The docklands of the Thames River were another London.
There was none of the elegance of Regent Street in the West End, nor the reserve of the bankers in the City. The air was filled with a strong and complex mixture of smells—wet wood, rotten fish, tar, animal dung, and the peculiar fragrance of spices and goods from all over the world. Dockworkers, stripped to the waist, sweat beading on their bronzed muscles, cursed rudely as they wrestled heavy cargo with iron hooks and ropes. Everything here was rough, direct, and full of raw vitality.
Arthur Collins stood there in his faded shirt and patched coat, looking out of place, like a child who had stumbled into a land of giants.
It took him over an hour to find his target—the small trading houses with German or French signs. However, reality was far crueler than he had imagined. Most trading houses had permanent clerks, and the few that seemed to need staff already had three or five impoverished intellectuals like him, trying to sell their language skills, gathered at their doors.
It was a buyer's market, and prices were ridiculously low.
"Six pence to translate one page of a German shipping manifest into English."
A bearded German merchant, scrutinizing them like livestock, shouted in broken English.
Six pence, for nearly a thousand words of specialized document, was probably only enough to buy a loaf of black bread and a pint of low-quality beer.
There was a stir in the crowd, and someone immediately stepped forward to take the job. Arthur hesitated, but in the end, he did not push his way forward.
Just as he was about to leave and find another way, an opportunity unexpectedly presented itself.
Not far away, a small merchant ship from Le Havre, France, had just docked, and the captain was arguing heatedly with a British customs official over a document. The captain was an impatient Frenchman, speaking as fast as a machine gun; the customs official, on the other hand, was red-faced, clearly not understanding a single French word.
Arthur's eyes lit up, and he immediately walked over.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen,"
he said to the captain in clear and fluent French, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
The French captain looked as if he had seen a savior, immediately thrusting the document into his hand and complaining rapidly. Arthur listened patiently, while quickly scanning the document. It was about import duty documents for a batch of Bordeaux red wine on board, which had been held up due to a translation issue with a technical term.
After listening to both sides' requests, Arthur took less than five minutes to explain the original meaning of the document to the customs official in precise, appropriate language, and proposed a solution that complied with both parties' regulations.
The problem was solved easily.
The customs official stamped the document with a sigh of relief, while the French captain excitedly clapped Arthur on the shoulder, pulled out a handful of jingling coins from his pocket, counted out two shillings, and pressed them into Arthur's hand.
"Young man, you speak French like a Parisian!"
the captain exclaimed, "You deserve this! You've been a great help!"
Arthur gripped the two heavy coins tightly, his palms slightly sweating from excitement.
This money was more than translating four pages of shipping manifests!
He thanked the captain, politely declined his invitation to come aboard for a drink, and turned to leave the bustling docks.
With two shillings in hand, at least he wouldn't have to worry about food for the next day or two; his sister might even get to taste soft, fragrant white bread and milk.
Arthur's thoughts returned to the review article on "The Raven."
His first target was the office of "Gentleman's Monthly" on Fleet Street.
This was an old literary magazine, known for its conservative taste and elegant style.
The office was carpeted with thick rugs, and the air was filled with the smell of cigars and old paper. An old editor, with slicked-back hair and gold-rimmed glasses, received him.
"Arthur Collins?"
The old editor glanced at him, and asked slowly, "An Oxford student? I haven't heard of you."
"I am not here as an Oxford student today, sir,"
Arthur said, neither humble nor arrogant, "I am a literary critic."
The old editor's eyebrows raised, and a hint of imperceptible disdain flickered in his eyes. He took the manuscript Arthur handed him, but did not look at it immediately, instead placing it aside.
"What is it about? A pastoral poem? Or a new interpretation of Shakespeare's sonnets?"
He asked languidly, clearly having categorized Arthur as one of those impractical literary youths.
"It's about an American writer, Edgar Allan Poe."
"Oh, that colonial drunkard,"
the old editor's mouth twisted, "I've read some of his stories; they pursue sensory stimulation too much, lacking the elegance and restraint of our English literature. Young man, I advise you to use your talent on more refined subjects."
"Sir, if you would be willing to spend ten minutes reading my article, perhaps you would change your mind."
Arthur insisted.
The old editor finally grew a bit impatient. He picked up the manuscript, quickly scanned a few lines, his frown deepening. When he saw the term "psychological horror," he finally threw the manuscript onto the table as if offended.
"Enough, Mr. Collins,"
he said coldly, "It's full of sensational and bizarre theories! What is 'musicality'? Poetry should be beautiful! What is 'Gothic aesthetic'? That's just cheap horror stories! What we at 'Gentleman's Monthly' need are works that can make readers happy during afternoon tea, not this... this morbid babbling from the gutter!"
Arthur listened quietly, without anger, even feeling a little like laughing inside.
Ignorance is not an obstacle to survival, but arrogance is.
He politely retrieved his manuscript, bowed to the old editor who was destined to be eliminated by the times, and turned to leave.
His first submission ended in complete failure.
Undeterred, he went to another, slightly smaller magazine, "The Londoner's Pictorial." This time, the editor didn't even look at it, just waved his hand and said indifferently: "We do not accept submissions about American poets."
In one afternoon, Leon visited four magazine offices, receiving four merciless rejections.
The reasons varied, but the core was only one: no one was interested in him, an unknown nobody, or the "colonial drunkard" he wrote about.
When he dragged his exhausted body back to the attic, it was already completely dark.
"One step at a time."
Arthur comforted himself.
At least, there was bread and milk for tonight.
He did not go to the black bread shop his predecessor used to frequent, but turned into another street, entering a cleaner, brighter bakery.
"Good evening, sir. Please give me a loaf of white bread, the freshest kind."
He placed a shilling on the counter, then added, "And a small bottle of milk."
Carrying this dinner, which was a luxury for him, Arthur hurried home.
When he pushed open the attic door, Lilian was sitting by the bed, reading by the faint light from outside the window. Hearing the door open, she immediately looked up, her eyes filled with a trace of nervous anticipation: "Brother?"
Arthur did not speak, but simply walked to the table and placed the paper bag he was carrying on it.
The soft white bread and the glass bottle of milk stood out especially in the dim room.
Lilian's eyes instantly lit up, and she exclaimed in surprise: "Oh my God, Arthur! You found a job?"