Hugo walked to the desk on the spot, then took out the manuscript paper directly, and then sat down in front of the desk, he looked out the window at the blue sea and blue sky of Jersey, pondered for a moment, and then began to write on the manuscript paper.

There was only one thought in his mind.

You can't let the literati of London gather together and work together to bully the literati of Paris, right?

The quill pen was dipped in ink, and it was written quickly on the paper. Jones sat on the sidelines, patiently waiting for his friend to finish writing. Half an hour later, Hugo stretched and handed the manuscript paper to Jones in front of him. Then he came up with a shocking piece of news.

"Your Excellency Jones, I'm going to make a trip to London."

Jones's hand shook and he almost threw the manuscript paper on the ground, and he watched in amazement as Hugo got up, walked to the coat rack, removed his hat and coat, and then took out the dusty suitcase from the corner and wiped it clean with a towel.

Jones froze in place, and he asked rhetorically, "Ah, going to London so suddenly?" ”

Jones had no idea that Hugo would follow him to London, and he wondered what his friend wanted to do. So he asked tentatively, "Your Excellency Hugo, why did you suddenly come to London?" ”

"One is to visit my daughter, Alde Hugo. I don't know how she was doing in London, but there was a dinner hosted by the British royal family, and Dickens gave me an invitation to attend. ”

He turned his neck to relieve the fatigue of his mind. Then he turned his head and said in a serious tone, "Last and most importantly, I want to get to know the young man. There are not many bloody young people left in Paris these days, a Garion who was driven away before, I did not defend him, and now there is another Trotsky, if I do not stand up and speak for them, will these bastards really treat me as a dead man? ”

Since Hugo was determined to settle accounts with them, it was inconvenient for Jones to say more, he just reminded him kindly, "Since His Excellency Hugo insists on coming, then I can't stop it." The last boat to return this afternoon, if we have to leave, we can go back together. ”

Hugo's eyes lit up, and he nodded and said, "Of course it couldn't be better." ”

Jones kept muttering in his heart that this old friend was going to do things in London next.

Hugo, who is far away in Jersey, has yet to officially announce his support for Garion, but when he decides to start fighting back, he will not stop. "Backwater" has blocked some of London's unqualified guys out of temper, and he also decides to continue striking while the iron is hot, so that these spiritual bourgeois will shut up completely!

I think you are embarrassing our revolutionary party!

Then Garion published a second rebuttal in the Daily Telegraph, which was originally a piece of the Weeds poetry collection, but Garion changed the title slightly, and continued to prove like London in the current lively public opinion environment: Break the backbone of our Great Revolutionary Party? Don't even think about it, you idiots!

The British poetry and art world, which was originally dominated by Tennyson and Browning, finally appeared a different dawn.

Robert Browning, as usual, woke up early one morning in the right sunshine and looked at the newspaper that had just been delivered by the postal courier, and he stood at the table, with only one person left in the empty table and chair. Looking at the vacant chair next to him, Browning's heart was a loss that could not be concealed.

Since the death of his beloved Elizabeth, it feels like all of London has nothing to do with him.

He picked up the newspaper and flipped to the headlines. After reading this article, he stood up instantly, holding the newspaper excitedly, and even his hands trembled slightly.

It's like a long-dead heart beating again.

This radical and fire-like article reminded him of his wife, who had died in his arms not long ago, and of what she had said when she also supported social reform.

"I am convinced that what is needed for the collapse of this society is not to close doors and windows, but to light and air."

Browning didn't care what the world was, but he knew that his wife would be ecstatic if she were alive.

But the familiar voice and smile have disappeared.

A tear fell on the newspaper, soaking the headline of the article.

Revolutionary Spirit: Dead Fire

"I dreamed that I was running between icebergs."

"It's a tall iceberg, with ice on top of it, and frozen clouds in the sky, like fish scales. At the foot of the mountain there is an ice forest, and the branches and leaves are like pine fir. Everything is cold, everything is white. ”

"But I suddenly fell into a valley of ice."

"The upper and lower sides are all cold and white. And on all the blue and white ice, there are countless red shadows, tangled like coral nets. I looked down at my feet. ”

"There's a flame."

Browning choked in his throat and stopped reciting the poem, he lowered his head, his hands covering his already reddened eyes, and the warmth of his past. The name of the poet is also firmly remembered in my heart.

Trotsky.

…………

This work, which is neither a poem nor an essay, provoked a great deal of discussion among the literati of London, with conservatives despying the mistake of writing poetry without a rhythm, while the radicals, who insisted on breaking the old and welcoming the new, exclaimed his novelty in form.

Garion's article isn't the most popular, but it's definitely the most controversial.

Especially in the middle of a bunch of conservative literati.

"It's dead fire. It has the shape of a flame, but it does not shake, and the whole is frozen, like a coral branch; There is also solidified black smoke at the tip, and it is suspected that this is coming out of the fire house, so it is scorched. In this way, the four walls of the ice are reflected, and they reflect each other, turning into immeasurable shadows, making this ice valley a red coral color. ”

"When I was younger, I loved watching the waves stirred up by the clippers and the flames spewed out by the furnaces. Not only do I love it, but I also want to see it clearly. It's a pity that they are all in flux and never shapeless. Although staring and staring, there is no sign of it. ”

"Dead Flame, now I got you first!"

"Wait, what a mess this is written! Is this worthy of poetry? ”

A taunt erupted in the room.

Frederick stood in front of his brother Tennyson, mocking Garrian's work with impunity, waving the manuscript in his hand and saying, "Tennyson, this man's poetry is the difference between gold and stone compared to yours!" ”

"Oh?"

Tennyson, who was immersed in his reading, looked up from the middle of the paper, and he was intrigued by the sentence his brother had read out, and asked, "What are you looking at?" ”

"The poetry of a clown."

Frederick said disdainfully, "I heard that this man of letters, who had fled from Paris, had just made a name for himself in London, and now he was publicly publishing a statement defending a criminal who had incited rebellion, which had aroused the encirclement of the literary and artistic circles in London." He even wrote two poems to refute it. But the level of his poetry is much worse than the standard, and it's all written in a mess. ”

Tennyson did not rush along with it, but took the newspaper in the other party's hand and flipped through the poem that Frederick had said. He took over from his brother and began to read slowly, his voice unhurried, like a glass of warm water.

"I was forsaken in the valley of ice," he replied, "and the forsaken of me is long gone." I'm also frozen to death. But if thou art not warm me, and cause me to burn again, I shall soon perish. ”

"You wake up and make me happy. I'm thinking of a way out of the ice valley; I will carry you with me, that you will never freeze, but burn forever. ”

"Alas! Well, I'll burn it out! ”

"I feel sorry for you when you finish burning. I will leave you here. ”

"Alas! Well, I'll freeze out! ”

"So, what to do?"

"But what about yourself?"

"I said it: I'm going to get out of this ice valley......"

"Then I might as well burn it out!"

When he read this sentence, it was as if he were in the scene of the picture, and Tennyson seemed to see a flame suddenly leap up, like a red comet, illuminating the darkness.

My heart trembled.

He did not continue to read, but read the whole poem in silence. Frederick, who was standing beside him, seemed to sense that something was wrong with Tennyson, and when he saw his brother's pale face, he hurriedly asked, "What's wrong?" Tennyson? ”

Tennyson put the newspaper on the table, and he waved his hand to show that he was fine, but his heart seemed to be stunned, and his mind was unsettled by those few words.

It's as if there's something in the dark that makes it hard to grasp, but when you think about it, it's just as unclear. It's a terrible feeling.

Tennyson scratched his head in annoyance, scratching his scalp and couldn't think of what the other party was trying to say.

Is it allusion to spreading the fire of revolution?

After pondering and contemplating but never coming up with a reason, Tennyson turned to Frederick and asked, "You say this man's name is Trotsky?" ”

"yes."

Frederick was confused and replied, "Tennyson, I know this article doesn't make sense, but you don't have to be so angry, right?" ”

"What do you know!"

Tennyson looked at the newspaper and disdained to continue the conversation with Frederick, leaving only one sentence, "You idiots think it's a piece of shit, and this poem is wonderfully written!" ”