Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 540 OLD LADY IS WATCHING YOU!

As Conan Doyle sat in the train carriage bound for Dover, he felt a mix of emotions.

The English countryside outside the car window flew by in the twilight, fields, hedges, church spires, everything bathed in the dim light of an August evening.

But he wasn't in the mood to admire the scenery. The kerosene lamps in the carriage were already lit, their flickering light making him a little sleepy.

But his mind was filled with the contents of Lionel's letter—

"...Arthur, if Good Words or other London magazines come to you asking for 'A Scandal in Bohemia,' don't rush to give it to them."

First, take out "1984" and tell them that if they want to become Sherlock Holmes, they have to become this first.

Conan Doyle couldn't help but laugh after watching the beginning of "1984." He knew London's editors all too well—cautious, shrewd, and terrified of getting into trouble.

What is 1984 about? A "future Britain" that uses surveillance, manipulation, and violence to eradicate all free will.

Which British editor would dare publish something like this? Just those few slogans alone would be enough to make them faint.

Lionel concluded the letter with unwavering certainty:
They wouldn't dare; they would run away as if they'd seen a ghost.

Then, the fact that "A Scandal in Bohemia" could not be published in the UK would become a thorn in the side of those politicians and editors.

With each heartbeat, they winced in pain.

Conan Doyle certainly believed that when he finished reading the manuscript of "1984," he was drenched in cold sweat, not just from fear, but also from profound shock.
He believed that when Richard Everard saw the manuscript, he would react as Lionel had anticipated: panic, and then rejection.

But Everard's performance this afternoon was off.

The thin editor-in-chief's eyes lit up, and he practically snatched the manuscript from "1984," agreeing to it without even glancing at it.

It didn't look like seeing a ghost, but more like finding gold.

"No need! I trust Mr. Sorel's abilities!"

Everard couldn't hide the joy on his face when he said this.

Conan Doyle leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The rhythm of the train wheels hitting the rails was monotonous and persistent, clang, clang, clang.

What if? What if Everard really is an idiot, so stupid that he doesn't even understand what 1984 is about before printing it out?
But all of that was no longer relevant to him; he would soon be able to see Lionel.

“God bless England…” Conan Doyle whispered.

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Late at night in London, Richard Everard was fast asleep in his large bed in his bedroom.

He had a wonderful dream. In his dream, the sales of "Good Words" exceeded 200,000 copies, and he stood on the podium to receive an award from the publishing association.

The boss, Alexander Strand, patted him on the shoulder and said, "Well done," and Mr. Winthrop from the Interior Ministry personally poured him a drink...

The next morning, Everard got up refreshed, shaved, put on his best suit, and even pinned a silver brooch to his lapel.

He first went to the Ministry of the Interior and was soon received by Permanent Under-Secretary Edgar Winslop.

Everard wore a flattering smile: "Mr. Winthrop, I'm here to report good news. Good Words has re-established its cooperation with Mr. Sorel."

His new work will be published in our magazine, and the Sherlock Holmes series will continue!

Winslop looked at Everard with disbelief. "Are you sure?"

"It's true! I've received the manuscript, 'A Scandal in Bohemia'—a new story by Sherlock Holmes."

There is also a novella by Mr. Sorel, called "1984," which is included as a supplement to this issue of *Good Words*.

Winthrop paused for a few seconds before asking, "1984? What's it about?"

Everard's smile widened: "It's a work that looks to the future! It's set in 1984, when the British Empire had already ruled the world."

Truth, peace, friendship, and prosperity became the lofty goals that the Empire wholeheartedly pursued! Mr. Sorel depicted the most wonderful ideal society.

He also specially inscribed, "A gift for Her Majesty the Queen and her people!"

Winslop frowned slightly; this sounded too easy, unsettlingly so.

He pressed further, "Have you read the manuscript?"

Everard nodded quickly: "Of course! It's very well written, full of praise and aspirations for the empire."

I believe this marks a shift in Mr. Sorel's attitude; he is willing to reconcile with Britain!

Winslop stared at him for a long time, so long that Everard's smile began to freeze.

Winslop took off his glasses and wiped them. "Very good. Now that you've reviewed the manuscript, publish it as planned. I just hope the public outcry subsides as soon as possible."

Everard breathed a sigh of relief: "Don't worry! The new issue of 'Good Words' will be on the shelves tomorrow, and the supplement will be inserted inside. I guarantee this matter will be over soon."

Winslop nodded and continued working on his documents, while Everard tactfully left.

As he walked out of the Ministry of the Interior building, his steps became lighter.

Now that we've gotten past Winthrop, the next step is to go and claim credit with Alexander Strand.

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"Yes! And Mr. Sorel's '1984' is entirely a positive portrayal of the Empire, which can completely reverse public opinion!"
Everyone will see that "Good Words" not only solved the problem, but also earned the author's respect.

In the general manager's office of "Stellan Publishing," Richard Everard delivered a passionate speech to his boss, Alexander Stellan.

Alexander Strand exhaled a puff of cigar smoke: "Everard, I invest in magazines both to make money and for influence."

But some things are more important than either of those—decency. Norman left with dignity. I hope you will too.

Everard nodded quickly: "Of course! Mr. Stellan, I assure you, under my leadership, 'Good Words' will reach even greater heights than before! Sales, reputation, influence... will all surpass the Norman era!"

Alexander Strand didn't reply, just puffed on his cigar. After a long while, he finally said, "Then go ahead and do it. Let me see what you're capable of."

"Thank you! I promise I won't let you down!"

Everard almost started humming a song as he left the office.

The Ministry of the Interior has approved it, and the boss has approved it too. Now it's his time to shine.

He completely forgot that he had never actually read 1984.

------------

On the morning of the third day, Everard finally returned to the editor-in-chief's office of Good Words.

There were letters and proofs piled on the table, and on top of them was a thin booklet—the proof of "1984," which had been lying there all day.

Everard took off his coat, hung up his hat, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then leisurely sat down behind his desk.

He picked up the proof, thinking that he could finally properly appreciate this "gift for Her Majesty the Queen".

Turning to the first page, the title is "1984," and below it is the line he personally requested to be added:

“A gift from Lionel Sorel to Her Majesty the Queen and her subjects.”

Everard nodded in satisfaction and turned to the main text...

Thirty minutes later——

The editors in the editing room suddenly heard a scream that sounded inhuman coming from the editor-in-chief's office.

Then came several loud crashes as furniture collapsed, and then they saw the usually impeccably dressed new editor-in-chief almost fall from the doorway into the hallway.

“Charles! Charles Whitman!”

A middle-aged man stood up: "Mr. Everard, I'm here. What's up?" He was both the editor and the head of the distribution department.

At this point, Everard's voice became shrill and piercing: "This manuscript—has it been printed? Has the supplement been printed?"

Charles Whitman paused, then said, "You mean '1984'? It's been printed. It was printed from the night before last until yesterday morning. As you said, there's no need to wait for proofreading; it was bound directly."

It was delivered to the post office distribution point at noon, and should have been delivered to distributors in various regions by early this morning.

Everard's vision blurred, and he roared hoarsely, "Get them back! Quickly! Get all the supplements back! Now!"

Charles Whitman frowned: "Sir, that's impossible. Local newsstands in London start delivering news at three in the morning every day."

Distributors in other areas have already started delivering to bookstores and newsstands. Some subscribers may have already received them.

"Then send a telegram! Tell them not to sell it! Pull out the supplement!"

Charles Whitman stood still, looking at Everard with a mixture of confusion and disdain in his eyes.

He said slowly, "Sir, you personally instructed that there's no need for proofreading, just go straight to printing. You said this is a 'task assigned from above,' and it must be published as soon as possible."

Now that it's printed and shipped out, we have to chase it back. Do you know how much loss this will cause? Printing costs, paper costs, shipping costs—all gone to waste.

And the magazine's reputation—"

Everard screamed, “I don’t care! It’s poison! That novel is poison! It will ruin everything! Go now!”

The editors in the office all stopped what they were doing and looked this way.

Charles Whitman paused for a few seconds, then finally nodded: "I'll give it a try. But I can't guarantee how much I can recover."

Everard didn't hear what was said after that. He staggered back to his office, closed the door, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor.

The proofs of "1984" lay scattered on the ground, like a large, dirty snowflake covering an expensive Persian carpet.

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At nine o'clock in the morning, in the aristocratic residential area of ​​West London, Sir James Morris sat at the breakfast table, sipping coffee and flipping through the newly delivered copy of "Good Words".

He is seventy years old and has a habit of starting his mornings with reading.

Why is the magazine thicker than usual? Sir Morris pulled out a thin booklet and frowned.

1984? What is that?
He glimpsed the inscription below: “A gift from Lionel Sorel to Her Majesty the Queen and her subjects.”

Sir Maurice raised an eyebrow. The French writer? A tribute? That's interesting!

He opened the supplement and began to read...

Twenty minutes later, the coffee on the table had gone cold, but the bread remained untouched.

Sir Morris's face went from curiosity to confusion, from confusion to solemnity, and finally to paleness.

He stared at a sentence that appeared repeatedly in the booklet, his lips trembling, yet he couldn't help but slowly open them—

"OLD LADY IS WATCHING YOU"
Inside Windsor Castle, Alexandra Victoria uttered those words, which sounded particularly jarring against the backdrop of the towering dome.

"OLD...? LADY...?"

The queen, who had ruled the British Empire for forty-five years, had never been so angry.

(Second update, please vote! One more update is coming, but it will be very late.)

(End of this chapter)