The Shadow of Great Britain

The air in the office on the third floor of Empire Publishing was a bit stuffy.

The dampness of August mixed with the smell of ink, making one feel sticky all over, unable to resist the urge to sneeze.

Tennyson sat on the bench by the window, holding a few manuscripts scheduled for publication next week. He repeatedly read those lines of poetry, but no matter what, he couldn’t get into them.

This melancholy poet couldn’t help but sigh, "I really shouldn’t have stayed. If I’d known Arthur was bringing important guests for a tour today, I would have taken the day off."

"What are you afraid of?" Dickens poked his head out from behind the desk, a pipe clamped between his teeth, "The Prince of Saxony-Coburg isn’t going to eat you. It’s just a matter of chatting, explaining what the publishing industry is all about."

"Charles, you make it sound so easy," Tennyson said uneasily. "You know I’m terrified of these occasions. Just catching sight of those nobles makes me stiff as a statue. As soon as they start talking, I don’t even know where to put my hands."

Dickens laughed heartily, "But no matter what, this is better than making a trip to the East District, right? At least the nobility won’t sneak behind you to pick your pocket. Hmm... At least they won’t do it openly."

Dickens saw that Tennyson was almost too nervous to speak, and could only shake his head with a smile, offering advice as he wrote with a quill pen, "If it really doesn’t work, just learn from Arthur. Try to slow down your speech when you talk, so even if what you say is just empty talk without substance, every word will still sound weighty."

Tennyson glanced at the unperturbed Dickens and suddenly said, "Charles..."

"What’s up?"

"You’ve changed."

Dickens was taken aback, "How have I changed?"

"In every way." Tennyson looked up seriously, "Do you remember when we first joined the ’British’? You were even shyer than I was. I still remember our first business meeting, it was at Mrs. Shelley’s house to discuss publishing ’Frankenstein.’ You didn’t even dare to look her in the eye back then. But now? You can entertain a German prince as casually as chatting with a neighbor."

"What else can you do?" Dickens laughed heartily, "Living in London, you have to learn to deal with all sorts of people. The more you see, the bolder you naturally become."

He leaned back, the chair creaking, "Honestly, Alfred, I was indeed timid in my early days. But later I figured it out, people are just people, whether they’re wearing a crown or a tattered cap. If you stare at them long enough, you’ll find they also sweat, say the wrong thing, and fear awkward silences. The only difference is, some people’s mistakes make the front page of the newspaper the next day, while most are just laughed at by their neighbors. Don’t overthink it, Alfred, it’s no big deal."

Before Tennyson could respond, they heard a series of light footsteps coming down the corridor.

Tennyson quickly straightened up, stuffing the poems back into the drawer, while Dickens hastily tidied his desk, which was not presentable.

As soon as they finished tidying up, the footsteps stopped outside the door.

Then came two short knocks followed by one long one, and Arthur’s voice: "Charles, Alfred, I’ve brought a guest for a tour."

Dickens cleared his throat and said casually, "Come in."

The door was pushed open, and Arthur led Albert inside.

Albert paused for a moment as he walked in.

He originally thought that the editorial office of Empire Publishing would be an elegant and bright place—oil paintings on the walls, neat drafts on the tables, air filled with the scent of parchment and red wax seals.

But the scene before him was nothing like that.

The floor was rough oak, the walls were covered not with paintings but with scribbled proofreading tables, and the tables were piled with drafts, envelopes, newspaper proofs, pipes, and teacups, along with well-thumbed copies of ’Johnson’s Dictionary’ and ’Walker’s Dictionary.’

Albert’s gaze roamed around the room, from the slightly warped bookshelves weighed down by books of various colors to the gas lamp by the window, and finally rested on Dickens and Tennyson.

The new Shakespeare was only twenty-five years old, and the hope of British Poetry had just turned 28 earlier that month. Yet these literary giants didn’t look as impressive as the legends made them seem; Dickens’ cuffs were stained with ink, and Tennyson’s bow tie was crooked.

"This..." Albert couldn’t help but ask softly, "Is this really the editorial office?"

"It is indeed, you needn’t worry about being in the wrong room." Arthur obviously hadn’t expected his two friends to be so disheveled but quickly laughed and said, "I originally thought about notifying the company in advance to give you a welcome ceremony or something. But then I reconsidered, thinking you’ve probably seen more than enough ceremonies. Instead, I figured it’s better to just let you see the publishing industry in its natural state, how things usually work."

Albert understood upon hearing this, even seemed quite delighted as he continued to look around the room, "I really didn’t expect... the publishing industry to be like this. Honestly, it’s much more modest than I imagined."

Arthur turned aside with a smile and introduced Albert to them, "Allow me to introduce, Empire Publishing Company’s chief poetry editor, Alfred Tennyson, and chief column editor, Charles Dickens."