Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 538 Buy one get two free? This is incredible news!
The House of Commons was eerily quiet, with all eyes fixed on William Eulter Gladstone.

The 73-year-old politician stood behind the podium, his hands gripping the edge, his back ramrod straight, as a brilliant and exquisite speech flowed from his lips:

Whether we can "still see" the works of a certain writer is not a question that can be answered with a yes or no, because it presupposes a premise.

The circulation of a literary work can be confirmed or denied by the government. However, in the British Empire, literature was never something that could only exist if it was 'permitted'.

It either appears or it doesn't. And when it doesn't appear, we must be extra cautious and not rush to find a unified explanation for its absence.

Some people in the council chamber had already begun to frown, but he continued speaking—

"If a writer's work is not currently appearing in British newspapers, it could be due to a variety of factors, and sometimes it is simply that the time is not yet right."

To reduce these complex causes to a single 'result' caused by the government is, in my opinion, neither fair nor accurate. As for the future—

The future is never a topic suitable for government commitments. Because once a government begins to make definitive statements about the future, it must be accountable for certain outcomes.

And this is precisely what a responsible government should avoid. Therefore, I cannot tell any British citizen—

Will or will not a certain author's work appear in our newspaper in the future?

It's not because I'm afraid to make a promise, but because the government doesn't need to know, and shouldn't need to know, these things.

Finally, the prime minister revealed a "benevolent" expression—

"If one day, British readers find themselves rereading that author's new work at their breakfast table, then it can certainly be seen as a victory for literature."
If not, I don't believe that constitutes any form of failure, nor does it mean that the author's freedom of publication has been deprived.

The chamber was silent for a few seconds, then low murmurs arose.

Prime Minister Gladstone did not give a direct answer of "yes" or "no," but everyone understood the implication—he and his cabinet would not take any responsibility for the matter!

Joseph Lawrence opened his mouth, as if to ask another question. But the Speaker tapped his gavel: "Time's up. Next question."

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That afternoon, at 10 Downing Street.

Prime Minister Gladstone and Home Secretary Harcourt sat facing each other.

Harcourt.

"prime minister."

"Did you hear what I said in the House of Commons today?"

"heard it."

What do you think of what I said?

“Very…appropriate. It upheld principles without leaving any room for criticism.”

"Appropriateness? What good is appropriateness! Can appropriateness shut up Le Figaro? Can appropriateness bring the story of Sherlock Holmes back to England?"
Will being well-mannered prevent me from being summoned and reprimanded by Her Majesty the Queen?

Harcourt hesitated to reply, but Gladstone leaned forward: "Two months ago, we sent General Worsley to Egypt."

The French now see us like robbers. The Egyptians are rebelling; there's trouble every day.

We lost to the Boers in Transvaal last year, and we're still being ridiculed for it.

Now, because of your incredibly stupid 'precautionary measures,' all of Europe is laughing at us.

They said Britain was afraid of a pirate novel, afraid of a Frenchman with a pen.

Harcourt's face turned pale: "Prime Minister, I—"

Gladstone interrupted him: "Shut up!"

This seasoned old man rarely lost his composure like this, but tonight he couldn't hold back any longer: "I don't want to hear any explanations! I just want to tell you that we're in deep trouble now."

Egypt, the Boers, Ireland… any one of them could have killed us!

He stared intently at Harcourt: "I don't want our reputation to continue bleeding because of a French writer and a few novels. Do you understand?"

Harcourt nodded hastily.

Gladstone gave his final order: "So, I need you to resolve this immediately, calm the public outcry, and stop that Frenchman from causing us any more trouble!"

"Yes, Prime Minister!"

Half an hour later——

Home Secretary Harcourt distilled the pressure the Prime Minister placed on him into a single sentence, which he conveyed to his Permanent Under-Secretary Edgar Winthrop:
“You tell Good Words magazine that if they can’t serialize a new Sherlock Holmes novel in it, they’re off the ‘postage discount’ list next year!”

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In late August, the weather in London finally cooled down a bit.

At 3 p.m., at 21B Baker Street, someone knocked on the door.

Conan Doyle was writing in his room, inspired by Lionel's introduction to the American mining town of Pinkerton.

Since "A Scandal in Bohemia" is now being serialized in the United States, why not create a detective story about "Sherlock Holmes in America"?
He'd even come up with a title: "The Valley of Fear"!
He heard a knock on the door, frowned; he hadn't made any appointments.

But Mrs. Anderson had already led the man into the living room—not a stranger, but Richard Everard, the new editor of Good Words.

He was thinner than Conan Doyle had seen him before, with sunken cheeks and a listless appearance.

Everard still had a smile on his face, though it was a little stiff: "Good afternoon, Mr. Doyle. I hope I haven't bothered you."

Conan Doyle did not speak, nor did he invite the other person to sit down.

Everard could only continue, “I am Richard Everard, from Good Words magazine—” Conan Doyle interrupted him, “My memory is fine, I know who you are. Okay, what do you want?”

Everard's smile froze even more: "Can we... sit down and talk? Just a few minutes."

Conan Doyle looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded: "Please sit down."

Everard breathed a sigh of relief, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and put his hat on his lap.

Conan Doyle sat down as well: "Speak."

Everard tried to keep his voice calm: "Mr. Doyle, I've come to talk to you about your manuscript, 'A Scandal in Bohemia'."

Conan Doyle did not respond.

Everard could only continue, "I've reconsidered that manuscript... I think it should be very well written..."

Conan Doyle gave a mocking smile: "How do you know it's great if you haven't even seen it?"

Everard was a little flustered, but he still tried to keep a smile: "You...you have been Mr. Sorel's assistant for a long time, so of course I believe in your abilities."

Therefore, I hope it can be serialized in *Good Words*, preferably immediately! We can discuss the payment. How about 20% more than before?

Conan Doyle finally spoke, his voice flat: "Mr. Everard, a month ago you told me yourself that Good Words would no longer publish works like this."

You said the magazine should focus on more serious, more educational content. You said detective stories, besides entertaining people for a few hours, have no deeper value…

Everard blushed. He lowered his head and fiddled with the hat in his hand: "Mr. Doyle, I... I may not have expressed myself accurately at the time."

The positioning of *Good Words* is indeed being adjusted, but this does not mean we completely reject excellent fiction. Your manuscript undoubtedly meets the magazine's standards.

Conan Doyle laughed: "Standards? What standards? It didn't meet them last month, but it does this month?"

A bead of sweat appeared on Everard's forehead: "Mr. Doyle, the publishing industry is dynamic. Readers' tastes change, and magazines adjust their direction accordingly."

I admit my initial assessment might have been... perhaps somewhat conservative. Now I see the value in this article.

Conan Doyle stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to him: "Why? Because someone told you something? Or is 'this matter' already over?"

Everard pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his sweat: "Mr. Doyle, this...this kind of speculation is too hurtful...Our editorial decision in 'Good Words' is completely independent!"

Conan Doyle stared at him: "Independent? Then why did Norman McLeod resign? He was editor-in-chief for sixteen years, and suddenly there were 'personal reasons'?"

Everard was speechless. He stood there, his face alternating between red and white.

The living room was eerily quiet. The only sound was the passing of a carriage outside the window.

After a long pause, Everard finally spoke timidly: "Mr. Doyle... I'm just an editor. I have a responsibility to the magazine, and we need good stories."

Your manuscript is a good story. It's that simple.

Conan Doyle sat back down: "A Scandal in Bohemia will begin serialization in the United States, France, Russia, and Germany early next month, in just a few days."

Everard's face turned pale: "We can urgently add more pages, as long as you can give me the manuscript... In any case, the British readers are innocent."

Conan Doyle chuckled. "Mr. Everard, you closed the door a month ago. Now that you see others have opened the door, you want to squeeze in?"

There's no such thing as a free lunch.

Everard panicked: "Mr. Doyle, please understand my situation! We can increase the royalties, thirty percent! Or you can name a number!"

Conan Doyle didn't say anything, but got up and walked to the bookshelf, pulling out a brown paper folder from the top shelf.

Everard's eyes lit up: "This is..."

Conan Doyle shook his head: "This is not 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' This is another manuscript, a new one by Mr. Lionel Sorel, which he just sent to me."

Everard was stunned. He looked at the folder, then at Conan Doyle, and didn't react for a moment.

Conan Doyle continued, "If you want 'A Scandal in Bohemia,' you can. But there's a condition."

"What conditions?"

"Publish this one first."

Everard blinked. His mind raced—Lionel's new work? That would be even better!
The Home Office is now eager to see Sorel's works back in the UK to quell public opinion. This is a golden opportunity!

He nodded quickly: "Of course! We've always admired Mr. Sorel's work! It was just a misunderstanding before. Is this 'Pirates of the Caribbean'?"

As he spoke, he reached for the folder.

Conan Doyle pressed down on the folder: "Mr. Everard, are you sure? Don't you want to look at the contents first?"

Everard laughed, this time a genuine laugh: "No need to look! Mr. Sorel's work is of guaranteed quality. We'd be happy to publish it."

He thought to himself, "Buy one get two free, this is fantastic! I get a new Sherlock Holmes story and publish Sorel's work, killing two birds with one stone."

It will also make things easier for the Ministry of the Interior – look, we've brought Sorel back, the public should be satisfied now, right?
Seeing his smug expression, Conan Doyle slowly released his grip.

Everard picked up the folder and eagerly opened it. The first page was the title page, with handwritten cursive lettering on it.

It is not *Pirates of the Caribbean*, nor any of Lionel's published works.

He read it aloud softly:
"1984?"

(Two chapters finished. I'll start making up for missed chapters and adding extra chapters tomorrow! Please vote with your monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)