Chapter 139: Britain’s First Literary Critic

Chapter 139 The First Literary Critic of Britain

Arthur held the manuscript in his hands and turned page after page.

Although the manuscript was very familiar to him, this time it was not in print that he was looking at, but from the original handwriting of Charles Dickens.

He read it very slowly, not only to show his respect for Dickens, but also as a kind of reminiscence of times past and another world.

After an unknown amount of time, Arthur put down the manuscript and leaned back in his chair and joked, “Perhaps this manuscript should be displayed in the British Museum rather than on my desk, after all, it is one of the few collections that Great Britain has produced itself.”

Dickens’ face flushed hot, “Arthur, there you go again. You’re always bragging about me like that, but you’re going to make me believe it.”

Arthur shook his head, “How could I be bragging about you? Didn’t you write both ‘Mr. Minns and his Cousin’ and ‘Scotland Yard’, two short pieces published in the Monthly Magazine a while back? I told you, Charles, you’d be a great writer one day. This long story, Pickwick’s Outlaws, will make you a fortune, and it will be even more successful than those two previous short articles of yours.”

“Really?”

Dickens was at first a little excited, but then less confident. “Arthur, you might as well be honest with me. I genuinely want to hear what you have to say. You know, I used to juggle my life, working to pay off my debts and all that, so I never had many friends. And of the few friends I have, the one with literary taste, I think you’re probably the only one. Seriously, Arthur, come pick my brain. I just wrote a beginning and a partial synopsis of the story’s plot, so it’s not too late to change it if I have to.”

Arthur just laughed when he heard him being so insistent, then picked up the copy and flipped through it again, “If I had to say there’s something I can’t see past, it might just be here.”

“Where?” Dickens took the manuscript and scrutinized it at the place where Arthur pointed, “Are you saying that this place where the con man Ginger lured Miss Wardell to elope is inappropriate? That readers don’t like this kind of plot? Or that it’s not in keeping with the morals of the devout?”

“No, no, no, you misunderstand me.”

Arthur laughed and said, “Readers love this kind of thing, and as for moral values, where are they nowadays. After all, the best-selling London tabloids are full of ‘love stories’ that make you blush at the first glance. By look away, I mean it’s a bit surreal that Mr. Wardle, having discovered his daughter’s elopement with that swindler, decides to offer £120 to keep the swindler away from his daughter.”

Dickens sniffed, “Where is it surreal?”

Arthur laughed, “In fiction it’s all, pay you as much or as little as you want to leave my daughter. And in reality it’s all, give me as much or as little money or leave my daughter. But that’s really okay, Charles, it’s fiction after all, and maybe there really are people like Mr. Waddell.”

Dickens couldn’t help but bite his lip and think for a moment when he heard this, and he trailed off his voice, “No …… Arthur, you seem to have a bit of a point. How about I change Miss Wardell to Mr. Wardell’s sister? Growing up close to each other, so their feelings are deep, which is why they can’t bear to let their sister’s fantasies be shattered, so they privately give a sum of money to the crook Ginger to keep him away from Ms. Wardell?”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, “Deal with it however you feel like, it can’t hurt. Because as far as I’m concerned, you’ve got more than enough ingredients for success with this novel.”

Dickens looked hesitant, perhaps because of the repeated failures over the years, the young man was severely lacking in self-confidence.

“Arthur, is it really that good?”

Arthur, looking at him in this manner, could only encourage him, “It’s not that it’s good, it’s that you’re good. Have you forgotten what I told you? Charles, people like you are destined to be literary heroes. If the income from royalties earned after the publication of this ‘Pickwick Gaiden’ is less than a thousand pounds, Charles, you can always come to me to make it up to you, I’m that confident.

If you don’t believe in my vision, you can wait for another month, I promise you, in a month’s time, there will be a novel called The Count of Monte Cristo, which I helped to finalize, burning through the streets of London.

Perhaps that novel will even be more popular than your Pickwick Gaiden, because from the point of view of popular literature you can hardly find any flaws in it except that its author is a Frenchman.”

Dickens was instantly interested when he heard this, “The Frenchman you speak of is not the one you saved from the high seas, is it? Mr. Alexander Dumas?”

Arthur smiled and nodded, “It seems that the fat man’s kidnapping was a blessing in disguise, at least he’s quite famous in London now.”

Dickens sniffed and was a little discouraged again, “Mr. Dumas’s fame is certainly partly due to the kidnapping, but it’s also partly due to his play Henry III and His Court, which caught fire in London for a while last year. Mr. Dumas is a little known playwright, and it is only natural that he should be able to produce great works, while I ……”

Arthur shook his finger, “No, Charles, don’t look at it that way. Maybe you’re a little closer to his earning power than he is, but there’s usually nothing profound or culturally significant in what that fat man writes, and he’s not even a sure bet to take down the Victor Hugo of the same era in terms of standing in the field of literature and the arts.

Although the fat man may not be sad, after all, the frank acceptance of failure is considered one of the few good character of the French.

And I just learned that perhaps his biggest dream was to be a first-class French cook, and his second dream was to continue doing his old job and become a French artilleryman.

But you are not like him, and your Britannia in this day and age is completely overpowering a large group. Your writing may yet give some impetus to this age, if you will, and you may well be said to sit second to none in the whole history of the literature of Great Britain.”

A few words of Arthur’s boasting were hardly listened to at all by Dickens, who looked blearily at Arthur, as if he wished to get some substantial evidence out of him. Dickens fell into deep self-doubt, “I’ve been meaning to ask that question since a long time. Arthur, why do you think so highly of me?”

Arthur, hearing this, also fell into silence as he pondered how to answer this question for Dickens.

Suddenly, he lifted his eyes to Agareth, who was polishing his glasses at the table, as if he were torturing the devil’s mind with the same question.

When the Red Devil saw his gaze, he couldn’t help but take off his glasses and cover his mouth with a smile.

“Where’s the why? I look favorably on you just because you’re good, only the strong deserve to be in my company, only the weak fall into self-doubt. So, Arthur, don’t hang around with these cowards, it rots your bones and nerves.

Consider why you set up that Provisional Survey and Statistics Office for the London area. If you can’t make the world love you, you might as well make the world fear you. The way you make Jones is very appropriate, why should we reason with them?

Once upon a time it was necessary to reason because you had no power; now that you have power, do what you can to become unjust and unrighteous. With all due respect, your useless kindness will only lead you to more attacks.”

Arthur smiled at this and just laughed and shook his head, “There is nothing more revealing of a man’s character than to see what it is that he mocks. What you think you’re mocking is someone else, but in reality what you’re mocking is yourself.”

Dickens was stunned to hear this as he asked, “Arthur, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” Arthur took a couple of magazines out of his desk drawer and placed them on the desktop.

They were several magazines of literary criticism such as the Monthly Review, Blackwood.

Earlier, in order to investigate Disraeli’s experience, Arthur purposely went to a used bookstore and bought back all the issues that attacked him.

I thought that they would be useless after the investigation was done, but I didn’t expect that I would actually be able to use these magazines to show some extra value in front of Dickens today.

Arthur casually flipped open one of the magazines and pointed to the words on it.

“Don’t you know that lately it is very popular to read fashionable novels among the citizen groups in London, especially the middle class? Writers who are now accomplished and want to make a great deal of money usually do not describe any of the hero’s mental activities, but focus on the way he dresses, portraying him as typically fashionable as possible, and then make a few witty remarks through him.

When describing the heroine, on the other hand, they list the addresses of the fancy dress stores she frequents, and try to be as minute as possible about some details of life, such as telling the reader that upper-class people eat fish with silver forks or something.

Perhaps it is because nowadays the distance between the middle class and the upper class aristocrats has been drawn closer, so when they have a little money, they start to care about the behavior and manners of the upper class people, and learn from them how they raise their hands and feet, their eating habits, and so on.

In short, the more detailed and refined you write this aspect, the more readers will love to read it. Besides, this Pickwick Gaiden of yours contains elopements, elections, banquets, squatting in jail, and a whole lot of plot reversals, and I really can’t think of a reason for this book to fail.”

Dickens heard this and gradually came to have a little more confidence.

He looked at Arthur, hesitated for a long time, and suddenly gathered enough courage to speak, “Arthur.”

“What is it?”

Dickens stared at Arthur and earnestly requested, “Since you think so highly of my book, why don’t you come and write me a preface?”

Arthur first had a blank expression, then raised his eyebrows lightly and half-joked, “Are you sure? I’m a Scotland Yard cop, not some literary critic.”

Dickens blinked and embarrassedly rubbed the back of his head and laughed, “If the book is as good as you say it is, why should I worry about exactly who the person who writes my foreword actually is? You’re writing my foreword, and when the time comes, if it makes any money, it’s just as well that I can share some of it with you.”

“Whoa …… Arthur ……” sneered the Red Devil, covering his mouth, “See, what did I say? You’re only hurting yourself with your paltry kindness. Maybe this guy was running for this in the first place …… A book with a foreword by the Superintendent of Scotland Yard would be a breeze to publish, I suppose?”

Arthur glanced at the Red Devil as he drew out a piece of white paper, then drew out a feather quill from an ink bottle and swiped his ink, as he wrote he also opened his mouth and muttered, “If that can be considered harming me, then I’d rather he come and harm me once per book. After all, any fool knows that this is probably more profitable than buying Rothschild’s stock.”

(End of chapter)