SGB Chapter 272

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## Chapter 272: Dickens’ Love Story (4K6)

The London air was thick with fog and a fine drizzle. A cold wind seeped through the window, sending a shiver down Arthur’s spine as he stepped inside.

He pushed open the door, folded his umbrella, and placed it in the stand by the entrance. Unwrapping his scarf, he exhaled a cloud of white breath and said, “Charles, make yourself comfortable.”

Dickens, also carrying an umbrella, surveyed the dimly lit room. “It’s awfully dark in here,” he remarked with a smile. “Does Alexander never light a lamp when he’s at home?”

“It depends on his mood,” Arthur replied. “But he’s definitely not here today. At this time of day, he’s either at some restaurant in London, reviewing dishes, or watching a play at a street theatre.”

Arthur hung their damp boots on the windowsill and lit the oil lamp on the table. Hesitating for a moment, he decided to splurge and set a fire in the fireplace.

Dickens leaned back on the sofa, watching Arthur prepare tea by the fireplace. “So, Alexander enjoys going to street theatres?” he asked.

Arthur grabbed two towels from the washroom, tossing one to Dickens. He wiped his wet hair and asked, “You seem to enjoy them too. Is there something special about them?”

“Well…” Dickens chuckled, “A licensed theatre like the Coburg Theatre has its own unique charm. Shakespearean classics like Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello, and King Lear are only performed at these established theatres. The ultimate goal for playwrights across Europe is to see their work on their stage.

However, the small theatres near the Riverbank, while not licensed to perform Shakespearean plays, have gained the right to stage farces and some musical productions due to the Covent Garden Theatre’s ‘Original Price Uprising’ in 1809. The Lord Chamberlain, responsible for overseeing theatrical performances, had to compromise with the London citizens and grant permission to unlicensed theatres.”

“Original Price Uprising?” Arthur added two teabags to his porcelain cup and poured hot water over them. “London had an uprising in 1809?”

“It wasn’t a real uprising, just a common riot using the name,” Dickens explained with a laugh. “You know how Londoners are, Arthur. Ever since people first inhabited London, they’ve always found reasons to riot and demonstrate. Although our riot tactics aren’t as extreme as the Parisians, the frequency of London riots is unmatched.”

Arthur, a Scotland Yard detective for almost three years, nodded in agreement. “When I was still studying at university, my professors taught us about London’s long tradition of riots. The reasons for these riots were diverse, ranging from grand ideals like overthrowing the king, blowing up the Houses of Parliament, or killing the Cabinet. Some were related to everyday life, like protesting against the rising price of rice and looting food markets, or complaining about low wages and destroying factory machinery. Others had nothing to do with anything but a desire to meddle in the king’s affairs, like protesting against the new queen or marching for the king and queen’s divorce. Let me guess, this Original Price Uprising was about protesting against the rise in theatre ticket prices?”

Dickens laughed, taking a sip of tea. “Arthur, you’re a detective, you guessed right. The Covent Garden Theatre had just been rebuilt after a fire. To recoup construction costs, the theatre manager added a private box for the wealthy and raised ticket prices for other seats.

This angered the citizens, who rioted and stormed the theatre. The trumpets and drums in the theatre sounded for two whole months. Eventually, both the theatre manager and the Lord Chamberlain had to give in to the citizens.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Thankfully, Scotland Yard didn’t exist back then. If we’d encountered such a situation, we’d be in a tough spot. After all, our officers don’t earn much, but they also enjoy going to the theatre. But speaking of which, why didn’t they just go to other theatres instead of protesting the price hike at Covent Garden? If I may be blunt, the plays there are good, but after watching two or three, it gets a bit repetitive.”

“The citizens weren’t unwilling to go to other theatres,” Dickens said. “But before the small theatres were allowed to perform in 1809, London only had two licensed theatres: Covent Garden Theatre and Drury Lane Theatre.

At that time, these two theatres didn’t just perform refined plays and musicals like they do today, but also offered entertainment like lion taming and horse-riding duels, which were popular among the common people. I’ve heard from some old Londoners that the theatre layout was different back then. The theatre was divided into four levels, with the top three levels reserved for the wealthy and nobility, and even two exclusive boxes for royalty. The main hall below sold seats and standing tickets.

During performances, the audience would joke with their friends or shout greetings to their friends in the upper boxes, creating a cacophony of noise. That’s why people say that only actors who had honed their skills at Covent Garden and Drury Lane could truly be considered stars in London.”

Arthur nodded gently. “Sounds lively. So, ticket prices weren’t expensive back then?”

Dickens chuckled. “Not really. Even ordinary people could afford to watch a play occasionally. I’ve heard that during the winter, when the theatres opened, Londoners would finish work in the afternoon or evening and spend four pence to buy a ticket in the main hall to enjoy a performance. If they were willing to spend two or three pence more, they could buy a large mug of ale and a serving of fish and chips at the theatre’s bar. If they spent ten or fifteen pence, they could get some meat dishes like a ‘wolf-swallowing-pie’ or something.”

Arthur, feeling a strange sensation, stared at Dickens for a while before stroking his chin and saying, “Charles.”

“What is it?”

“You’re describing London, but it sounds like Lutown,” Arthur said.

Dickens was taken aback for a moment, then clapped his hands and laughed. “Arthur, you can’t hide anything from you.”

“What? You’ve taken a new pen name, Zhou Shuren?”

“Arthur, what are you talking about?” Dickens laughed. “But you’re right, the wolf-swallowing-pie is from Luton, Bedfordshire. It’s a roll made with flour, water, and lard, filled with ham and bacon on one end and dipped in apple sauce on the other. But while the wolf-swallowing-pie is delicious, I prefer other bar snacks, like beef and kidney pudding, made with beef and kidney filling, deep-fried and coated with gravy, or the Cornish specialty, meat pie.”

Arthur took a sip of tea and rubbed his stomach. “You’re making me hungry. By the way, did those citizens in the main hall often eat those things you mentioned?”

Dickens shook his head. “How could they? Most of the people in the main hall were laborers from the docks or factories, they couldn’t afford such extravagance. Only those in tuxedos would stroll into the bar, order drinks and snacks, watch the play, and sip leisurely. Even single men doing manual labor, if they had money, wouldn’t spend it on food. Arthur, you know this, most courtesans buy discounted season tickets to the theatre to do business. And back then, there were only two licensed theatres in all of London, so they never lacked clients. They could do business in the hall or the bar.”

Arthur tapped his finger on the table. “I thought this phenomenon was recent, but it’s been going on for decades? Charles, if you hadn’t told me, I’d have been fooled by the Bishop of Exeter.”

“Fooled you about what?” Dickens asked.

Arthur sighed. “He just blamed Scotland Yard for incompetence. He said that the initial purpose of establishing Scotland Yard was to eradicate all forms of social evils. But after two years, the report Scotland Yard submitted showed that there were 80,000 courtesans.”

Dickens was curious. “I was going to ask you about this. Is the situation in London really that bad? Are there really 80,000 courtesans in London, as the bishop said, or 8,000, as Scotland Yard reported?”

Before Dickens could finish his question, the door was pushed open, and Dumas, his hair dripping wet, walked in.

He noticed the light in the room and turned to look. “Oh, Charles, is that you? Are you here to deliver your manuscript?”

Dickens took the manuscript from his bag and placed it on the table. “Of course I’m here to deliver the manuscript, but I’m currently discussing the number of courtesans with Arthur.”

Dumas burst into laughter, putting down his umbrella. “What’s the point? Why would you believe Scotland Yard’s statistics?”

Dickens was confused. “Alexander, why do you say that?”

Arthur took a sip of tea and explained. “It’s because Alexander has been tricked by statistics before. He told me that he was friends with Mr. Leonnat, the president of the Paris Statistical Society. Every time he used statistics as an example, he liked to make fun of Alexander’s mistresses and illegitimate children.

At that time, Alexander had gained some fame in Paris for writing a play. Once, the Statistical Society held an annual meeting and invited Alexander to give a speech. But Alexander only said one sentence and put Leonnat on the spot.”

“What did Alexander say?”

Arthur said, “He said, ‘All statistics are false, including those about myself.'”

Dumas casually grabbed a bottle of wine from the cabinet and poured himself a glass. “Am I wrong? Aren’t all statistics based on demand? Leonnat knew that making fun of my private life would make the audience cheer, so he exaggerated the number of my mistresses and illegitimate children. Based on his claims, half the women in Paris could be linked to me.

As for Scotland Yard and the Bishop of Exeter, one wants to escape responsibility, the other wants to deceive his congregation for more churchgoers, so what they say is also unreliable.

Charles, instead of believing them, you should wait for Elder to return from the sea and ask him directly. He might not know much about other things, but he’s very interested in keeping track of courtesans. Oh, and be careful, Elder’s numbers might also be higher than the actual figures, because his scope occasionally includes Paris and men.”

Arthur shrugged. “Alexander, you just said you couldn’t be linked to half the women in Paris, and now you’re starting to trust Elder? Although Scotland Yard’s data is indeed lower, even those we’ve confirmed amount to 8,600.”

Dickens took a deep breath. “Arthur, then do you think 30,000 would be closer to the truth?”

Arthur thought for a moment. “I think it’s probably about right. The 8,600 confirmed by Scotland Yard are mostly those who have been in the business for a long time. But some women aren’t in it for the long haul, they enter the industry because of temporary financial difficulties. Once their finances improve, they leave the business. These people come and go, and then there are more discreet mistresses and lovers, which is why Scotland Yard has difficulty understanding the full picture. As I said earlier, organized courtesans are a minority, most are independent.”

Dickens suddenly said, “Arthur, I have a request, I don’t know if you’d be willing to hear it.”

“What is it?” Arthur remembered Dickens’ habit of visiting London’s slums for research. “Are you thinking of doing a documentary about them?”

“No, not a documentary.”

Dickens shook his head. “I’m not a journalist now, although I still maintain the habit of visiting places in person, writing news is no longer my responsibility. I’m thinking of doing something for these women. You see, I’m making some money now, my life is better than before. Just like you helped me before, I want to help others.

For example, I could set up a place to help them learn job skills, provide temporary accommodation, and give them a chance to escape this life. To be honest, I started working on this after seeing that news report. I even gave it a name, Urania House. Would you be willing to work with me on behalf of Scotland Yard?”

The Red Devil, hearing this, whistled. “Urania, the Muse of Astronomy and Astrology, she’s a beauty. Arthur, your little friend is getting more and more artistic.”

Dumas couldn’t help but tease Dickens. “Charles, seriously? Did you come up with that name? Maybe it was the beautiful lady I saw with you last time?”

“Ah?” Dickens was startled. “When did you see that?”

“Come on, Charles,” Dumas nudged Dickens with his elbow. “Tell us, what’s her name? How far have you two gone?”

Dickens blushed and smiled. “It’s nothing really, we’re just ordinary friends. Her name is Maria. You might not know her, but you and Arthur probably know her father. He’s the financier, Mr. Bidnell, who does business with Baring Bank and Rothschild Bank.”

Dumas gasped. “A banker’s daughter? Charles, you’ve got high aspirations!”

“No, no, Alexander, don’t say that.” Dickens blushed and stammered. “Of course, I can’t deny that I have feelings for her that go beyond friendship, but I don’t know what she thinks. It’s still uncertain if this will work out.”

Dumas didn’t care. “Charles, why are you overthinking it? If you like her, be bold. Don’t be hesitant, you’ll never win a girl’s heart that way.”

As Dumas finished speaking, there was a sudden knock on the door.

Dickens, feeling embarrassed, hastily got up to open the door, eager to escape the situation.

But as he opened the door, he saw Disraeli, drenched in rain, rushing in like a caged leopard.

Disraeli ran to Arthur and asked urgently, “Arthur, is it true that Gladstone is going to be a psychological consultant at Scotland Yard?”

Arthur took a sip of tea, gently set down his cup, and smiled, raising an eyebrow. “What’s this? Does the proud gentleman also have ideas about helping these unfortunate women?”

(End of Chapter)

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