Chapter 2252 - 264: The Most Brilliant New Royal Society Member in 1838? No, the Answer Isn’t Darwin_2

But what about Arthur?

He never went to a public school, so he doesn’t belong to the Harrow and Eton crowd; he studied at the University of London, which means he’s not under the protective umbrella of the Cambridge and Oxford alumni, either.

Even so, the University of London is still a fairly influential force in scientific circles. If Arthur were to stand on their side, and given that his own ability is first‑rate, there’d really be no need to worry too much about this new‑member election.

However, if Arthur jumps out now to "betray his teacher and ancestors," then he’ll have thoroughly turned himself into a man with no father, no mother, and no clan.

Darwin probed cautiously, asking, "Arthur, the Royal Society election is next month. Have you got your letters of recommendation ready?"

Arthur’s reaction was unexpectedly calm, as if he hadn’t taken the matter to heart at all: "Not yet. Didn’t they say we only need to submit them by mid‑month? What’s there to be anxious about?"

This time it was Darwin’s turn to be stunned.

"You..." He hesitated. "You’re not anxious at all? If you don’t hurry up and get it done now, what if something goes wrong later?"

"Nothing much can go wrong, it’s not as if we’re standing for Parliament." Arthur clamped his pipe between his teeth and shoved Eld off the card table. "What about you, Charles? From the way you’re talking, you’ve already got everything prepared?"

Darwin instinctively sat up straighter. "I’ve already dealt with the letters of recommendation."

"Oh?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You’ve got all six signatures?"

"Not six." Darwin answered truthfully. "Sixteen."

"Sixteen?" Eld, delighted that he finally wouldn’t be losing money, took a sip of his drink. "Doesn’t the Royal Society say six signatures are enough? What are you getting so many for? Just to show off how many people you know, is that it?!"

Darwin almost couldn’t stop himself from punching this bastard. "That’s how the Royal Society’s rules are written, yes, but I can’t seriously scrape along at the minimum, can I? Especially since this year is the first time they’re fully applying the new standards. From what I’ve heard, the candidates this year are basically all getting as many signatures as they possibly can."

Hearing this, Dickens finally couldn’t resist joining in.

"Sixteen signatures is no small figure." He set down his glass, his brows knitting slightly. "Charles, where exactly did you find so many people to sign for you? Weren’t you doing research back home all that time earlier? Did you arrange all these signatures after you came back to London last November?"

Being asked like that actually made Darwin look a little uncomfortable; he instinctively reached up to rub the bridge of his nose.

"It’s really... nothing special in the way of connections." He spoke slowly, as though afraid people might think he was bragging. "Most of them are still my Cambridge lot. I wrote them a letter, and they agreed to put me forward."

"I knew it." Eld jumped in at once, his tone so sour it could pickle cabbage. "Cambridge again. The Royal Society might as well take down its signboard and rename itself the ’Oxford and Cambridge Alumni Club’. That would suit it much better, if you ask me."

Darwin gave a bitter little smile and did not argue.

"You all know I spent a few years at Trinity," he went on. "There are quite a few Royal Society members in the college already; even if they weren’t my direct tutors, our paths crossed. On top of that there’s my father’s and grandfather’s names... they still carry a bit of weight at the Royal Society."

Eld clicked his tongue, deliberately stretching the sound out. "So that’s how it is—family heritage in the mix as well."

"Don’t put it like that, Eld." Disraeli rotated his glass, for once taking the role of peacemaker. "If we’re going to talk about family pull, your berth on the Beggar for the circumnavigation, didn’t you owe that to your uncle who’s rather well‑connected in the Navy Department?"

"How is that the same thing?!" Eld bristled at once. "On the ship I was eating salt beef tough as steel plate, drinking stinking water with a green sheen on it, sleeping in hammocks whose ropes were about to rot through; when a storm hit, we didn’t even know if we’d keep our lives. If a circumnavigation counts as living the good life, then what do you call those young gentlemen who go straight to White Hall after graduating to sit in an office and bark orders? Chosen by heaven?"

"Eld, now that’s not fair." Arthur cut in at the right moment. "Anyone who actually sits in an office at White Hall and barks orders personally is already remarkably diligent. The real ’children of heaven’ are the ones who pay others to cover their shifts and pocket the difference out of their salary."

At this remark, Arthur and his friends took it in stride, but for some reason the gentlemen at the next table all changed expression.

Eld stared for a moment, then clicked his tongue. "What’s this, then? Have you started finding your chair at White Hall too hot to sit on? Planning to move on and find yourself a higher perch?"

"Not quite." Arthur delivered a fair‑minded verdict. "It’s just that you’re being too harsh in how you judge Charles. The two of you were rolled off the ship together, weren’t you? Besides, apart from having been to Cambridge, he doesn’t have any particularly big stain on him. That righteous fury of yours would be better saved for tomorrow, when you can unleash it on that fellow alumnus of his from Cambridge Trinity College."

"Fellow alumnus?" Eld frowned, thinking. "Which chap are you talking about?"

"Who else could it be?" Arthur puffed out a cloud of smoke. "The first alumnus of Trinity these days—our Prime Minister, Viscount Melbourne. Incidentally, you probably wouldn’t guess it, but when Viscount Melbourne was young he ran with a crowd that included Le Hunt of the Observer, Thomas Barnes of The Times, William Hazlitt, Lord Brougham, Shelley, and Lord Byron."

"Now that is something." Eld clicked his tongue, marvelling. "Poets, newspapermen, rabble‑rousing Liberal scribblers, all mixed up with a man who later learned how to play deaf and dumb as Prime Minister."