694: Chapter 336: Red and Black_2 694: Chapter 336: Red and Black_2 Arthur glanced at him and then smiled at Tennyson, saying, “May I take a look at this work?”
“Of course,” Tennyson handed over a thick stack of manuscripts, “This is an authentic masterpiece.”
I, the immortal son of glory,
In order to make you atone, I condemn you,
At that time, I had no choice but to become,
An evil spirit from Purgatory.
At that time I covered my face with my hands,
Wept incessantly, too ashamed to speak.
I had longed to return to Heaven,
But I hesitated to move forward.
I fear meeting your mother,
I fear she would inquire,
“What news of the mortal world?
Any changes to my thatched hut?
Is my son resting peacefully in his dreams?”
Arthur, upon reading this, immediately understood why Tennyson was so emotionally stirred.
He must have been reminded of his deceased parents here.
Following that, Arthur’s gaze swept to the next part.
You grieve for us?—For whom are you sorrowing?
Surely not weeping for me?
Tell me, of what use am I?
If it is to fight in war.
Freind can still fight.
Perhaps even sever the spines of a few Don River Cossacks.
But in times of peace—even if I lived ten thousand years,
I can only curse the Moscow devils for a hundred years and then die.
If they were to shackle me and exile me to Siberia,
The brothers of Lithuania would see me, and they would think:
This is our noble lineage, our youth being destroyed.
Just you wait, Moscow devils!
Wait, Tsar the murderer!
A man like me, Tomasz, would rather die suspended from the gallows!
A man like me—can only serve the motherland with death!
Upon reading this, Arthur couldn’t help but flip a few pages ahead.
Indeed, on the very first page, he found that familiar name, the poet strongly recommended by the Polish Friends’ Literary Association to the “British”—Mr.
Beneath it was inscribed his motto with elegant and spirited font—”For the motherland, knowledge, and justice.”
And this manuscript was his latest work—the third part of “Forefathers’ Eve.”
Without a doubt, this is an immortal masterpiece; for the Polish, it is a great chapter that will ultimately be inscribed in their national history.
For the Russians, this work is nothing short of sedition.
Even if the year were not 1831 but 1968, this book would still be forcefully censored by the authorities in Poland.
And for Arthur, who had just experienced the Liverpool incident, he was indeed uncertain whether this work could pass through the library’s publishing department’s review smoothly.
Fortunately, even if “Forefathers’ Eve” could not be published individually, thanks to the regulation that newspapers and magazines do not require individual review, it could at least be serialized in “British.”
Occasionally holding a view contrary to the government stance wouldn’t be an issue, but if one were to do so frequently, then when it was time to renew the “British’s” publishing license, whether they could renew it smoothly would be a big question.
At the moment, however, Arthur obviously didn’t want to think about that.
He had taken a shot, so he wanted to take a counter-shot as well.
Although this counter-shot couldn’t compare to the one Belinhan gave Prime Minister Percival, it was at least a way for him to express his dissatisfaction.
Moreover, on an emotional level, he genuinely sympathized with the dislocated Poles, and this “Forefathers’ Eve” was indicative of that.
Without experiencing real suffering, without witnessing friends and family executed by the Tsar first-hand, Mickiewicz could never have written such deeply moving work. This update is available on NoveIＦire.net
And from a practical standpoint, the Tsar’s suppression of the Warsaw Uprising brought many Polish refugees to London, and refugees signified instability in public security.
He didn’t appreciate this kind of unasked-for increase in workload, especially when the person giving him assignments wasn’t his superior.
Wiping away tears, Tennyson laughed and said,
“Arthur, I was right, wasn’t I?
It truly is a great work.
Although I’m a bit envious, I still must admit that only someone like Mr.
Mickiewicz deserves the title of poet, and I can’t even describe him with the term ‘poet’ anymore; he is a soul singer from Poland.”
“From his every word, I’ve wholly felt that surge of indignant power, learned what the people of Poland are undergoing.
He truly is such a great patriot.
With each rereading of his work, I can increasingly feel that insurmountable gap between us.”
“Great poets are those like him, who can chronicle an era with their poems.
I really don’t know what I should do to catch up with even one ten-thousandth of his talent.”
Hearing this, Arthur just lit a fire and took a drag on his pipe, “Alfred, I agree with you.
But as a friend, I pray to God that you never become a poet as great as him.”
Tennyson was taken aback, “Why?”
Arthur, with a pipe in his mouth, put the manuscript back in its place, “Because it would be very painful.
Verses about Heaven have already been written by priests, so poets who want to achieve greatness have to witness Hell themselves.
In that regard, Dante did, Wordsworth did, Byron did, Mickiewicz did…
Oh, but Homer is an exception.”
Tennyson asked in confusion, “Why is Homer an exception?”