The Shadow of Great Britain

Arthur finished speaking and addressed Tennyson and Dickens: "Charles, Alfred, this is..."

Unexpectedly, before Arthur could finish, Albert extended his hand toward the two of them: "No need for an introduction. My name is Albert, from Coburg, and a friend of Sir Arthur."

These words were spoken quite naturally, with a hint of youthful obstinance.

Tennyson and Dickens were taken aback; they exchanged a glance.

Fortunately, Dickens was the first to react. He quickly stood up, placed his pipe on the table, and shook Albert’s hand: "Arthur’s friend from Coburg? That’s wonderful. I always thought Germany only produced philosophers and sausages, but I didn’t expect it to produce a literature enthusiast like yourself."

Tennyson, standing nearby, couldn’t help but quietly retort, "Charles, aren’t you being a bit disrespectful to Mr. Heinrich Heine?"

Dickens didn’t respond to Tennyson verbally; instead, he lightly pressed his boot onto Tennyson’s foot, reminding him not to speak out of turn.

Albert couldn’t help but laugh at the remark, his smile making his eyes even brighter: "I enjoy philosophy and sausages, but I love your great stories even more. Mr. Dickens, to be frank, I’m an avid reader of yours."

Upon hearing this, Dickens raised an eyebrow, a smile immediately curling at the corners of his mouth: "That’s an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. Forgive my curiosity; which of my books have you read?"

"’The Pickwick Papers’, of course, and also ’Oliver Twist’ serialized in ’The British’." At this point, Albert was a bit embarrassed: "To be honest, I’ve only read these two, but I liked them very much. Actually, I had thought of collecting your other works, but in a small place like Coburg, there really aren’t many channels."

At this point, Albert didn’t forget to compliment Tennyson: "Mr. Tennyson, your ’In Memoriam’ is also a favorite of mine. My uncle had someone bring it to Coburg for me from London. ’For I know that Death would use you, to make his darkness beautiful’, how did you write such moving lines?"

Dickens had maintained a commercial smile, but after Albert spoke, his smile seemed close to breaking.

As for Tennyson, the naturally shy poet looked even more embarrassed, his face turning several shades.

There was no helping it, despite no one being able to deny that Tennyson’s ’In Memoriam’ is the greatest mourning poetry collection in contemporary Britain, if the readers knew that the person he mourned had jumped out of the coffin, even the best mourning poems would lose eighty percent of their power.

Tennyson was choked by the words, unable to speak for a long while, his face changing colors. Finally, he squeezed out a strained smile: "That poetry collection... uh, creating it was indeed very difficult. It was the darkest period of my life. My father had just passed away, I was forced to leave Cambridge for being unable to afford tuition, and my best friend, he fell... uh... under the gun..."

"I believe you," Albert nodded sincerely: "The sorrow is so genuine, it clearly shows the deep friendship between you and your friend."

Dickens abruptly shoved the pipe into his mouth, nearly choking himself. He turned his head and coughed slightly, pretending to sort through documents to disguise the twitching smile at the corners of his mouth.

Tennyson discreetly pinched his thigh hard, forcing himself to maintain a solemn expression: "Yes... losing a friend, that kind of pain is indeed unspeakable. It’s an experience that plunges the soul into darkness. You know, ’In Memoriam’ isn’t actually about death; it’s about how to continue living."

Saying this, he suddenly lifted his head and continued in a near-sermon tone: "I believe that after true sorrow, one must reconcile with death. We must learn to understand that death is an irreplaceable part of life. ’For I know that Death would use you to make his darkness beautiful’, this means death is not an end, but a transformation. All of us will be absorbed by death, and only love can make death seem less cruel."

Albert listened intently, his eyes full of admiration: "That’s truly a great philosophy. Your profound understanding of death is truly admirable. May I ask... what kind of person is the ’he’ in the poem? Was he someone like you, who loved literature?"

Upon hearing this, Tennyson almost fainted on the spot.

Dickens covered his face with his hand, as if crying.

Tennyson threw a pleading look at Arthur, only to find that while Arthur still maintained his composure, his shoulders were shaking, clearly holding back laughter with difficulty.

Seeing that neither he nor Dickens could be relied on, Tennyson had no choice but to continue with skin as thick as possible: "I remember... he once said to me, ’Death is the most honest ceremony of mankind, because it’s where even lies must fall silent’. It was this sentence... that inspired me."

"Profound indeed!" Albert clapped his hands appreciatively: "If there’s a chance, I’d really love to meet that gentleman."

At this, Dickens couldn’t hold back anymore. He took a big draw on his pipe: "There will be a chance."

"What?" Albert was taken aback.

Arthur quickly came out to smooth things over: "Not just you, Albert, all of us will eventually meet him. Didn’t you hear what Mr. Tennyson just said? Death is an irreplaceable part of life; you, me, and Mr. Dickens, we will all meet him one day."