to me."

"President, people from Booker Bookstore outside want to see you; they need to restock!"

"Still no stock? I've already arranged with the distributors to supply another 700 copies today!"

"President, the printing plant is out of stock too; they're funding the reprint themselves!"

The editorial office of Bentley Weekly was a hive of activity.

The daringly dressed Dickinson stood out in the office. She walked through the bustling crowd, went straight to Bentley, and handed him the documents.

"Take a look for yourself."

It was a spreadsheet that recorded the sales figures for each sales point on the first day.

The rows of detailed data were dizzying to look at, but in the end, they were summarized into a clear and striking figure:

"6230 copies of 'My Goddess—' Bentley's voice sounded somewhat dazed."

Normally, their magazine sells only around 3500 to 4000 copies, which is neither good nor bad in the highly competitive Londinion. Even with the added fame of Dickinse's column, the peak sales only reached 5300 to 5900 copies.

This time, they actually sold 6000 copies!

And this is not the end, it may only be the beginning, because many bookstores, reading rooms and distributors are still urging for more stock.

"What did I say? I'm a professional. You're just a businessman who doesn't understand literature at all. Just focus on running the newspaper and don't try to interfere in the literary field." Dickinson looked at the stunned Bentley, one hand on her hip, a confident smile on her face.

"—You're right, Miss Dickinson, I was too loud earlier." Although Dickinson's words were still unpleasant to hear, Bentley was willing to listen to her scolding for the sake of the record-breaking first-day sales.

He knew perfectly well what was the reason for this sales explosion.

At first, she excitedly told herself that the two articles were excellent and could at least double the newspaper's sales. She believed that the author who could write such articles must be a talented person and should be paid more and recruited as much as possible.

When Bentley read them, he felt that the two novels were indeed well-written, but he did not agree to Dickinson's suggestion to pay more royalties. He felt that these articles were ultimately written by a completely unknown newcomer. If he offered him such a high royalties from the beginning, how would he manage him in the future?

As a result, Dickinson got into another argument with him, like a cat with its fur standing on end. She said that our relationship with the authors should be a sincere collaboration. We provide the platform, the authors generate income for us with their works, and we then pay them the compensation they deserve, instead of a distorted relationship where one side is in control of the other.

In the end, as usual, Bentley said Dickinson was too young and idealistic and didn't understand what business was, while Dickinson said Bentley was too mercenary and profit-driven and didn't understand what literature was.

However, being forced into this situation by circumstances, Dickinson quickly calmed down and wrote back to the newcomer named Dorian. She even took out two gold pounds from her already meager pocket as payment for the manuscript and sent them back.

"I'm handing over all the work of collecting, editing, and typesetting to you, and I'll never interfere with your work again." Bentley was beaming with excitement.

Even though I was wrong, I still came out ahead.

"It should have been done a long time ago. You're not too late to realize this now." Miss Dickinson showed no politeness whatsoever.

At this moment, Bentley took out a few banknotes and coins from the drawer, and his tone suddenly became gentle like that of an old father: "I know that you paid that author 2 gold pounds in royalties out of your own pocket before. Take this money, I will make up for it for you, and the extra can be considered as my apology."

Dickinson accepted the money without hesitation, remarking that this guy wasn't like this before.

Sure enough, capitalists only respect those who can make them money.

"Speaking of which, we need to get in touch with this guy named Dorian—Winchester White—as soon as possible and see if we can get him to write a column for us. A novel of this caliber only needs one a month—no, one every two months. See if you can find a space for a column for him—"

“You don’t need to tell me,” Dickins interrupted Bentley. “I already extended an invitation to him in the offer letter. By the time you realize it, how long will it take you to react?

————..

The Republic of Iris, Ettelta, Normandy.

This is a coastal province of the Republic of Iris, facing Britannia across a strait. Every day, a large amount of goods, people and information depart from here to Britannia, while goods, people and information from Britannia also enter the Republic of Iris in large quantities from here.

It can be said that this is the gateway and the forefront of exchanges between the two countries.

Every day, a large number of travelers dock here, and newspapers and magazines from both countries are collected and distributed here before being sent to the other side.

Many newspapers and magazines are published in both countries simultaneously, and they have business in both.

Overall, however, the cultural influence of the Iris Kingdom was primarily directed towards Britannia, while Britannia received relatively little in return.

Every Iris person is proud of their culture.

A little boy leans against the shade of a tree, holding an English copy of Bentley Weekly.

He casually picked it up from his father, who worked as a clerk in the dock office. He just wanted to pass the time by flipping through it since he had nothing else to do.

Although their family is not doing very well now, they are still a minor noble family. The little boy received a noble education from a young age. In addition, there are many people and goods in Britannia, and he has been exposed to Britannian language since childhood.

As soon as he opened it, the title of the first page was "Necklace".

When he saw that Mathilde in the article didn't have pretty clothes or jewelry, but loved those very things, and felt that he was born for them, his first reaction was, "Isn't this just like my mother?"

This strange sense of immersion compelled him to continue reading.

He was also taken aback when he saw that Mathilde had lost the expensive necklace she had borrowed.

His mother had done similar things, borrowing other people's jewelry to attend banquets and salons, all to make her family appear wealthy.

"In the end, they should have found her, right?" The little boy broke out in a cold sweat, worried about Mathilde's fate in the story.

My own mother had done similar things, but she had never actually lost the borrowed jewelry. There were a few times when she thought she had really lost it, but she was always lucky enough to find it in the end.

However, Mathilde in the story was not so lucky.

When he saw the ending, he froze, his eyes wide open, speechless for a long time. He even read the last paragraph three times before he dared to believe this unexpected ending.

He closed the magazine, leaned against the tree trunk, and couldn't recover for a long time.

He never imagined that such a short story could have such a big impact on him. The words immediately captivated him, making his cheeks flush with nervousness.

He tossed the magazine he was holding onto the grass and lay down in the shade of a tree, gazing at the clear blue sky.

"This Mr. Dorian is such a good writer—if only I could write something like this, how wonderful that would be—" the boy murmured softly in a voice only he could hear, as if some strange emotion had been stirred within him.

"Guy de Maupassant!" A furious female voice rang out, startling the boy.

It's common knowledge that when your parents call out your full name through gritted teeth, something bad is usually about to happen.

"So you were here! Dad told you to go home and do your homework, so you just slept here, huh!"

The boy named Maupassant quickly got up and ran away.

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