In this era, given his past identity as an Oxford University student, starting with a literary review might be more appropriate than a short story.
Or rather, it might bring in money faster.
Arthur dragged a worn-out leather suitcase from under the bed. The suitcase was a relic from his Oxford days, still bearing a Great Western Railway luggage tag. Now, the leather was frayed and cracked, like an aged face. Opening the suitcase, a faint scent of old books mixed with mothballs wafted out. There were only a few decent clothes inside, just over a dozen heavy classical literature books, and... several half-used notebooks.
Under Lilian's concerned gaze, Arthur carefully tore three blank pages from the latter half of a 'History of Greece' notebook. The paper was high-quality laid paper, thick and smooth, with a faint cream color. In Oxford, he had casually used such paper for drafts, but now, each sheet seemed incredibly precious.
"Prodigal son,"
Arthur muttered to the original owner in his mind, "If only he had saved a few more back then, we wouldn't be in such a predicament now."
He used a small knife to carefully trim the rough edges of the paper, then solemnly laid it flat on the desk.
"Arthur,"
Lilian's voice softly chimed. She had sat up at some point, wrapped tightly in a blanket. "Is this your old notebook?"
"Yes,"
Arthur turned back and smiled. "You see, going to school still has some use; at least it left us with a few sheets of paper that can be exchanged for bread."
Lilian's mouth opened slightly, but she said nothing more.
A hint of desolation was hidden in her eyes.
She knew that if they couldn't make money soon, her fate...
For the rest of the morning, only two sounds filled the attic: the ceaseless rain outside the window and the rustling of the pencil tip gliding across the paper.
Arthur didn't immediately start copying "The Raven."
A good review carried far more weight than a mere original work. What he intended to do was use literary theories beyond this era to interpret Edgar Allan Poe's work, to tell these British gentlemen, who were still enjoying pastoral idylls, what true modern poetry was, and what terror truly touched the depths of the soul.
He wrote the article's title on the paper, his handwriting steady and forceful:
"The Cry Across the Ocean: On Musicality and Gothic Aesthetics in Edgar Allan Poe's Poetry"
Arthur was completely engrossed.
He used literary theoretical frameworks from later generations to meticulously dissect the core of Edgar Allan Poe's works. He discussed how a poem's "rhythm" and "atmosphere" served a "unity of effect"; he interpreted the complex symbolism in "The Raven," defining the ominous black bird as the embodiment of "stubborn, sorrowful, and eternal memory"; he even introduced the concept of "psychological horror" to distinguish it from the cheap Gothic stories popular at the time, which relied on gore and ghosts to scare people.
His writing was fluid and confident, drawing on extensive references yet remaining accessible.
This was thanks to his classical literature training at Oxford, and even more so to his overwhelming cognitive advantage from the future.
Lilian didn't disturb him; she just watched quietly.
She watched her brother sometimes write furiously, sometimes pause, frowning in thought, and sometimes murmur to the air in English and a strange language she didn't understand (Chinese). She felt that Arthur, at this moment, had a peculiar glow about him.
By the time Arthur wrote the last word and solemnly signed his name, it was already afternoon.
The rain had stopped at some point, and a thin ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds, slanting into the attic, forming a column of light in the dusty air.
He let out a long sigh.
However, the joy of success lasted less than five seconds before being interrupted by an untimely "rumble" from his stomach.
His stomach was protesting.
Arthur's gaze instinctively shifted to the half-loaf of black bread, then to Lilian.
The manuscript was finished, but it was just a stack of inedible paper now. Submission, review, publication, payment... this whole process would take at least one or two weeks. But his and Lilian's stomachs couldn't wait even a day.
"I'll go make lunch now."
He said, feigning cheerfulness, and got up to retrieve the half-loaf of black bread. He carefully cut it with a knife, giving the larger, softer half to Lilian, while he took the dry, hard piece.
"I'm not hungry, Arthur, you eat it."
Lilian shook her head, pushing the bread back.
"Listen to me,"
Arthur sternly said, in an unquestionable tone, "A patient has no right to bargain. Your task is to eat and get better quickly, so you can draw illustrations for me in the future, and we can earn money together."
Lilian looked at her brother's serious expression, her eyes reddening slightly, and silently took the bread, nibbling at it in small bites.
Arthur turned his back and took a fierce bite of the "stone" in his hand.
He suddenly realized another problem: even for a review manuscript, whether it could be successfully published was one thing; even if it was, it would still take some time to receive payment.
He and his sister couldn't wait any longer.
He had to find a job that paid on the same day, immediately!
Translation? This was his only skill at the moment. Large companies and publishing houses had their fixed translators; an unknown young man like him wouldn't stand a chance. But... there were always exceptions.
Docks... a word popped into his mind.
The docks of London were the heart of the British Empire, with hundreds of ships entering and leaving daily. Those small trading firms and shipping agents might not have the money to hire full-time translators, but they would always encounter urgent situations. For example, a cargo manifest from Hamburg, Germany, or a business letter from Marseille, France, needed immediate processing.
This was his only chance.
"Lilian, I need to go out,"
Arthur swallowed the last bite of bread, put on his only presentable, patched-up coat, "You rest well at home, lock the door, and don't open it for anyone until I return."
"Where are you going, brother?"
Lilian asked worriedly.
"To try my luck at the docks,"
Arthur adjusted his collar. "Maybe I can find a translation job. Don't worry, I'll be back before dark."
He leaned down and kissed his sister's forehead, then carefully tucked the newly finished manuscript, which carried his hopes for the future, into an old book and put it in his pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, he pushed open the attic door.
A mixture of coal smoke, horse manure, and dampness wafted over him. The hallway was dim and narrow. Arthur descended the creaking stairs step by step, walked out of the dilapidated apartment, and stepped onto the streets of London in 1881.
The streets after the rain were muddy. Horse-drawn carts carrying goods slowly passed by, their wheels splashing dirty puddles. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies in long skirts brushed past ragged workers and hawkers. The air was filled with complex smells, and the thick smoke from distant factory chimneys, like giant black hands, choked the city's sky.
This was Victorian London, where splendor and squalor coexisted, and hope and despair were intertwined.
Arthur tightened his coat, put his hands in his pockets, and walked quickly towards the Thames River. He had no mind to appreciate this "imperial spectacle" now; his mind had only one thought—to find work, earn shillings, and buy bread and milk.