Chapter 261: The Supreme Literary Temple of the th Century (K6)

Chapter 260 The Highest Temple of Literature in the 19th Century (5K6)

As the first rays of morning sunlight poured through the glass windows in the parlor of 36 Lancaster Gate, Arthur was already seated at the small coffee table by the bookcase, holding a cup of Twinings brand Earl Grey tea to begin his rest day reading routine.

Only today his reading was neither his favorite illustrated novels and satirical cartoons, nor the new journal papers of the Royal Society, but a box full of letters from readers.

As a magazine with a focus on fictional stories, the readership of The Cockney had always been quite active.

Whether it was Arthur, Dumas, Disraeli or Dickens, or even Mr. Elder Carter, whose circumnavigation of the globe brought “Grand Theft Robin Hood” to an indefinite hiatus, it received a number of letters from concerned readers.

And Mr. Darwin, the author of The Monkey’s Tale, who disappeared at the same time as Elder, naturally attracted a great deal of attention from readers.

There were even a number of people who jokingly claimed that Robin Hood might have eloped with the monkey.

If we put aside the facts, at least in terms of direction, the readers’ judgment was still quite correct.

Arthur casually took a letter out of the box and quickly returned it to the side after scanning it.

Judging from the three neat piles of letters laying in front of Arthur, it was clear that he had intentionally divided them into different types.

Agares played with the racket ball while wondering, “What are you doing? Committing an occupational disease? Aren’t you tired of playing with the various file classifications of the Police Intelligence Bureau? Come on, Arthur, on your day off you could at least get something new.”

“Isn’t this fresh?”

Arthur continued to categorize without thinking, “I’d thank God if there were only three types of files in the Police Intelligence Bureau. Personality profiles, group information, long-winded but unfocused routine debriefings by undercover agents, plus focused situational analyses of special assignments and bits and pieces of retained information that look like chicken scratch but might come in handy in the future.

However, if you don’t like it, you can read something else. It just so happens that Benjamin is going to be at the Wyatt Club this weekend looking for Tory dignitaries to pull strings with, so I’ll be reviewing the next issue of The Cockney. On top of that, I’ll have to arrange the copy for the supplement, The Economist. It’s a good opportunity for me to see whether the quality of the magazine’s submissions has grown at all after the rise in circulation.”

With those words, Arthur casually dragged the other cardboard box leaning against the side of the sofa chair towards his front.

He casually opened one of the manuscripts, and the more he read, the more he frowned, and it wasn’t long before he couldn’t help but put it down with a shake of his head, “Another Alexander wannabe… they don’t think they can write The Count of Monte Cristo with a meticulous depiction of lobster shells, do they? Full of cheeses, vegetable soups, greasy roasts and wobbly puddings, maybe it’s better for him to be in the back kitchen of a London restaurant than in the pages of The Cockney.”

The Red Devil pestled his chin and picked through the manuscript box in disgust for a while, then suddenly his red nose shrugged gently as if he had smelled something tasty, and with a flash of light Agareth drew a manuscript from it, “Oooh! My dear Arthur, what do you think of this one? I assure you, it’s definitely not a bad piece.”

Arthur took the manuscript from the red devil’s hand and opened the envelope while still flirting, “Don’t devils read differently than humans? We all use our eyes, why do you favor your nose.”

“No, no, no, Arthur.” Agareth closed his eyes and wiggled his fingers, “I haven’t seen what’s written in there yet, but I can smell that this piece came from a delicious soul. You know, in the devil’s olfactory rating system, delicious usually represents greatness. A literary chapter created by a great soul can never be bad.”

Arthur opened the letterhead and said, “Really? I remember you also said that Alexander’s soul smelled pretty good, like freshly baked hot white bread with foie gras, and it would be nice to open another bottle of champagne for you at this point. But if you don’t open Alexander’s letterhead and take a closer look, who knows if he’s writing in there full of profanity, newly learned recipes or a masterpiece like The Count of Monte Cristo?”

“I don’t care about any of that, that’s for you, the interim editor, to do.”

The Red Devil opened the wine cooler in his study and took the bottle of champagne out of it and shook it vigorously, “What I care about is, now that I have champagne, when are you going to present me with white bread smeared with foie gras?”

Arthur shrugged, “You’ll have to discuss it with him yourself, but I don’t think I’ll be able to find you a toaster or oven in London that will fit him for the time being, even if he agrees.”

With that said, Arthur returned his eyes to the thick stack of letterhead in his hand, “He didn’t disappear, he just underwent a seawater transfiguration and was transformed into a rich and precious treasure. Hmmm, using Shakespeare’s The Tempest as an introduction? Judging by this wedge, the story might be a tragedy?”

Arthur’s eyes shifted downward, then jerked as he caught sight of the title of the poetic drama, which wasn’t a long title, but he read it for a good ten seconds.

Arthur read slowly, “The Liberated Prometheus?”

The Red Devil, who was savoring champagne in a goblet, couldn’t help whistling when he heard it, “Wow! That’s a fine piece of work, Percy Shelley’s legacy, and it’s a pity the manuscript hasn’t been published in London for political reasons. Arthur, this time you ‘The Englishman’ is a good thing, as long as the name of Shelley is out, at least during the period of its serialization ‘Blackwood’ and the ‘Monthly Review’ of the curmudgeons will not dare to attack ‘The Englishman’ in literary terms.”

Arthur quickly flipped through the manuscript in hand, “I’ve seen the Greek version of The Liberated Prometheus in used bookstores before, but almost all of them only have the first act of The Bound Prometheus, and all of the shopkeepers’ replies to this are the same, they all say that most of the content from the second act to the fourth act escaped, and it’s impossible to organize it into a complete book. But why is it that this manuscript I have at hand has not only Act I, but even Act II in its entirety?”

Speaking of this, Arthur couldn’t help but look up at the Red Devil: “Agareth, when you were out fooling around with Alexander last night, did you idly call Shelley up to drink and relieve your boredom?”

Agareth sniffed, “Wow! My dear Arthur, what do you take me for? Have you forgotten what I told you? The dead cannot be brought back to life, and those who can are all miracle workers, and though Shelley was a good poet, he was not good enough in this respect. Instead of questioning me here, why don’t you take a look at the missive attached to the very end of the manuscript that was accidentally sent with ‘The Emancipated Prometheus’?”

Hearing this, Arthur hastened to find the missive that had been placed at the end and read it carefully.

Dear Mary:
I am yours again, and again this happiness will overwhelm my brief solitude.

O, my favorite! Why are our pleasures so short and lingering? How long shall such a life last? My best Mary, you know, in the absence of your company I am sinking to the level of vulgarity and nastiness.

I can feel their empty, rigid eyeballs staring at me until I seem to have felt their malice ……

All this disgusting air I was breathing made me weary and weak. I’m dying, and at this point, I’m afraid only the way you gazed at me before you went to sleep can save me.

And at the very bottom of this love letter was adorned with a line of dried tear stained specks, and across the specks was a line of timeless and delicate writing.

Percy, I’ve had such a hard time without you. If I had not consented to let you leave my side, and had not sent you on that fatal voyage, perhaps we would be living happily in Athens at this moment?
Percy, I have good news for you. Greece is free. It is no longer the bound Prometheus.

Percy, I have bad news for you too, I am bound to Mount Caucasus instead of Greece, and the news of your death is the diamond nail set into my heart.

Percy, if you were still around, you probably would have been the Hercules who smashed the chains that bound me, right? But alas, you are no more.

I am destined to spend the rest of my life in long, long thoughts, but rest assured that the golden apples you left behind, all those great works of yours, I will have them all organized and published. You have lived a great life in its entirety, not too long, but wonderful enough.

Yours Mary, if there is a shred of your soul left in the world, please don’t forget me.

Agareth leaned down to read the love letter as the red devil faked two tears and said, “Wow! It’s really a sad love story, a lover who died early leaving behind a wife in the prime of her life, this kind of story always draws tears, even the devil can’t help but want to help her.”

Hearing this, Arthur put away the envelope and glanced at the red devil, “Don’t bother Mrs. Shelley, our contract is not yet fulfilled.”

Agareth marveled, “Contract? Wow, my King Solomon! Arthur, you little shit actually remembered that we have a contract? You know what? If it weren’t for Professor Agareth’s generosity, you’d be out of a job as a passive-aggressive little shit! But you won’t let me bother her, is it ……”

The Red Devil suddenly stuck to Arthur’s side and lowered his voice with a bad smile, “Wow! Arthur, I can’t tell, you and Disraeli guy the same, the original are like mature women ah! Maybe this mature woman should add a little bit more sensibility?” At the end of his sentence, the red devil copied out a small notebook from behind his buttocks and scribbled on it, flipping it over and over again, “Come on, I’ll see if there’s any suitable ones nearby for you, or if you shell out ten souls, why don’t I just send you an address book? Up to eighty, down to thirty, as long as you want, the address book can be found.”

Arthur calmly held up his teacup, “And what if I want three hundred?”

Agareth clenched his jaw and wondered, “That’s an extreme fetish you have! This request is slightly difficult to handle, but …… if you really made up your mind, turn around and I’ll go to the Westminster churchyard to find one for you, what do you think of that former queen of yours, Elizabeth I? She’s just slightly younger.”

Arthur sipped his tea, “How old is the Queen?”

The Red Devil tipped his glasses back, “298.”

Arthur nodded, “Pretty good.”

Agareth muttered, “You boys aren’t picky!”

Arthur put down his teacup and said, “They’re all royalty, what’s there to pick?”

The red devil glared, “You kid! You’ve got your nose in your face, don’t you? Do you really take me as a rat in London? If you keep talking nonsense, I’ll send you to the Andes to keep company with Elder, and you still want a woman? There’s nothing there but snowy peaks, woolly mice, nightingales, and all sorts of other birds whose names you can’t pronounce.”

Arthur was relieved to hear this, “Really? So they’re already there. Is it fortunate that the boy Elder didn’t die at the hands of the cannibals?”

It was also unknown if it was because Elder’s life and death was categorized as worthless information by the Red Devil, who didn’t mind talking a bit more about it in that regard.

Agares grunted, “Cannibals? That kid is more of an asshole than you can imagine! He just took down a cougar with a musket yesterday and shared it with that little bald guy Darwin, and according to their comments, that stuff tastes just like veal.”

“And Elder has that in him?” Arthur couldn’t help but grimace, “Then Alexander is probably hanging by a thread, he’s been holding back waiting for Elder to come back and give him a whole lot of toughness ever since he bought that swivel flintlock rifle. Now, it seems that Elder, who may have returned from his training, can kill him with a single shot.”

Red Devil asked impatiently, “You still haven’t answered me why you won’t let me get close to Mary Shelley. What, are you a cougar about to start preying too?”

Arthur shook his head, “That depends on how you interpret it. I’ve heard that people in distress are usually more susceptible to temptation, and Mrs. Shelley is clearly in distress right now. I think I’ve heard from the ladies of the Blue Stocking Society before that Mrs. Shelley has had a hard time raising her children as a lone woman, and Mr. Shelley’s father has always been hard on her and cared little for his daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

Had it not been for her difficult life, Mrs. Shelley would not have gone on to create a novel and write that Frankenstein, the identity of a female writer was still too controversial in this day and age. Plus she also had to organize and publish Shelley’s posthumous works, this aspect to pay the energy and financial resources is also quite huge. If not, she probably would not have chosen to come to work with The Englishman.

However, not going to choose such old literary magazines as Blackwood and Monthly Review, but instead looking for the newly established The Englishman, I am curious as to what considerations Mrs. Shelley had in mind when she made this choice. ……”

As Arthur spoke, he suddenly heard staccato footsteps coming from upstairs.

Arthur didn’t look back and directly spoke, “Alexander, didn’t you pat yourself on the back with me last night and promise that you would get up on time today to help me review the manuscript?”

“What’s the rush? Even if ‘Grand Theft Robinson’ breaks off and ‘The Lyric Collection’ and ‘The Young Duke’ finish, doesn’t ‘The Englishman’ still have my ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ and your ‘The Hastings Mysteries’ to hold it up? The magazine won’t be cold for a while.”

Dumas stretched and walked down the stairs, sinking his big ass into the sofa chair and rubbing the corners of his eyes as he scanned the box full of manuscripts, “What the fuck, what’s with all this?”

He then glanced at the reader’s letters beside Arthur, and then at the box that belonged to him, and finally broke into a proud smile, “Looks like no one will be able to snatch the throne of The Englishman’s most popular author away from me for a while yet.”

Arthur, seeing that this fat man was so stinky, directly flung the manuscript in his hand over, “Sorry, Alexander, I’m afraid that this throne of yours will belong to someone else from the next issue onwards. If you dare to compete with him, you’d better bring an umbrella when you go out from now on, or else you’ll be careful of being drowned by one mouthful of spittle from one of his fanatical supporters. By the way, by the way, Elder is also one of his biggest fans.”

Dumas caught the manuscript in one hand, “What level could anyone Elder fancy be on? We, The Englishman, are not so low as to publish erotica, are we Let me see …… The Liberated Prometheus? Well …… fuck it! Isn’t that Shelley’s work? Arthur, did you bring him back to life?”

Arthur was about to explain a couple of things to Dumas, but he didn’t realize that the doorbell outside the house was ringing at that moment.

Ding ding ding~
Arthur stood up and spoke, “I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

Dumas was reading with great interest while containing his pen, “If you ask me, it’s time for you to consider hiring a maid or something. There’s nothing wrong with us two big men cooking, it’s kind of a pleasure of life. But when it comes to washing clothes and dishes, it’s still the ladies who do a finer job.”

“So that’s why you rubbed yourself three pairs of pants?”

“You’re no better than me!”

Arthur ignored Dumas’ retort and pulled the door to the room in front of him straight.

Like the dismayed one at the sight of Shelley’s work, the man who appeared at the door drew a surprise from him, “Mr. Thomas Campbell?”

The middle-aged gentleman wearing an English-style stand-up white shirt with a short tuxedo and graying hair lifted his hat slightly and smiled as he spoke, “Arthur, it’s been a long time since you graduated.”

Arthur smiled softly as well, “Mr. Campbell, it’s really unfortunate, if you would have come a few months earlier, you might have been able to meet Elder here. I remember hearing him say that his favorite class in the Classics Department was yours, and he said that he learned all of his poetic skills from you. Your ‘English Sailor’ was always the first thing in his mind, and he used to take it out and recite it to the sailors of the Royal Navy when he was on board.”

“Thank God!” Campbell sniffed and took out a handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat from his temples, “Although it is indeed an honor to receive such praise from that boy, I think it is still Byron and Shelley, the Satanist poets, who have had a greater influence on him. Other than that, the verses made by that kid are indeed similar to Satan, they sound really horrible!”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile at his words, “So, did you just happen to be passing by today to come in and sit down, or is there something I can do to help?”

Campbell’s face smiled more when he heard this, “Arthur, you are indeed the most outstanding graduate of our University of London, Brougham, he really didn’t look at the wrong person, you really do cherish the alumni relationship of the University of London. Yes, I do have a small request for you today. I have heard from Mr. Disraeli that you co-founded that Cockney with him, is that correct?”

As Arthur invited him inside, he spoke up and asked, “You wish to contribute to us?”

“No, not only me, but …… also many of my friends in exile in Britain …… I originally went to inquire of Brougham and asked him if he could publish their articles in the Edinburgh Review. But Brougham politely rebuffed me, saying that he was no longer in an incumbent capacity, and that the Edinburgh Review, as the organ of the Whig Party, was too sensitive a capacity to publish the work of those people. So he recommended your Britannica to me.”

The more Arthur heard, the more he felt that something was wrong, he paused in his footsteps and suddenly opened his mouth to ask: “Friends in exile?”

His eyes drifted to Dumas, and pointing to him, he inquired wryly, “Mr. Campbell, is it any wonder that your friends are French republicans like my tenant, Mr. Dumas? If so, there’s no problem at all with their articles appearing in the Cockney, and anyway, we’ve already got one here.”

“No, Arthur, you misunderstand.” Campbell spoke with some embarrassment, “Those friends of mine are Poles in exile, and I brought them to set up the Friends of Poland Literary Society in Britain. By the way, you should know about what happened in Poland in the past six months, right?”

(End of chapter)