The Shadow of Great Britain

759: Chapter 361: Your Name, Britain and France 759: Chapter 361: Your Name, Britain and France “British” editorial department was in an unprecedented bustle.

The guest from afar Paris rescued the editors from the dreary task of reviewing manuscripts; his accounts of various significant events had everyone in perpetual astonishment.

Due to the ongoing cholera epidemic ravaging Europe, the ports of France were increasingly under strict control, and news that used to reach Britain within a few days might now be delayed by weeks.

The horrifying rumors circulating in various cities within the French interior were completely unknown to the likes of Great Dumas in distant London.

Great Dumas hastily poured more coffee for the guest.

But before he could put the pot back, the rotund man eagerly inquired, “What about Lyon?

Last year, I heard that the textile workers there had revolted, but then it was suppressed?”

The guest, pressed by Great Dumas, wore a faded, worn dark coat, presumably crafted from wool or felt but now had lost its original luster and texture due to wear and multiple mendings.

Although his undershirt was clean, it was made of a cotton-linen blend, and its color had faded to a dull and dim shade due to repeated washings.

His collar was high, yet a flaw was that it sagged slightly due to not being replaced in a timely manner with a new collar stay.

As for the adornments that a French gentleman held in high esteem, on him one could only spot a simple silver cufflink and a ring on his left index finger that appeared to be a family heirloom.

The guest warmed his hands with the coffee cup, his voice deep and not very loud, yet clear enough for everyone present to hear.

“Well…

the textile workers in Lyon had started rioting in October last year.

They hadn’t thought of rebelling at first; they just wanted higher wages.

They complained: ‘We silk workers labor fourteen to fifteen hours a day, sometimes even eighteen, yet we are all clad in rags.

Yet those who govern, dressed in fine coats and wearing embroidered sashes.

We weave these, but, even if we starve to death, we do not have a single piece of cloth to shroud us.’

A lady who came to submit her manuscript heard this and was visibly moved; the situation reminded her of something.

She recited:

“People of England, why do you

till the fields for your oppressors?

Why do you labor incessantly at the looms?

Dressing tyrants in the finest cloths?

Why, from cradle to grave,

do you nourish and defend with your food and life

those ungrateful parasites,

They who wring your sweat and drink your blood!

…

You sow the seeds, others reap;

You find wealth, others claim it;

You weave cloth, others wear it;

You forge weapons, others wield them.”

Hearing this poem, the guest couldn’t help but chuckle and asked, “Is that Shelley’s ‘Song to the Men of England’?

I adore that piece as well.”

Hearing this, the lady couldn’t help but tear up, “Thank you for your support.

It’s only because of supporters like you that I’ve continued to compile Percy’s posthumous works.”

The guest, stunned, said, “You are?”

Tennyson, unable to bear it, glanced at the lady and whispered to the guest, “Mr.

Stendhal, this lady is Mrs.

Mary Shelley, wife of Mr.

Shelley.”

Upon hearing this, Stendhal quickly stood, removing his hat, “Madam, I apologize, I truly didn’t know it was you.

I didn’t mean to invoke your sad memories, but your husband was indeed a remarkable man, not just a remarkable poet.”

Seeing this, Great Dumas quickly signaled Tennyson with his eyes.

Understanding the cue, Tennyson helped Mrs.

Shelley to her feet, saying, “Madam, the air here is a bit stuffy, why don’t I accompany you outside for a walk?

The pressure from your recent work has been too much, and sorting out the posthumous works is not urgent.

Take it slow.

Whether it’s I, Charles, or Alexander, we can all help share some of the burden.”

Great Dumas also chimed in with a smile, “Although I may not be as skilled at sorting out poems like Alfred, I am quite adept at adapting plays.

My new work ‘Anthony’ has just been completed.

Madam, if you trust me, I can totally take care of adapting the sequel script of ‘Frankenstein’ for you.”

Dickens, who had been quietly listening to the story, also raised his hand, “I’ve recently gathered some experience in scriptwriting too.

Although I can’t do it as well as Alexander, I can still lend a hand.”

Mrs.

Shelley dabbed her tears with a handkerchief, smiling back, “Thank you, gentlemen, for your eager assistance, but I am no longer the frail woman who once stood by Percy’s side.

If you truly wish to help, then please do not interfere; ‘British’ has already done enough for Percy and me.

Although every time I visit, I must reiterate my gratitude to the editorial department, such gratitude can never be fully expressed.

By the way, when will Mr.

Disraeli and Mr.

Hasting be in the editorial office?

I would like to thank them in person as well.”

“The two of them…

Great Dumas scratched his cheek, “That’s somewhat tricky.

Although we promised before to find a time for everyone to sit down together, you know, Benjamin is a member of Parliament now, and with the current situation, he’s so busy with his party duties that he can hardly spare a moment.

Not to mention coming to the editorial office, he can hardly move forward with his new works.”