The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1251: Chapter 153: Empire Publishing

From literary enjoyment to political news commentary, from economic insight to scientific discovery, we set out from the heartland of the Industrial Revolution, building chapter by chapter the empire of wisdom. Empire Publishing is committed to the dissemination of enlightenment and progress.

—— Motto of Empire Publishing Group

The office of the Göttingen University Supervisor, oak desks piled high with thick documents and academic papers.

Outside the window, golden autumn leaves gently sway in the evening breeze, as if reminding of the passage of time.

Arthur’s head was buried in a pile of academic documents, and if it weren’t for his tall top hat, one might not have even noticed the six-foot-tall lad sitting there.

His gaze swept over one academic paper after another submitted for the Electromagnetic Conference. Although he was Britain’s most seasoned detective, long used to tracking criminals through elusive clues, now he found himself painstakingly poring over these obscure academic articles.

But reviewing the academic papers was not the most painful part; what tormented Arthur the most was that these articles were almost all written in Latin, and the remaining small portion was in French.

Although Arthur’s Latin was decent during his University of London days, and the French language taught by the Great Dumas was sufficient for daily communication, it did not mean he could smoothly use those two languages for academic exchange.

Because these essays contained too many specialized academic terms and jargon, and the Latin classes in the history department at the University of London never covered terminology related to electromagnetism. As for the French taught by the Great Dumas, although that stout fellow taught Arthur many rare words, quite a few of those words would never grace polite society.

Therefore, to understand these papers, Arthur had to keep Latin and French academic dictionaries at hand to consult as needed.

He occasionally picked up a pen to jot down annotations on the side, sometimes furrowing his brow — no need to think hard, for it was surely a difficult concept to grasp.

The office was so quiet that only the sound of turning pages and the ticking of the wall clock could be heard.

Time ticked by, and even the steaming hot tea had long since gone cold.

However, Arthur had no mind to savor it at this moment; his attention was fully focused on the manuscript before him. This electromagnetic enthusiast was racking his brain trying to find some pattern or clue within the complex data and theories.

Suddenly, he halted his actions, his gaze fixed on a particular paper, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

He gently tapped the table, seemingly pondering some arguments in the paper. After a while, he began drafting some notes on the blank paper beside him, occasionally looking out the window, and sighed deeply: “This is simply not work meant for humans.”

Sipping tea while reclining in the armchair, the Red Devil, without even lifting an eyelid, shook his head and said, “You can do 1+1, but you can’t understand 2+2?”

Arthur chuckled self-deprecatingly and said, “I can’t prove 1+1=2, Agares. I never thought I was held in such esteem in your eyes.”

“If you can’t even prove 1+1=2, then where did you get the courage to take on reviewing academic papers?” the Red Devil mockingly said, “A pig-raising expert can be a Senior Police Chief, but it doesn’t mean you can be an artist and a researcher in natural philosophy.”

Arthur tasted the now-bitter cold tea as he leaned back in his chair, frowned involuntarily at the taste: “Agares, I know your prowess lies in language, science, and art, but such self-aggrandizing remarks are a disgrace to Hell. Those German theoretical electromagnetic scientists are your cautionary tale.”

Agares, upon hearing this, merely fiddled with his ear: “My dear Arthur, ever since the script for ‘Turandot’ was completed, your personality has reverted back to such a sharp state again. I thought this experience would offer you some personal growth lessons.”

“You should have expected that.” Arthur stretched lazily: “I’m now even more foolish than before.”

At that point, there was a sudden knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The office door was pushed open, voices arrived before they could be seen, as two bickering Jews jostled through the doorway without giving way to each other.

“Damn it! Heine, you really are an uncultured fellow.”

“Sorry, Mr. Disraeli, I don’t think I’m uncultured. You know, prenatal education is important for a person. My mother read refined literary works while she was pregnant, so I became a poet. As for you, your mother probably read bandit novels when she was carrying you, so you became a British politician.”

“Your person is just as insufferable as your poetry.”

“Is that so? That’s unfortunate, because I intend to publish more.”

Though Disraeli was already a mouthpiece on the British political stage, he was evidently still a notch below Heine, who thrived on acerbic commentary.

He slapped a palm on Arthur’s desk, shouting at his old friend: “Arthur, as a major shareholder of ‘the British’, I firmly oppose continuing to publish Mr. Heinrich Heine’s works.”

Having seen their confrontations countless times, Arthur nonchalantly sipped his tea and said, “What’s wrong with that? Benjamin, I know you both don’t get along. But you must know, British readers really appreciate Heinrich’s works. According to the current London publishing market, a three-volume novel in London sells for a standard price of 31 shillings and 6 pennies, and single volumes like poetry collections are priced even higher. Heinrich’s books easily sell two or three thousand copies, so why should we go against the money?”