shadow of britain

Chapter 689 Secret Return to London
Princess Victoria was so closely guarded that the maids were too busy to whisper to her, "You are heir to the throne of England." I suspect that if we could have dissected that little heart, we might have found that some pigeon or bird had broken the news to her.

—Walter Scott, 1828

Morning mist filled the Thames River, and the river surface was like a piece of light gray silk, gently spreading in the heart of England. A small steamship flying the flag of Great Britain sailed along the winding waterway towards the London docks amid the roar of turbines and the sound of waves.

On the deck, a British gentleman stood quietly. He was wearing a black coat, holding an ebony cane inlaid with silver, and silently staring at the city that was gradually emerging. His face was a little tired, and the wind and frost of the journey had not left too many traces on his expression. Only his eyes reflected the silhouettes of St. Paul's Cathedral and Tower Bridge shrouded in mist in the morning light.

Sir Arthur Hastings, the cultural counselor of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland in Russia, is returning to this familiar yet strange city after more than two years of European career. His journey started from St. Petersburg, and he took a merchant ship to Hamburg via the Baltic Sea, then changed to a steam cruise ship to cross the North Sea, and finally boarded this small steamship to London in Hull Port. This journey is not far, but it seems to have taken longer than it actually did.

The years in St. Petersburg have become history - the golden corridors of the Winter Palace, the Tsar's cold gaze, the hypocrisy at the envoys' parties, and even the ice and snow on the Volga River and the gray sky have all been sealed in memory.

And these memories are now lying quietly in his suitcase.

In addition to a few simple clothes, the small suitcase also contained several more symbolic objects: a leather-bound collection of Pushkin’s poems, a malachite cigarette case from the Ural Mountains, a map with fortresses along the Baltic Sea, a sealed official document, and several unopened letters from Russian noblewomen, with the faint scent of jasmine perfume between the pages. The handwriting of these letters was elegant, and their names were attached when signing, but there was no word of farewell.

They didn't believe that this return to England would be the final farewell. Perhaps it was just a short rotation of diplomats, a routine official vacation. Not to mention that Arthur had been attacked by mobs in Moscow not long ago. The British knight might just want to return home to recuperate for two or three months.

But Arthur himself knew that his return was not due to health or diplomatic considerations.

The boat continued to sail upstream along the Thames, coal smoke and morning mist intertwined, and the familiar outline of London gradually emerged in the distance.

The dock is lined with masts, and cargo ships from all over the world gather here. Crew members and dock workers are busy unloading tea from the East Indies, carpets from Persia, and rum from the Caribbean.

On the streets along the river, carriages rolled over the wet cobblestones, and the horses' hooves splashed water. The morning bells echoed in the tower of St. Paul's Cathedral. The air was filled with coal smoke, damp earth and salty sea breeze. Deep in the city of London, the decision makers in Whitehall might have been waiting for his return.

The cruise ship slowly approached the shore, the crew members skillfully lowered the gangplank, and the passengers carrying their suitcases ran impatiently to the West India Dock.

At the dock, a four-wheeled carriage was waiting quietly. The coachman was wearing a blue livery and a top hat. The emblem of the British Foreign Office was printed on the door of the carriage. It was obviously sent by Foreign Secretary Viscount Palmerston to greet him.

A young assistant was standing next to the car. When he saw Arthur step down the gangplank, he hurried forward to meet him.

"Welcome home, sir." He whispered, taking Arthur's cane and suitcase, with a respectful and cautious attitude: "Viscount Palmerston hopes that you can go to Carlton House this afternoon. He hopes to hear your report in Petersburg in person."

Arthur nodded slightly, as if all this was expected.

But a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

This return had nothing to do with Viscount Palmerston's political game.

He suddenly asked for a business leave, not because of the Caucasus or the French Royalist incident, but because of a joke in the Duke of Wellington's letter: "Are you interested in returning to London? You have been away for so long that everyone seems to have forgotten you."

These words made Arthur smell an opportunity.

He realized that the time might be ripe to return to the center of power.

Arthur paid no attention to Palmerston's request for him to report as soon as possible.

Regardless of the fact that Grey's cabinet was about to fall, Palmerston's position as minister might be lost at any time. Even if he still retained his cabinet position in the next cabinet, when Sir David Urquhart started making trouble again for the Circassians, Arthur and Palmerston would sooner or later fall out.

Compared to how to give an explanation to the Foreign Secretary, Arthur was more interested in what the Duke of Wellington was hinting at him.

Is it to send me back to Scotland Yard?
Arthur thought about it carefully and felt that this kind of personnel appointment was not very realistic.

Although forgetful Londoners may have forgotten who Arthur Hastings was, it is easy to bring back some not-so-good memories if the name is put together with Scotland Yard.

If I don't go back to Scotland Yard, does that mean I should serve in the Army?

Arthur thought about it and felt that this idea was also out of touch with reality.

Firstly, a battlefield-trained general like the Duke of Wellington would never like the idea of ​​allowing a layman to serve in the army.

Secondly, although Europe has not been peaceful, at least Britain has not had any major military operations in recent years, and the Grey Cabinet has even been vigorously cutting down the army's establishment in the past two years. At this time, donating an army officer is not only expensive, but also requires starting in the reserve queue.

Not to mention, the real elite of the army came from the aristocracy.

Even though Arthur now has the title of knight, in the eyes of those veteran soldiers, he is still not "pure" enough.

Even in the reserve force, there were a lot of noble sons waiting in line. Someone with a commoner background like Arthur might not be able to get a real vacancy until he was forty or fifty years old.

In this case, what is the point of spending so much money to get an honorary title of officer?

So, is it an internal promotion within the diplomatic system?
Although the diplomatic system is also full of factional struggles, it is more accepting of "capable people" like him who cross over compared to the Army and the Royal Navy.

Or, returning to the internal affairs system, but not Scotland Yard, but some other organization that Arthur did not expect?
Considering the recent political instability in London, Arthur couldn't help but wonder if the Duke of Wellington was hinting to him that the next government might need him more?

Because the old duke would never extend such an invitation to a former police officer who had been transferred to the diplomatic system for no reason.

Arthur's time at Scotland Yard is not too far away. During the reform storm of 1832, he became a tool for the government to maintain stability amid the turmoil of the Parliamentary Reform Bill. Although his methods did not necessarily meet the expectations of some liberals, his work was undoubtedly successful.

However, as the political situation changed, his presence became too sensitive and he was eventually transferred to the diplomatic system, moving between Paris, Göttingen and St. Petersburg until...

When he thought of this, Arthur's smile bloomed uncontrollably, making Agares feel sick.

"Your expression reminds me of those sugar merchants who were just made barons," Agares said leisurely, with undisguised joking in his tone, "While they told themselves that they were the backbone of the kingdom, they counted their sugar bags and wondered if they could exchange them for another manor. However, compared to those nouveau riche who are addicted to sweets, you obviously have better taste. After all, what you are after is not just a bag of sugar, but an entire sugar factory."

"What are you trying to mock?" Arthur was in high spirits, and he did not get angry with the Red Devil. He just said calmly: "Don't you think it's a bad time for me to return home?"

"Of course not." Agares shook his head with an expression that said "I'm doing this for your own good." "I'm just surprised that you've thought of yourself as a key figure so quickly. You were just considering Scotland Yard, the Army, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and even other secret departments. Have you forgotten who was kicked to the European continent as a stinky stone in the toilet just two years ago?"

Agares changed to a more comfortable posture, half leaning on the silk-lined seat in the carriage, his slender fingers casually turning the pocket watch engraved with "Memento Mori", the golden watch cover flickering slightly in the morning light.

"Let me help you recall it, my dear Arthur."

He dragged out the last word, and his tone was like a clown showing off anecdotes. "When you left London, public opinion was not so friendly to you. The executioner who suppressed reform, the Conservative Party's lackey, the cold-blooded police tyrant. Alas, it's a pity that your surname is too British, otherwise these stupid liberal journalists would probably give you the nickname 'New Robespierre'."

He paused and added, "Oh, by the way, we must not forget the evaluation of the Morning Chronicle. I remember they said: If Sir Arthur Hastings was born in France across the sea, he would definitely be the most loyal guard of Charles X."

Arthur raised an eyebrow noncommittally, leaned against the inner wall of the carriage, and tapped the silver handle of his ebony cane.

"That sounds good," he replied lazily, "at least it sounds more stylish than the sugar merchant baron you just mentioned."

Agares glanced at him, still with a malicious smile on his lips. "It's a pity that those who praised you are not in Downing Street. They either died behind the barricades of the July Revolution or were sent out of the country by the French government and became exiles. Here, in Britain, forgetting is the most thorough punishment. You may think that being sent to the European continent two years ago was some kind of honor, a political arrangement, and an appreciation of your talent. But what is the truth? When you were flirting with those romantic ladies in the diplomatic salons in Paris, when you were discussing national unity with a group of drunken German students at the University of Göttingen, when you were drinking vodka with the Tsar's ministers in the court of St. Petersburg. Have you ever thought that the power center in London still remembers you? Do you think a letter from the Duke of Wellington can bring you back to the chessboard? Oh, you have to know that in Whitehall, no one will spend too much time remembering a discarded piece that was thrown out of the chess game."

There was a moment of silence in the carriage. The sound of the wheels rolling over the cobblestones was clearly audible. Outside the window, the morning mist in London had gradually dissipated under the rising sun. The streets began to become lively. The cries of newspaper boys, the hammering of blacksmiths, and the shouts of vendors pushing their trucks were intertwined, making the whole city seem both familiar and noisy.

Arthur looked out the window, suddenly chuckled, and turned back to look at Agares.

"You are right. London has a short memory." His tone was light, as if he was completely unaffected by the devil's sarcasm. "But this just means that its forgetfulness is not irreversible. Thank you, Agares. I was not sure before, but seeing how frustrated you are, I am afraid that good luck will finally come to me."

The carriage moved slowly on the wet cobblestone road, and Fleet Street outside the window gradually revealed a long-lost scene.

The street remains the heart of London's press, with printers, journalists, booksellers and tabloid hawkers busying around.

The windows of bookshops along the street displayed the latest collections of poetry and political pamphlets, while the logos of various newspapers were hung on the towering newspaper buildings. The flags of The Times, Morning Post and Illustrated London News fluttered slightly in the morning breeze.

The carriage slowly stopped and finally stopped in front of a familiar yet unfamiliar three-story brick building - the editorial office of "The Brit".

The building was even more magnificent than when Arthur had left it two years before. The British, originally a small weekly that had rented two offices, had now expanded to cover the entire building, and a new bronze plaque with the words "The British – Established 1830" had been added above the main entrance. The letters were plated with gold and shone brightly in the morning light.

Two huge windows upstairs reflected the morning light. The window frames had just been repainted, and even the exterior walls were neater than before. It was obvious that a lot of money had been invested in its renovation.

When "The Libertine" was first founded, its circulation was limited. Its resident writers, except for Alexandre Dumas, were all unknown young people. They had not yet established a firm foothold in the literary world and were completely unable to compete with "Blackwood".

However, today's "The Brit" is no longer the tabloid that was struggling in the public opinion war two years ago.

Charles Dickens, the young journalist and novelist, after the success of The Pickwick Papers, is winning more and more readers with his serialized novel Oliver Twist and short essays The Notebooks of Boz. His humorous and sharp writing style and observations on the lower classes of society have rapidly expanded the middle-class readership of The Litter.

Alfred Tennyson, winner of the Cambridge University Gold Medal for Poetry, was once highly regarded, but his works in the following years were not satisfactory. However, when he dropped out of Cambridge and re-enrolled in Classics at the University of London, it was as if his life was in vain.

As a rising star in British poetry in recent years, Tennyson established his position in the British literary world with "In Memoriam" after a close friend of his was shot. Even the editors of "Blackwood" had to admit that he was a "future poet laureate."

But even the great men like Dickens and Tennyson could not steal the limelight from Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.

Disraeli's new work "Contellini Fleming" caused a tsunami of discussion as soon as it was published. The reason was very simple, because this book can almost be called a semi-autobiographical novel. The protagonist Fleming has the sensitivity and fantasy of a poet, and is driven by political ambitions.

Anyone who is familiar with Disraeli can tell at a glance that Disraeli is not writing a novel, he is clearly writing about himself.

Disraeli's conceited behavior of writing an autobiography in his twenties naturally caused widespread attacks from his enemies. "Blackwood" ridiculed him, and his political opponents in Parliament used the book as a joke to attack Disraeli.

Of course, not everyone will attack this book. Its reviews are polarized. Disraeli's fans praise its beautiful words and rich emotions, especially its delicate description of travel and culture. But opponents criticize it for its loose structure, excessive self-centeredness, strong personal color, and lack of clear plot advancement.

But no matter what everyone says, the huge increase in the circulation of "The Limey" can't be fake.

Today, The Brit has more than 8000 long-term subscribers, including not only the middle class in London, but also Manchester, Edinburgh, and even a small number of subscribers in New York, making it one of the most influential magazines in British upper society and literary circles.

Moreover, this magazine not only occupies a place in literature, but is also accumulating influence in the field of political commentary.

From the initial fashionable novels such as "The Count of Monte Cristo", "The Pickwick Papers" and "The Young Duke", to "Oliver Twist" which involves social reform and political criticism, "The Libertine" is no longer just a simple literary magazine, but an "elite voice" that is gradually shaping public opinion and influencing the upper class of society.

Arthur stood downstairs of the editorial office, stroking his cane gently, with an expression of satisfaction and a little surprise on his face. He joked, "It seems that my industry is more prosperous than I thought."

Agares leaned against the carriage, squinting his eyes, and said lazily: "Yes, this tabloid has been thriving while you were away. I'm afraid your smart friends no longer need you."

Arthur smiled, picked up his cane, and walked towards the door of the editorial office without hesitation.

When you push open the heavy oak door, you are greeted by the smell of ink and paper, and the sounds of busy editors.

The layout of the hall has changed significantly compared to two years ago.

The originally narrow office area has been rearranged, with a whole row of bookshelves against the wall, filled with the latest published books and literary journals.

In the center was a huge conference table piled with manuscripts, newspapers, and oil lamps.

There are several illustrations hanging on the wall, one of which is an illustration of Dickens' latest serial novel, "The Notes of Boz", and the other is a manuscript of Tennyson's poems.

Several editors were busy at their desks, debating heatedly over a manuscript. One of the young men, smoking a pipe, suddenly looked up and caught a glimpse of Arthur.

He asked politely, "Excuse me, who are you looking for?"

Arthur looked at the unfamiliar face and called out Dickens' nickname with a smile: "Is Dick there?"

"Dick?" The young editor scratched his head. "Are you his friend?"

His voice startled the people in the room, and then a familiar figure walked out of the office on the second floor.

Charles Dickens, a young writer who was only 22 years old but already famous in Britain, was well-dressed, elegant, with a hint of surprise and smile in his eyes.

"Arthur? When did you return to London?"

Arthur took out his pipe and sat comfortably on the velvet chair that had belonged to him for many years. "Not too long. I mean, I just arrived half an hour ago."

(End of this chapter)