The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 145 - 145 103 Britain's First Literary Critic

145: Chapter 103 Britain’s First Literary Critic 145: Chapter 103 Britain’s First Literary Critic Arthur flipped through the manuscript, page by page.

Although he was very familiar with the document, this time he wasn’t looking at printed text, but the original handwritten draft from Charles Dickens.

He read slowly, not just to show respect for Dickens, but also as a way to reminisce about the past times and another world.

After some time, Arthur put down the manuscript and joked as he leaned back in his chair, “Perhaps this document would be better suited for display at the British Museum rather than on my office desk, given that it’s such a rare collectible produced by Great Britain itself.”

Dickens’s face flushed with heat, “Arthur, there you go again.

If you keep praising me like this, I might start to believe it.”

Arthur shook his head, “How could I be simply praising you?

Weren’t the two short essays you recently published in ‘The Monthly Magazine,’ ‘Mr.

Minns and His Cousin’ and ‘Scotland Yard,’ both very well-written?

I’ve said it before, Charles, one day you will become a great literary figure.

This novel ‘The Pickwick Papers’ will bring you a fortune, and it might even surpass the success of those two earlier essays.”

“Really?”

First Dickens was excited, but then he quickly became unsure.

“Arthur, just tell me the truth.

I genuinely want to hear your opinion.

You know that I’ve always been busy making a living and paying off debts, so I haven’t had many friends.

And among the few friends I do have, I think you’re probably the only one with a taste for literature.

Honestly, Arthur, point out the faults to me.

It’s just the beginning and parts of the storyline summary that I’ve written; if something needs to be changed, there’s still time.”

When Arthur heard him insist, he just smiled and picked up the manuscript again, “If I really must say something I didn’t like, it would probably be this part here.”

“Where?” Dickens took the manuscript, carefully reading the part Arthur was pointing to, “Do you mean the part where the swindler Jingle lures Miss Wardle to elope is inappropriate?

The readers don’t like this kind of plot, or does it not conform to the morals of the devout believers?”

“No, no, no, you’ve misunderstood me,”

Arthur said with a smile, “The readers love this kind of story.

As for morals, who even holds onto such things these days?

After all, the best-selling newspapers in London are full of ‘love stories’ that make you blush at a glance.

The unrealistic part I’m talking about is where Mr.

Wardle decides to offer £120 to the swindler to keep away from his daughter.

That seems a bit surreal.”

Dickens was taken aback, “Unrealistic in what way?”

Arthur laughed, “In the novels, it’s always ‘I’ll give you so much money, leave my daughter alone.’ In reality, it’s ‘Give me so much money, otherwise stay away from my daughter.’ But it’s no big deal, Charles, after all, it’s fiction.

Perhaps there really are people like Mr.

Wardle.”

After hearing this, Dickens bit his lip and pondered.

He drew out his words, “No…

Arthur, you seem to have a point.

Maybe I should change Miss Wardle to Mr.

Wardle’s sister?

Growing up dependent on each other, they have a deep affection, which is why he can’t bear to shatter his sister’s illusions, thus he secretly gives the swindler Jingle some money to keep him away from Miss Wardle?”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, “You decide how to handle it; it’s all trivial.

Because from my perspective, your novel already possesses many elements for success.”

Facing a history of repeat failures over the years, the young man, Dickens, clearly lacked confidence.

“Arthur, is it really that good?”

Seeing him in such a state, Arthur had no choice but to encourage him, “It’s not that it’s good, but that you’re good.

Have you forgotten what I told you?

Charles, you’re destined to be a literary giant.

If the royalties from publishing ‘The Pickwick Papers’ fall below £1,000, Charles, you can always come to me to make up the difference.

That’s how confident I am.

If you don’t trust my judgment, you can wait another month.

I guarantee that within a month, a novel titled ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ will sweep the streets of London.

I helped with the proofreading of that novel.

Perhaps that novel will even be more popular than ‘The Pickwick Papers,’ because from the standpoint of popular literature, aside from its author being French, it’s hard to find any flaw.”

Upon hearing this, Dickens immediately became interested, “The Frenchman you’re talking about, wouldn’t happen to be the one you rescued from the high seas, would it?

Mr.

Alexander Dumas?”

Arthur nodded with a smile, “It seems that the misfortune of being kidnapped turned out to be a blessing in disguise for the fellow; at the very least, he’s quite famous in London now.”

Dickens then felt somewhat dejected again, “While a part of Mr.

Dumas’s fame certainly comes from his kidnapping, another part is because of his play ‘Henry III and His Courts,’ which was a hit in London last year.

Mr.

Dumas is already a somewhat famous playwright; it’s natural that he would create great works, whereas I…

”

Arthur waved his finger, “No, Charles, don’t see it that way.

Perhaps your earning potential is a bit less than his, but what that plump writer produces usually lacks profound implications and cultural significance.

In terms of his standing in the field of literary art, he can’t even decisively claim advantage over his contemporary Victor Hugo.

Though he wouldn’t necessarily be saddened by that, after all, gracefully accepting defeat is a rare and commendable French trait.

Moreover, I’ve just realized that perhaps his greatest dream is to be a first-class French chef, with his second dream being to return to his old profession as a French artilleryman.

But you’re different.

In Britain at this time, you’re head and shoulders above many.

If you’re willing, your writing could exert a certain influence on this era, and you could also claim a prominent place in the entire literary history of Great Britain.”

Arthur’s few words of praise barely registered with Dickens, who was eagerly looking at Arthur, as if hoping to receive some substantive evidence from his mouth.

Dickens was deeply immersed in self-doubt, “I’ve been wanting to ask this question for a very long time.

Arthur, why are you so optimistic about me?”

Upon hearing this, Arthur also fell into silence, pondering how to answer Dickens’ question.

Suddenly, he looked up and fixed his gaze on Agares, who was wiping his glasses at the table, as if interrogating the Devil’s soul with the same question.

The Red Devil, noticing his gaze, couldn’t help but remove his glasses and laugh behind his hand.

“Why must there be so many whys?

I believe in you because you are capable, only the strong deserve to stand beside me, and only the weak succumb to self-doubt.

So, Arthur, stop associating with these cowards, it will corrupt your bones and nerves.

Think about why you set up that temporary London Area Survey and Statistics Bureau, if you can’t make the world love you, then better make it fear you.

The way you command Jones is quite appropriate, why should we reason with them?

In the past, you had to reason because you had no power, but now that you have the power, be as unjust and unfair as you can.

Forgive me for being blunt, but your useless kindness will only make you more vulnerable to attack.”

Hearing this, Arthur simply smiled and shook his head, “What best reveals a man’s character is what he mocks.

You think you’re mocking others, but in fact, you’re mocking yourself.”

Dickens was taken aback and asked, “Arthur, what are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” Arthur took out a few magazines from the office desk drawer and placed them on the table.

They were literary review magazines like ‘The Monthly Review’ and ‘Blackwood’s.’

Previously, to investigate Disraeli’s experience, Arthur had specifically gone to an old bookstore and purchased all the issues that attacked him.

He thought these materials would be useless after the investigation, but today they turned out to be of extra value in front of Dickens.

Arthur casually flipped open one of the magazines and pointed to a passage.

“Don’t you know that it’s quite fashionable for London’s citizens, especially the middle class, to read trendy novels now?

Authors with skill and a desire to make money generally don’t describe any male protagonist’s psyche but focus on his attire, striving to portray him as a typical fashion figure, and then let him say a few witty words.

When portraying female protagonists, they list the addresses of high-end clothing stores she frequents and are meticulous about certain details of life, such as informing readers that high society individuals eat fish with silver forks and the like.”

Perhaps because the distance between the middle class and the nobility has narrowed, when they have a bit of money, they start paying attention to the behavior and manners of the upper class, learning their gestures and eating habits, and so on.

In summary, the more intricate and refined you write about these aspects, the more the readers will love it.

Besides, your ‘The Pickwick Papers’ contains elopements, elections, banquets, jail stints, and a whole host of plot twists.

I can’t think of a single reason why this book would fail.”

Upon hearing this, Dickens too slowly began to regain some confidence.

He looked at Arthur, hesitated for a long time, and then mustered up the courage to say, “Arthur.”

“What is it?”

Locking his gaze on Arthur, Dickens earnestly requested, “Since you think so highly of my book, why don’t you write a preface for me?”

Arthur’s expression first froze, then he arched an eyebrow, half-jokingly saying, “Are you sure?

I’m a policeman from Scotland Yard, not some literary critic.”

Dickens blinked, and scratching the back of his head with embarrassment, laughed, “If the book is as good as you say, why should I worry about the profession of the person writing the preface?

If you write it for me and the book makes money, I can share a bit with you.”

“Oh…

Arthur…” the Red Devil said, covering his mouth with a mocking laugh, “See?

What did I tell you?

Your insignificant kindness will only harm you.

Perhaps this guy had this in mind from the beginning…

A book with a preface by a Scotland Yard Inspector would easily get published, right?”

Arthur glanced at the Red Devil, then pulled out a sheet of white paper and a quill from the ink bottle, and began to write, muttering, “If this is considered harming me, then I wish he would come and ‘harm’ me with every book he publishes.

After all, a fool knows that this might make more money than buying shares in Rothschild.”