## Chapter 198: A Business Proposal
As dusk settled over Hyde Park, Disraeli sat on a bench, gazing up at the rising moon and stars, sighing deeply.
Suddenly, he clutched his head in pain, letting out two anguished roars that startled passersby and even the red-eyed ravens that had flown from the Tower of London to feast on berries in the park.
The ravens flapped their wings in flight, leaving behind a feather as black and deep as the night sky, which landed in Disraeli’s palm.
He stared at the feather, feeling utterly defeated. He knew he wouldn’t win the election, but receiving only three votes was a blow. He had expected at least four guaranteed votes: his father, his uncle, his childhood friend, and himself.
The betrayal of his friends and family was already a heavy burden, but Disraeli couldn’t bring himself to confront them. Keeping it bottled up inside made him feel even worse.
Finally, he mustered the courage to find out who had betrayed him. But the investigation ended as soon as it began.
His father readily admitted that he hadn’t voted for him. He believed his son had no chance of winning, arguing that a Jewish man aspiring to be an MP required exceptional ability and composure, qualities his son clearly lacked.
He also deemed his son unreliable and unlikely to break the mold, not the chosen one destined for greatness. So, based on the principle of maximizing returns, his father concluded that it was unwise to waste a valuable vote on Disraeli.
He had therefore, without hesitation, sacrificed his son to ensure victory for his direct competitor, General Thomas Kirkland, the bombastic candidate for the Westminster district.
Disraeli couldn’t understand it. Was he less worthy of a vote than a shipload of gunpowder, in his father’s eyes?
He sat on the park bench, feeling the chill of the autumn evening seep into his bones, a chill that mirrored the coldness in his heart.
He knelt down, pleading with the moon, “Autumn is over, winter has arrived, and my heart is barren. God, why do you torment me so? Just take me away!”
But his cries went unanswered. Instead, the people passing by instinctively formed a circle, leaving a five-meter radius around Disraeli devoid of life.
He glared at the people who shunned him, kicked the Hyde Park railing, and a lazy voice echoed through the park.
“Mr. Disraeli, what are you doing?”
Disraeli spun around, meeting Arthur’s gaze.
He jumped back, his pants snagged on the railing. “H-Hastings… Inspector Hastings?”
“Just call me Arthur. We had a pleasant chat last time, didn’t we? But…” Arthur tapped the metal sign hanging on the wall. “Didn’t you see this notice? No damaging park structures or decorations.”
“I saw it.”
“You saw it, but you still kicked the railing?”
“But I didn’t see you!”
Disraeli’s sudden honesty left Arthur speechless.
After a long silence, he sat down on the bench, lit his pipe, and blew out a smoke ring. “That makes sense.”
Disraeli chuckled awkwardly, sitting down beside him. “Sorry, I’m not myself today. You know, I’m normally not like this.”
“Hmm,” Arthur nodded. “You’re normally a good person when you’re in a good mood, and you even helped me carry things.”
Disraeli removed his hat and placed it on his chest. “Ah… Arthur, I don’t know how to tell you this… I… I always thought I was quite popular. I spoke for the people, I aspired to be an independent candidate free from party influence.
I thought everyone would support me, but then I realized… I’m like a lone figure in the Siberian wilderness in the dead of winter, completely isolated.
I even told you I was proud. Now I realize I was being a complete fool. My business lost seven thousand pounds, my novel was ripped apart by critics, and now I’m out of the running for Parliament. I don’t even know if I’ve ever done anything worthwhile in my life.”
Arthur listened, reciting a line from Shelley: “Let the prophetic trumpet blow! Oh, wind of the west, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?”
Disraeli looked at him in surprise. “So, you think I still have hope? Or are you here to discuss literature with me?”
Arthur didn’t answer directly. He quoted another line: “If you are too careful of your feathers, you will lose your wings and never be able to fly again.”
Disraeli, despite his youthful arrogance, was not stupid. He understood the implications of Arthur’s metaphors.
“Sigh… Do you… do you think I should choose between the Whigs and the Tories?”
Arthur frowned slightly. “Also? Has anyone else said something similar to you?”
Disraeli didn’t hide anything. He nodded. “Whew… Yes, Mr. Rothschild said the same thing. He told me that a man fighting alone has no future. I need to find a powerful force to back me.
In Britain, if you want to win in a small constituency, you need to rely on the influence of the two major parties, because those voters are essentially controlled by them. And if I choose a large constituency, I need a platform with enough voice.
Like the Whig’s *Edinburgh Review* or the Tory’s *Quarterly Review*. Publishing an article there would have a far greater impact than anything I could achieve with a year of speeches in Hyde Park.”
Arthur listened intently, then asked a leading question. “So, if you don’t want to be controlled by the two parties but still want to pursue a political career, you’re left with starting your own newspaper? My God! That must cost a fortune!”
Disraeli waved his hand dismissively. “Money isn’t the main issue. The printing press and premises I bought when I started *The Representative* with that bastard Morley years ago are still sitting there. And although I went bankrupt last time, I did learn a few things about the publishing world, like distribution channels. If I really wanted to do it, I just need to hire a few new employees.
Plus, I mentioned it to you before, although I converted to the Church of England, I grew up in the Jewish community, so our family has some connections with the Rothschild Bank. Even if I don’t have enough money, borrowing a bit from them wouldn’t be a huge problem.”
Arthur nodded slightly. “So, everything seems pretty good. Why aren’t you willing to start a newspaper again?”
Disraeli scowled. “Do I need to spell it out? Of course, it’s because my *Vivian Grey* pissed off everyone in the publishing world. They’ve been clamoring to get me, to make sure I have no place in the British literary scene. If I lead a newspaper, no one would dare to submit to me. Contributing to my paper would be tantamount to declaring war on *Blackwood’s* and other major literary magazines.
Besides, selling newspapers isn’t as easy as you think. Reader tastes change every day, and it’s not easy to capture their attention. Even if I want to start a newspaper again, I need to define my position first, figure out who my target audience is.”
Arthur smiled and gave an example. “So, do you think Lady Cowper, along with Lady Codrington, Lady Milbanke, Lady Somerville, those lovely ladies from the Bluestockings Society, would do? Oh, and let’s not forget a few gentlemen from the Royal Navy, including General Thomas Kirkland, who beat you in the Westminster constituency.”
Disraeli was just making a casual comment, but when he heard the list of names flow from Arthur’s mouth, his eyes widened. “Arthur, are you joking? Why would these gentlemen and ladies buy my newspaper?”
Arthur didn’t say anything. He pulled out the manuscript for *The Count of Monte Cristo* from his pocket and handed it to Disraeli.
He smiled. “Because these gentlemen and ladies told me that if any newspaper publishes this, they’ll subscribe for a year. And let me add, *Blackwood’s* just called this manuscript trash, so I came to ask if you’re interested.”
(End of Chapter)