Chapter 374: Red and Black

Chapter 371 The Red and the Black

“I come from a lowly background, ma’am, but I am not lowly.”

He sighed, “Hell on earth is here, and as soon as I walk in, I can’t get out of him!”

–The Red and the Black

Fleet Street, London, The Cockney Editorial Office.

Alexandre Dumas nestled himself into a comfortable sofa chair and sat comfortably by the fireplace with a roaring fire.

If it were normal time, he would have opened his mouth to complain about the drizzly, foggy London winter.

But today all his attention was drawn to the manuscript in hand, sent from Paris.

As a playwright with a great appreciation of literature, Dumas had always disdained second- and third-rate works.

As for Paris, the capital of literature and art, there are a lot of fresh novels and plays produced there every year, but not many of them could catch his eye.

Tennyson saw him come, hurriedly picked up a cup of water and took a sip to try to calm down his emotions: “I …… was just touched by this piece of poetry, coupled with the fact that I did have a really bad year …… father died, and in terms of creativity it was a mess. and it’s a mess in terms of creation …… so, for a moment, I didn’t control my feelings.”

……

He was holding a manuscript, even the hand holding the manuscript was shaking, even his lips were green and white, and he couldn’t stop the tears from fluttering down, he raised his sleeve and wanted to dry his tears, but each wipe would only make more tears on his face.

The fat Frenchman slapped the manuscript on his face and shouted with envy and jealousy, “Alexander, look what garbage you’ve written! This is fiction, this is literature! I can tolerate being beaten by Victor, but where did this Mr. Stendhal come from? How is it that he can write at this level and be completely unknown before?”

I, the eternal and immortal Son of Glory.
In order to convince you of your guilt, I condemn you.
At that time, I had to pretend that

Although Agareth had no interest in specifically analyzing a particular human being, after spending so much time with Arthur, he could still see between Arthur’s eyebrows that his little client was upset and unhappy.

An evil spirit from Purgatory.

Not wanting to say much about this, the Red Devil simply slumped down towards the couch and began to recite chapters of The Red and the Black in a relaxed, written manner.

“Although this young man came from a lowly background, his self-esteem was extremely strong, and if his self-esteem was hurt, he would do things that were not very rational. For the so-called upper class, all he felt was hatred and disgust, because this upper class actually only accepted him at the end of the table.”

But again, hesitant.

“Yu Lian, a carpenter’s son, is determined to make a name for himself, but has no choice but to join the army, and eventually chooses the path of the church. By chance he was spotted by the mayor and became a tutor, then afterward became the secretary of the marquis, thus flying all the way to the top, but in the end he …… huh ……”

Arthur paced to Tennyson’s front, as far as possible with a light tone and gas probing, “Alfred, what need I help?”

The Red Devil spoke without continuing.

Even more than that, he loved this book, The Red and the Black, more than the new work of Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris, which various members of the Second Parisian Literary Society had sent him together from France.

“What news of the world?
What has changed in my cottage?
Is my son at peace in his dreams?”

Arthur had thought he was in a bad enough mood today, but he hadn’t realized that there were two others in the editorial department who outdid him, which was truly unexpected.

Such feelings directly overcame the proud mental defenses he had built up over nearly a year by working on The Count of Monte Cristo.

Immediately afterward, Arthur’s gaze swept downward.

Seeing this, Arthur immediately understood why Tennyson was so emotional.

I covered my face with my hands, then.

And while he couldn’t stop himself from complaining loudly, the Red Devil, whose legs were squatting and numb behind him, couldn’t help but speak, “Damn! This novel is just brilliant!”

CLICK.

The red devil on the couch yawned and said, “Arthur, why bother, are you still in the mood to care about others now?”

But the novel, entitled The Red and the Black, gave birth to a lot of shame for Dumas.

“No, Arthur …….”

In all fairness, Dumas believes that he has not produced any work to date that can rival The Red and the Black.

For Arthur, this was the expression of his resentful specter.

Arthur glanced at him, then smiled at Tennyson and spoke, “May I see this piece?”

To make matters worse, both The Red and the Black and Notre Dame de Paris made Dumas feel deeply ashamed of himself.

But compared to Dumas, Tennyson was clearly worse.

Arthur smiled at his words and said, “Frustrations are all only temporary, but the fact that this piece of poetry has managed to impress a poet of your caliber seems to make it very good indeed.”

Arthur pushed open the door to the editing room and had just taken off his hat when he saw Dumas and Agareth nestled in the sofa chair reclining.

“Of course.” Tennyson handed over the thick stack of manuscripts, “It’s a masterpiece as good as any.”

Immediately afterward, he craned his head toward Tennyson’s seat, only to find that the rising star of British poetry was no better.

I have long longed to return to heaven.

I fear to meet your mother.
I fear she will ask me questions:

To express his love for this work, Agares, who has a good memory, even recited the chapters of the novel: “His cheeks were flushed, and he looked down at the ground. The young man was eighteen or nineteen years old, and had a rather weak appearance. The features were not quite straight, but clear, the nose was quite sharp, the two eyes were large and dark, when he was quiet, he appeared thoughtful and studious, enthusiastic, but at the moment it was a resentful and ghostly expression.”

He must have been thinking of his late parents here.

Weeping bitterly, he was ashamed.

The Red Devil savored this description of Yu Lian, the protagonist of The Red and the Black, as if he remembered something old, and he bared his sharp teeth in gleeful laughter.

For his flashing red eyes saw through the door panel that Mr. Hastings, who had just finished his work at Scotland Yard, had stepped through the door with an expressionless face.

What? You’re grieving for us? -Who are you grieving for?
It isn’t for me to weep, is it? May I ask, what use am I?
If it’s in combat.

There’s nothing to say. Mr. Freund can still fight.

Maybe even cut the spine of a few Don Cossacks.

But in times of peace – even if I live ten thousand years.

I’d only be able to curse the Moscow devils for a hundred years and then die.

……

If they put me in chains and exile me to Siberia. Lithuanian brothers will see me and think:
This is our noble blood, our youth is being destroyed.

Wait for it, Moscow ghosts!
Wait, tsarist murderers!

A man like me, Tomasz, would rather die hanging from the gallows!

A man like me – can only serve the Fatherland by dying!

Arthur could not help turning forward a few pages as he read this.

Sure enough, he found on the first page the familiar name of that poet whom the Literary Society of the Friends of Poland had so strongly recommended to The Englishman-Mr. Adam Mickiewicz.

Beneath it, in a handsome script, was his motto – For Fatherland, Learning, and Justice.

And this manuscript is the third part of his latest work – The Sacrifice of the Ancestors.

Undoubtedly, it is a monumental masterpiece, and for the Poles it is a great chapter that will eventually go down in the history of their nation.

But ……

For the Russians, this work was tantamount to committing treason.

Even if it were 1968 instead of 1831, the book would have been banned by the authorities in Poland just as vigorously.

And for Arthur, who had just experienced the Liverpool incident, there were real doubts as to whether the work would actually pass the censorship of the library’s publishing department.

Fortunately, even if The Sacrifice of the Ancestors could not be published separately, it could at least be published as a serial in The Englishman, thanks to the fact that newspapers and magazines are not subject to separate censorship.

While it’s not a problem to hold a viewpoint that contradicts the government’s position once in a while, if they do it regularly, it’s a big question whether they’ll be able to smoothly renew the Cockney’s license to publish when their letter of permission comes up for renewal.

But Arthur clearly didn’t want to think about that at the moment.

He’s called for a shot in the arm, so he wants to backhand them as well.

It wasn’t as good as the one Bellingham had given to Prime Minister Percival, but it would help him air his grievances.

Besides, emotionally speaking, he did sympathize with the displaced Poles, as this “Sacrifice of the Forefathers” illustrates.

Mickiewicz could not have written such a touching work if he hadn’t experienced real suffering and hadn’t witnessed the execution of his friends and relatives by the Tsar.

In practical terms, the Tsar’s suppression of the Warsaw Uprising had brought many Polish refugees to London, and refugees represented a precarious security situation. He wasn’t a big fan of this unauthorized addition to his workload, especially since the person who assigned him the job wasn’t his superior.

Tennyson wiped a tear from his eye and smiled.

“Arthur, am I right? It is indeed a great work. Although I am a bit jealous, I still have to admit that only someone like Mr. Mickiewicz can be called a poet, and I can’t even describe him as a poet anymore, he is a soulful singer from Poland.

I can feel the power of anger in his words, and I know what is happening to the Polish people, he is such a great patriot. Every time I reread his work, I feel more and more the unbridgeable gap between me and him.

A great poet is someone like him who can record an era in verse. I …… I really don’t know exactly what I can do to catch up with one millionth of his talent.”

Hearing this, Arthur just lit the fire and sipped his cigarette, “Alfred, I agree with you. But from a friend’s point of view, I pray to God that you’d better never become a great poet like him.”

Tennyson froze at this, “Why?”

Arthur put the copy back with his pipe in his mouth, “Because, that would be painful. The verses recording heaven have already been written by the clergy, so poets wanting to achieve greatness would have to go and witness hell. In this respect, Dante as it were, Wordsworth as it were, Byron as it were, Mickiewicz as it were …… Wow, but Homer is the exception.”

Tennyson wondered, “Why is Homer an exception?”

Arthur leisurely exhaled a puff of smoke, “Because the guy was blind.”

Tennyson was so amused that he nearly spewed out the tea he had been drinking into his mouth, and his extreme sadness disappeared without a trace.

“Arthur, can you give me a little mental preparation before you joke next time?”

Arthur shrugged, “Alfred, those who write detective novels like me are different from those who write poetry like you. Detective novels are about a sudden attack that catches you off guard, not about laying down emotions like writing poetry.”

Tennyson pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, “Well, it seems I have less talent for detective fiction than poetry.”

Arthur said kindly, “Alfred, a man of low talent cannot produce a masterpiece like Timbuktu. It’s not that you don’t have talent, it’s that you lack some of the experiences necessary to become an outstanding poet. But like I said just now, you are my friend, so I hope that it is best for you to be able to bury your talent and live out this life happily and fulfillingly, even if it ends up as an ordinary person.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Tennyson smiled and spoke, “Even though I know you’re paying me a compliment, I’d still like to thank you, at least I’m much more comfortable in my heart now.”

“No need to thank me.” Arthur asked, “By the way, how are your studies at the University of London going?”

“Thanks to your blessing, it’s going quite well.” Tennyson smiled back, “The professor said that with my learning speed, I can’t say I can finish the course and graduate a year earlier.”

“Thank God.”

Arthur faked a cross on his chest, “Although I don’t know why he favors the University of London, a school that educates a bunch of atheists, at the very least our Classics Department will finally be able to educate a serious poet.”

Tennyson was embarrassed, “You’re not doing Mr. Carter a disservice by saying that, are you?”

Arthur sniffed and couldn’t help but look apologetic, “Wow, Alfred, if you hadn’t reminded me, I did almost forget about this best friend of mine, he’s really quite hellish.”

Hearing this, Dumas, who was lying on the side of the corpse, blew away the manuscript covering in front of him with a breath and spoke, “Not only that, he also dragged Sir Scott, who spoke highly of him, to hell with him.”

Arthur twisted his head to look at Dumas, “Alexander, if you didn’t say something I would have thought you went along with it.”

The fat Frenchman sniffed and just gave Arthur a middle finger, then he stood up with the manuscript and said, “Come on, look at this, the work Victor sent me from Paris.”

“Victor?” Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow, “You mean Mr. Hugo?”

“Wow, I almost forgot, you’re an admirer of his.”

Dumas rubbed his ass, which was numb from reading the manuscript, “In that case, things are fine. Victor discovered a new author in Paris, but his book was banned by the authorities not long after it was published there, so he wrote to me to ask if The Englishman could help represent the book in London.”

Arthur couldn’t help but lock his eyebrows at that.

At such a sensitive time, The Englishman was already quite jumpy for resisting the pressure to release The Sacrifice of the Forefathers, and if it published another printed book that was unsatisfactory to the authorities, then it was bound to attract the attention of some people.

It would be dangerous if this caused The Cockney to completely expose its shareholding composition and ideological orientation.

However, although Arthur did not immediately agree, he still wanted to see what kind of book had made Hugo make such a big deal about it first.

And when the manuscript came up to Arthur’s eyes, the first thing he saw was the line of aphorisms on it.

I understand that this book will be censored in the 1830s, but I am also convinced that I will be understood in 1880, reprinted in 1900, read in 1935, and remembered by the world 150 years from now.

–Stendhal.

(End of chapter)