SGB Chapter 260

## Chapter 260: The Pinnacle of 19th Century Literature (5K6)

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the glass windows and bathed the living room of No. 36 Lancaster Gate in golden light, Arthur was already seated at the small tea table beside the bookcase, a cup of Earl Grey tea in hand, embarking on his usual Sunday reading routine.

However, today, his reading material wasn’t his beloved novels, illustrated books, or satirical cartoons, nor was it the latest academic papers from the Royal Society. Instead, it was a full box of letters from readers.

As a magazine primarily focused on fictional stories, “The Englishman” had always boasted a highly active readership.

Whether it was Arthur, Alexandre Dumas, Disraeli, or Dickens, even Eldred Carter, whose “Robin Hood” had been put on indefinite hiatus due to his global travels, had received numerous letters of concern from readers.

Naturally, the disappearance of Eldred and the concurrent disappearance of “The Monkey’s Tale” by Mr. Darwin had also attracted considerable attention from the readership.

Some even joked that Robin Hood must have eloped with a monkey.

Setting aside the truth, at least in terms of direction, the readers’ judgment wasn’t entirely wrong.

Arthur casually picked a letter from the box, quickly scanned it, and set it aside.

Judging from the three neatly stacked piles of letters in front of Arthur, it was clear he had deliberately categorized them into different types.

Agareus, juggling a shuttlecock, inquired with a puzzled expression, “What are you doing, Arthur? Are you having a professional relapse? Haven’t you had enough of classifying all the files from the Criminal Intelligence Bureau? Come on, Arthur, it’s your day off. At least try something new.”

“Isn’t this new enough?”

Arthur continued sorting the letters, unconcerned. “If the Criminal Intelligence Bureau’s files were only three types, I’d be eternally grateful. Personal files, group information, undercover agents’ lengthy but pointless routine reports, plus key situation analyses for special missions, and some seemingly trivial but potentially useful scattered information that needs to be kept for future reference.

However, since you don’t like it, we can look at something else. Benjamin is going to the White Club this weekend to network with Tory officials, so I’ll be reviewing the manuscript for the next issue of “The Englishman.” Besides, I’ll also be handling the articles for the supplement, “The Economist.” This will be a good opportunity for me to see if the quality of submissions has improved after the increase in circulation.”

Having said that, Arthur casually pulled another paper box from beside the armchair and slid it towards him.

He opened a manuscript at random, and his frown deepened as he read. Soon, he couldn’t help but shake his head and set the manuscript down. “Another Alexander devotee. Don’t they realize that meticulously describing lobster shells won’t make them write a “Count of Monte Cristo”? A whole page of cheese, vegetable soup, sizzling roast meat, and wobbly pudding. Perhaps the kitchen of a London restaurant is more suitable for him than the pages of “The Englishman.”

The Red Devil tapped his chin, rummaging through the manuscript box with disdain, when suddenly his red nose twitched, as if smelling something delicious. Agareus’ eyes lit up, and he pulled out a manuscript. “Oh! My dear Arthur, what do you think of this one? I can assure you, this is definitely an extraordinary piece.”

Arthur took the manuscript from the Red Devil, unwrapping the envelope while still teasing, “Is the Devil’s reading method different from humans? We use our eyes, why do you use your nose?”

“No, no, no, Arthur,” Agareus closed his eyes and wagged his finger. “Although I haven’t seen what’s inside, I can smell that this manuscript comes from a delicious soul. You know, in the Devil’s olfactory evaluation system, delicious usually represents greatness. A literary masterpiece created by a great soul can never be bad.”

Arthur opened the letter and said, “Is that so? I remember you also said that Alexander’s soul smelled quite fragrant, like freshly baked, warm white bread with foie gras. It would be even better if we could open a bottle of champagne for you right now. But if you don’t open Alexander’s letter and take a closer look, who knows what he’s written inside? A page of swear words, a new recipe he learned, or a masterpiece like “Count of Monte Cristo?”

“I don’t care about that. That’s your job as the temporary editor,”

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

Arthur shrugged. “Go talk to him yourself. But I think even if he agrees, I won’t be able to find a furnace or oven in London big enough to fit him.”

Having said this, Arthur shifted his gaze back to the thick stack of letters in his hand. “He hasn’t disappeared. He’s simply undergone a transformation through seawater, turning into a beautiful, rare gem. Hmm, using Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” as an introduction? Judging from this opening, this story might be a tragedy?”

Arthur’s eyes moved down, then suddenly stopped, because he saw the title of the play. It wasn’t long, but he stared at it for fifteen seconds.

Arthur read softly, “Prometheus Unbound?”

The Red Devil, holding a champagne flute and savoring the drink, couldn’t help but whistle when he heard this. “Oh! That’s a good one. Percy Shelley’s unfinished work. Sadly, this manuscript was never published in London due to political reasons back then. Arthur, you’ve struck gold with “The Englishman” this time. Just put Shelley’s name out there, and at least during its serialization, the little rascals from “Blackwood’s” and “The Monthly Review” will definitely not dare to criticize “The Englishman” for its literary merit.”

Arthur quickly flipped through the manuscript in his hand. “I’ve seen the Greek version of “Prometheus Unbound” in old bookstores before, but almost all versions only have the first act, “Prometheus Bound.” All the shopkeepers gave the same answer. They said that most of the content from the second to the fourth act was lost and couldn’t be compiled into a complete book. But why does the manuscript I have not only have the first act, but also the complete content of the second act?”

At this point, Arthur couldn’t help but look up at the Red Devil. “Agareus, did you happen to call Shelley up to drink and have fun with you last night when you were out with Alexander?”

Agareus replied, “Oh! My dear Arthur, what do you take me for? Don’t you remember what I told you? The dead cannot be resurrected. Anyone who can be resurrected is a miracle worker, one and only. Although Shelley was a good poet, he’s not qualified in this area. Instead of questioning me here, why don’t you take a look at the note that was accidentally sent along with “Prometheus Unbound” at the end of the manuscript?”

Hearing this, Arthur quickly found the letter at the end and read it carefully.

My dearest Mary:

I am yours again, and this happiness will overwhelm my short-lived self-indulgence.

Oh, my love! Why is our joy so fleeting, so intertwined? How long will this life continue? My dearest Mary, you know, in the days without you, I have fallen to vulgarity and depravity.

I can feel their empty, rigid eyes fixed on me, until I seem to sense their malice…

Breathing this disgusting air makes me weary and powerless. I am dying, and perhaps only your gaze at me before you fall asleep can save me.

At the bottom of this love letter, there were also traces of dried tear stains, with a line of delicate and elegant writing across them.

Percy, my life without you is so agonizing. If I hadn’t agreed to let you leave my side, if I hadn’t let you embark on that fatal voyage, perhaps we would still be living happily in Athens now?

Percy, I have good news for you, Greece is liberated. It is no longer the bound Prometheus.

Percy, I also have bad news for you. I have been bound to Mount Caucasus in place of Greece, and your death is the diamond nail that has been driven into my heart.

Percy, if you were still here, you would probably be the Hercules who smashed my iron chains. But unfortunately, you are no longer here.

The rest of my life is destined to be spent in endless longing. But rest assured, I will organize and publish all the golden apples you left behind, your great works. You have lived a great life, not too long, but enough to be glorious.

Your Mary, if you still have a shred of your soul left in the world, please don’t forget me.

Agareus leaned down and read the love letter, feigning two tears. “Oh! What a sad love story. A deceased lover leaves behind a youthful wife. This kind of story always makes people weep, even a 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 hasn’t been fulfilled yet.”

Agareus exclaimed, “Contract? Oh, my Solomon! Arthur, you little rascal, you still remember we have a contract? You know, if Agareus the Professor wasn’t so kind-hearted, you would have been fired for being a lazy bum! But you won’t let me bother her, could it be that…”

The Red Devil suddenly leaned towards Arthur, whispering with a mischievous smile, “Oh! Arthur, I didn’t realize. You and Disraeli are both into mature women! Perhaps this mature woman should be a bit intellectual too?”

Having said that, the Red Devil took out his little notebook from behind his butt and scribbled and flipped through it. “Come on, I’ll help you see if there are any suitable ones nearby. Or you can pay ten souls, and I’ll give you a directory. From eighty years old to thirty years old, as long as you want it, you can find it in the directory.”

Arthur calmly picked up his teacup. “What if I want a three-hundred-year-old?”

Agareus scratched his chin and said with a frown, “Your taste is pretty extreme! That request is a bit difficult, but… If you’re determined, I’ll go to Westminster Abbey’s graveyard and look for you. How about your former queen, Elizabeth I? She’s just a little young.”

Arthur nodded. “How old is she this year?”

The Red Devil adjusted his glasses and replied, “298.”

Arthur nodded. “Pretty good.”

Agareus mumbled, “You’re not picky at all!”

Arthur set down his teacup. “They’re all royalty. What’s there to be picky about?”

The Red Devil glared. “You little rascal! Are you getting cocky? You really think I’m a London rat? If you keep talking nonsense, I’ll send you to the Andes Mountains to keep Eldred company. You want women? That place only has endless snow peaks, marmots, nightingales, and all kinds of birds with names you can’t even pronounce.”

Hearing this, Arthur finally breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that so? So they’ve already arrived there. Thankfully, Eldred hasn’t been eaten by cannibals?”

It’s unclear whether it was because Eldred’s life or death was considered insignificant information by the Red Devil, but he didn’t mind talking about it a bit more.

Agareus snorted. “Cannibals? That bastard is more cunning than you can imagine! Yesterday he just shot a mountain lion with his flintlock and shared it with Darwin, the little bald guy. According to them, it tastes just like veal.”

“Eldred can do that?” Arthur couldn’t help but sneer. “Then Alexander is probably doomed. He’s been saving up his new revolver ever since he bought it, waiting for Eldred to come back and give him a good beating. Now it seems Eldred might be able to shoot him dead with one shot upon his return.”

The Red Devil impatiently asked, “You still haven’t answered me. Why won’t you let me get close to Mary Shelley? What, are you going to start preying on her like a mountain lion?”

Arthur shook his head. “It depends on how you understand it. I hear that people in difficult situations are often more easily tempted, and Mrs. Shelley is clearly in a difficult situation now. I seem to remember hearing from the ladies of the Blue Stockings Society that it’s not easy for Mrs. Shelley to raise her children as a single woman, and Mr. Shelley’s father has always been harsh to her, showing little care for his daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

If it weren’t for the hardship, Mrs. Shelley wouldn’t have written novels and penned “Frankenstein.” The identity of a female writer is still too controversial in this era. Plus, she still needs to organize and publish Shelley’s unfinished works, which requires a lot of energy and financial resources. If not for this, she probably wouldn’t have chosen to collaborate with “The Englishman.”

However, instead of choosing old-established literary magazines like “Blackwood’s” and “The Monthly Review,” she came to the newly established “The Englishman.” I’m curious what kind of considerations Mrs. Shelley has in making this choice…”

As Arthur spoke, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps coming from upstairs.

Without turning around, Arthur directly said, “Alexander, didn’t you promise me last night that you would wake up on time today and help me review manuscripts?”

“What’s the rush? Even if “Robin Hood” is discontinued, “The Lyric Collection” and “The Young Duke” are completed, “The Englishman” still has my “Count of Monte Cristo” and your “Hastings Detective Collection” to support it. The magazine won’t go down for a while.”

Alexandre Dumas stretched and walked down the stairs, his big butt sinking into the armchair. He rubbed his eye sockets and glanced at the box full of manuscripts. “Damn, why are there so many?”

Then he glanced at the box of reader letters next to Arthur, and then at the box belonging to him, finally revealing a proud smile. “It seems the throne of the most popular author in “The Englishman” is not going to be taken from me for a while.”

Seeing the fat man so smug, Arthur threw the manuscript in his hand at him. “Sorry, Alexander, I’m afraid your throne is going to belong to someone else starting next issue. If you dare to compete with him, it’s best to bring an umbrella when you go out, otherwise, be careful of being drowned by his fanatical supporters, each with a mouthful of saliva. And by the way, Eldred is also one of his loyal fans.”

Alexandre Dumas caught the manuscript. “What kind of level can someone Eldred likes have? Our “The Englishman” isn’t going to stoop to publishing erotic novels, is it? Let me see… “Prometheus Unbound”? Hmm… Damn! Isn’t this Shelley’s work? Arthur, did you resurrect him?”

Arthur was about to explain something to Alexandre Dumas, but the doorbell rang at that moment.

Ding-dong.

Arthur stood up and said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Alexandre Dumas, holding a pen in his mouth, read with gusto. “I say, you should really consider hiring a maid or something. We two big guys cooking is no problem, it’s a kind of fun. But washing clothes and dishes, ladies do it more meticulously.”

“So, that’s why you rubbed three pairs of pants to shreds?”

“You’re not much better!”

Arthur ignored Alexandre Dumas’ retort and directly opened the door in front of him.

Just like the bewilderment he felt when he saw Shelley’s work, the person standing outside the door caused him to be surprised. “Mr. Thomas Campbell?”

An elderly gentleman in a white English standing collar shirt, a short tailcoat, and white hair, slightly raised his hat and smiled. “Arthur, it’s been a long time since we last met after you graduated.”

Arthur also smiled lightly. “Mr. Campbell, it’s really unfortunate. If you had come a few months earlier, you might have seen Eldred here. I remember him saying that he loved attending your class the most when he was in the Classical Literature Department. He also said that he learned all his poetic skills from you. Your “The English Sailor” is always the number one work in his heart. He often recites it to the Royal Navy sailors when he has nothing to do on board.”

“Thank God!” Campbell took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his temples. “Although it’s an honor to be praised so highly by that boy, I think Byron and Shelley, those Satanic poets, have had a bigger influence on him. Not to mention, the poems he writes are indeed like Satan, they sound really terrifying!”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile at this. “So, are you just passing by and dropping in for a chat, or is there something I can help you with?”

Campbell heard this, and a smile appeared on his face. “Arthur, you really are the most outstanding graduate of our University of London. Brougham didn’t see wrong in you, you really cherish the alumni relationship of the University of London. Yes, I do have a small request today. I heard from Mr. Disraeli that you and he co-founded this “The Englishman,” right?”

Arthur invited him into the house and asked, “Do you want to submit something to us?”

“No, not just me, but… there are many friends who have fled to Great Britain… I originally went to ask Brougham if he could publish their articles in “The Edinburgh Review.” But Brougham politely refused. He said that he is no longer in the opposition now, and “The Edinburgh Review,” as the Whig party’s mouthpiece, is too sensitive in its identity, unsuitable for publishing those people’s works. So, he recommended your “The Englishman” to me.”

The more Arthur listened, the more he felt something was wrong. He stopped in his tracks and suddenly asked, “Friends who fled?”

He looked at Alexandre Dumas and pointed at him, asking humorously, “Mr. Campbell, are your friends like my tenant, Mr. Dumas, French Republicans? If so, there’s absolutely no problem with their articles being published in “The Englishman.” After all, we already have one here.”

“No, Arthur, you’ve misunderstood,” Campbell said with some embarrassment. “My friends are all Poles who have fled to exile in Britain. I brought them together to form the British Polish Friends Literary Association. By the way, you should know what happened in Poland in the past six months, right?”

(End of Chapter)