The Shadow of Great Britain

Tennyson couldn’t help burying his face in his hands as he spoke, his voice muffled from between his fingers: ”There’s no one in this world worse than you and Charles.”

Albert didn’t hear clearly: ”What did you say, Mr. Tennyson?”

”Nothing,” Dickens chimed in: ”Mr. Tennyson is probably recalling his unbearable past.”

Albert’s expression immediately turned solemn, the youthful ease and curiosity vanished.

He stood up straight, somewhat awkwardly: ”Mr. Tennyson, I... I’m really very sorry. It seems I was too presumptuous. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to remind you of that past.”

Tennyson looked complexly at the young prince, then sighed and waved lightly: ”You needn’t apologize. A poet’s work is to continuously uncover his own unhealed wounds. You merely touched them lightly, while I... every day I sit in the editorial office, it’s like I’m ripping them open again.”

As soon as these words were spoken, the atmosphere in the room seemed to grow heavier.

Even Dickens didn’t interject, simply casting his eyes upwards to the portraits of board members hanging on the editorial office wall, among which Arthur’s was directly facing Tennyson’s desk.

Moved by Tennyson’s words, Albert hesitated for a moment before nodding seriously: ”I suppose, perhaps because of this, you can write such sincere verses. My philosophy tutor at Bonn University, Fichte, often says true art is born from pain. But I never really understood what that meant until today, after meeting you.”

Tennyson smiled bitterly: ”I wish Mr. Fichte was wrong.”

At this moment, Arthur spoke at the right time: ”At least Mr. Tennyson’s pain is luckier than most. Because when he’s in pain, what he writes can still rhyme, unlike several others in our company, for instance...”

Before Arthur finished his sentence, noises erupted from the corridor.

”Damn it, where did Court Magazine get its information from? I think there’s certainly a mole in the company, Liszt’s scandal should’ve been ours exclusively, and we could’ve used it to boost Beatrice’s publicity, now it’s all gone. All the setup is now fueling Court Magazine’s sales.”

”Eld, I don’t think you need to be so upset, right? Although we missed the exclusive report this time, on the bright side, we carry less suspicion, right? Besides, you know the readers of Court Magazine, they’re all keen on mimicking the upper class and focusing on court life, middle class people. With Court Magazine’s report, boosting Beatrice’s sales isn’t bad, just advantageous.”

”If it were just Court Magazine we could ignore it, but didn’t you see Satirist, The Times, and Observer also followed up in their reports? Even John Bull, usually focused on satirical political commentary, stepped in for a piece. The Conservative media, because of a little Liszt, are collectively in a frenzy now. Benjamin, honestly, did the information leak from you this time?”

”What? Me? I don’t have the time for that.”

”Look at these headlines. The Times writes, ’From Piano to Passion: Liszt’s Nocturne with his Muse’, Satirist’s editorial is even more shameless ’When the Queen Applauds a Rogue, Civilization’s Decline Begins’; and John Bull, straightforwardly illustrated last night’s concert with a picture depicting Liszt kneeling at the piano bench, with his Parisian mistress beside him, and in the background... it depicts Her Majesty the Queen!”

”Let me see... Since Lord Byron wrote poems for married women, British literature acquired a new discipline. How to utilize poetic rhyme to embellish sin. Today’s Liszt is merely an echo of Byron, and today’s Queen is the projection of Caroline Ponsonby...”

”These Conservative newspaper and magazine are all criticizing the Prime Minister indirectly, suggesting the Queen’s tastes stem from the ’Melbourne School’, insinuating Her Majesty’s exposure to Lord Byron and Viscount Melbourne’s late wife, Lady Ponsonby’s romantic history! Words are theirs, they can say what they want, but if we let them continue like this, whether Beatrice can even be published is uncertain. After all, now whoever reads that book will think it’s hinting at the Prime Minister.”

The door was kicked open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang that even shook the gas lamp by the window.

”I’m so damn fed up!” Eld stormed in angrily, clutching a crumpled ball of newspaper: ”These hypocrites, while pocketing our record advertising money, released these garbage editorials without notifying us! Truly shameless!”

Dickens glanced at Arthur and Albert beside him, instinctively gripping his pipe tightly, knowing full well that meddling in this moment was best avoided.

Following close behind was Benjamin Disraeli, with bright silver buttons on his waistcoat and a crisp shirt collar.

”I told you before, Eld...” He grumbled while pushing the door: ”Swearing is fine, but don’t let others hear it, it’s Fleet Street!”

He lazily removed his gloves, ready to chide Eld further, but out of the corner of his eye noticed a stranger in the room.

A tall young man stood beside Arthur, composure evident, dignified in demeanor, looking as though they’d met just last night.

At that instant, Disraeli’s mouth twitched.

He blinked, squinted, and his confident smile froze: ”This... this isn’t...”

”Hello, Mr. Disraeli, didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Albert smiled slightly, nodding towards him, then seemingly annoyed, he slapped his forehead: ”I should’ve realized, you must be an Imperial Publishing collaborator, after all, I just saw your Young Duke downstairs.”