shadow of britain

Chapter 759 Is it true that a higher rank can crush someone? A higher rank is disgusting!

As is well known, Britain is a country full of contradictions, and the 19th century was also an era full of contradictions.

As Dickens said: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness..."

Dickens' ability to write such timeless lines can be attributed to both his own literary talent and the island of Great Britain where he was born.

19th-century Britain was both one of the most pioneering and advanced countries in the world, and at the same time, it was also the country that preserved the most medieval traditions.

The essence of medieval tradition was concentrated in the feudal hierarchy that emphasized seniority and respect for elders.

Although this is no longer an era where bloodline matters alone, it does not prevent people from subconsciously following ancestral customs.

Perhaps the situation in Parliament had improved after the reforms of 1832.

However, in Whitehall, and in various government departments and public institutions, the mechanisms by which these organizations operate remain firmly based on a hierarchical system.

Take, for example, the Royal Metropolitan Police, the youngest government agency in Britain, which was founded in 1829.

The long list of police ranks—constable, sergeant, inspector, superintendent, assistant commissioner, and commissioner of police—perfectly illustrates Scotland Yard's power structure.

What about the government departments in Whitehall?

The situation is clearly worse.

First, there are various types of employees who fall under the category of labor dispatch, such as female handymen with an annual salary of around £30 or messengers with an annual salary of around £40. These people form the foundation of the various departments in Whitehall.

Then there are the trainee scribes and first, second and third class scribes who are within the established staffing quota. Due to differences in seniority, rank and department, their salaries usually fluctuate between £50 and £100. These people are the backbone of Whitehall.

Then come the distinguished senior civil servants: the third-class secretaries (deputy section chiefs), second-class secretaries (section chiefs), first-class secretaries (deputy directors-general), and chief secretaries (directors-general).

In terms of rank, Arthur's friend, Mr. August Schneider, was a First Class Clerk, responsible for foreign intelligence work as the head of the Confidential Documents Section of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

However, due to the extremely special nature of the work of the Confidential Documents Division, it is not subordinate to any department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and you cannot even find this division in the organizational structure of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

According to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ practice, the head of the Confidential Documents Section usually also holds the informal title of Assistant Vice Minister, and reports directly to the esteemed Permanent Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs, the “silent diplomatic center” John Backhouse, as an assistant.

Speaking of which, it's time to talk about those guys in each department who are second only to the top leader.

The ministers' right-hand man, a noble person who holds the title of Deputy Minister of State.

Alternatively, we can refer to them by their official titles as Parliamentary Secretary (i.e., Parliamentary Under-Secretary, responsible for representing the Minister in debates in the House of Commons, assisting in parliamentary procedures, and acting as the Minister's informant within the department) and Permanent Secretary (i.e., Permanent Under-Secretary, responsible for departmental administrative affairs, controlling the department's internal agenda, and assisting the Minister in governing).

In Whitehall, there are usually only two deputy ministers of state: the parliamentary secretary and the permanent secretary.

However, due to differences in the nature and importance of departments, some departments may also set up additional positions that are at the same level as, or even higher than, the Deputy Minister of State.

For example: the Secretary of State for Home Affairs of the Admiralty who assists the First Lord of the Navy in overseeing naval budget, administration and civilian affairs; the First Sea Lord, who is the de facto supreme commander of the Royal Navy and Chief of the Naval Staff; the Secretary of State for Finance of the Treasury who assists the Chancellor of the Exchequer in handling budget, taxation and parliamentary debates; and the Royal Clerk of the Lord Chancellor's Office who is responsible for signing and recording official decrees issued by the King, etc.

Fortunately, the person Whitehall sent to monitor Louis today was not John Backhouse, the Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, but rather Benjamin Disraeli, the newly appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, who was sitting next to Arthur.

For the two clerks who served under Schneider, Sir Arthur Hastings, the former counselor to Russia, was someone who, even after being transferred back to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was on par with the First Secretary and the deputy directors. They dared not offend this gentleman too much.

The two Ministry of Foreign Affairs clerks who were "reading the newspaper" outside the window were initially unaware that their identities had been exposed.

One of them pretended to be focused on the election column on the front page of The Times, while the other held a copy of The Morning, seemingly engrossed in a news report about a street brawl between students from University of London and King's College.

When Arthur's words, "You little tail behind your butt," came clearly through the open window, the two of them froze almost simultaneously.

A moment later, the older clerk coughed, dusted off his collar, straightened his coat as if preparing to get down to business, and pushed the door open to enter.

The younger man behind him followed cautiously, even forgetting to straighten his glasses which had slipped down to his nose.

“Sir Arthur Hastings.” The older man bowed slightly, his tone steady but unable to conceal the worry in his voice: “Please forgive our abrupt appearance. We did not intend to disturb your gathering, but… uh… we are under orders from our superiors to monitor Mr. Bonaparte’s social activities in London, just in case.”

“I know.” Arthur’s fingers gently traced the rim of the teacup. He merely raised his eyelids slightly. “Louis is in England now, and you certainly aren’t the only ones keeping watch. The Foreign Office, the Home Office, and perhaps even my old friends at Scotland Yard are involved. But don’t make it too obvious. This isn’t Paris, nor is it St. Helena. This is Southampton, a civilized society.”

Before anyone else could react to what Arthur had just said, Dumas, who was used to Arthur's sarcastic writing style, was the first to notice the problem.

He craned his neck and asked, "Arthur, what do you mean? Are you saying Paris is uncivilized?"

Disraeli seized the opportunity to speak up: "Come on, Alexander, the biggest difference between England and France is that we allow you to have different opinions."

Louis had originally intended to support Dumas, but once Disraeli spoke, he suddenly felt that as an exiled prisoner of the July Monarchy, he was powerless to refute this view.

He can't very well say that being exiled by Louis Philippe was his own choice, can he?

Louis couldn't help but curse inwardly: "Damn the July Monarchy government, damn Louis Philippe, because of them, I'm at a disadvantage even when we're arguing!"

However, Arthur didn't give Louis a chance to retaliate. He turned to the two clerks and asked, "Where is my good friend, my dear August, now?"

"You're asking about Mr. Schneider?" The young clerk's expression turned unnatural upon hearing his superior's name: "Our director... he's here today..."

The older man quickly interrupted his statement, judging from his reaction as if he were afraid of leaking some information: "Our...our section chief...is on official business today!"

"Official business?" Arthur thought knowingly. "He went to Nightingale Mansion again?"

As soon as those words were spoken, the room became so quiet that the crackling of the firewood in the stove could be heard.

The older clerk's face turned pale instantly. The younger one opened his mouth as if to explain something, but ultimately couldn't utter a single syllable. He could only stand there blankly, as if even the old, dilapidated floorboards beneath his feet were creaking and groaning, implying to him, "You'd better run away, kid."

Disraeli, sitting by the fireplace, burst out laughing, nearly choking on the tea he had just put in his mouth: "Cough cough cough... Forget it, Arthur, just let them off the hook. They were just following orders, they were just doing their jobs."

Arthur calmly picked up his teacup, took a sip, and said with a half-smile, "That's true, we're all just following orders. Alright, go back and write your reports. Make sure they're clear and precise, word for word, but..."

Arthur put down his teacup, the saucer clinking softly: "I hope you all can be mindful of what we said and did today, especially our meeting with Mr. Bonaparte."

The two clerks exchanged a glance. The older clerk instinctively tried to explain, but Arthur raised his hand to interrupt him.

“I’m not making a request, I’m stating an expectation.” Arthur’s tone was soft, but his voice was low and heavy. “If you go back and write about this meeting in your reports, your superiors will be in trouble, our friends will feel used, and I…”

Arthur paused deliberately: "I'll be very disappointed."

The young clerk subconsciously pushed up his glasses, his lips twitching slightly, but he didn't dare utter a complete rebuttal.

The older man appeared much calmer, after all, such things were not uncommon in Whitehall. Before long, he bowed familiarly and said, "Your reminder...we will take it seriously."

“Very good.” Arthur nodded slightly, a hint of gentleness finally appearing on his face. “What are your names?” “Austin, George Austin,” the older man answered readily.

“Harold…Harold Burke.” The young man followed closely behind, his voice soft but clear: “Third-class scribe at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, just promoted at the beginning of the year.”

Arthur listened and gave a soft "hmm," then smiled and said to Disraeli, "Mr. Austin, Mr. Burke, very good. Whitehall is not short of smart people, but there are not many who are truly reliable. Benjamin, if I may be so bold, I think these two gentlemen will definitely have a bright future."

Disraeli, understanding the implication, replied, "Sir Arthur's judgment has never been bad. If he says you two have a bright future, then I will naturally have to carefully remember the names of these two gentlemen."

At this point, Disraeli stood up and extended his hand to the two men: "Benjamin Disraeli, it is a pleasure to work with you both at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs soon."

When the older Austin heard the name Benjamin Disraeli, the muscles in his face twitched almost visibly.

As a senior clerk at the Foreign Office, the London Gazette, which publishes various official appointment announcements, is a must-read publication for him every week. Before departing from London for Southampton, he clearly remembered that the latest issue of the London Gazette prominently featured a small news item in the lower left corner announcing that Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel had appointed Benjamin Disraeli as the new Parliamentary Secretary of the Foreign Office of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

"I... I am deeply honored, Your Excellency. It is truly... an unexpected honor to be introduced to you personally here. Please allow me to congratulate you and wish you success in your work at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs during your upcoming term."

Young Harold Burke, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to the fact that his glasses had slipped down his nose.

At this moment, his eyes were even wider than when he was reading the news about the fight in the Morning Post.

Burke felt as if he had been struck by lightning; of course he knew who Benjamin Disraeli was.

That author who frequently published scathing editorials in The Englishman, that eccentric novelist often criticized by Blackwood as a "romantic narcissist," that arrogant, scandal-ridden, and ambitious young Conservative MP...

He... is now going to be the deputy minister of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

Disraeli shook hands lightly with the two young civil servants, the pressure was not great, but it was very polite.

“Mr. Austin, Mr. Burke,” Disraeli said calmly, “I have just been appointed as the Parliamentary Secretary of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and to be honest, apart from the letter of appointment, I know very little about the inner workings of this department.”

As he spoke, his gaze shifted slightly between the two men, his tone tinged with a touch of sincere self-deprecation: "After all, what I used to excel at was writing novels, campaigning, and... occasionally provoking Blackwood magazine. But now I have to sit in a pile of documents and work with John Backhouse, which is a bit frightening and worrying."

Austin quickly replied, "Your Excellency is too modest. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has its own procedures for handling official matters..."

“It is precisely because it has its own rules that I want to figure out its structure as soon as possible.” Disraeli raised his hand to interrupt him, but a smile appeared on his lips: “I have always believed that the best way to understand an organization is not to read the manual, nor to visit those high-ranking leaders, but to listen to the voices of the grassroots staff who deal with official documents every day, race against time, and are often forgotten by the big shots.”

Young Burke exclaimed excitedly, "Just like Sheriff Robert Culley!"

Disraeli’s tone was not condescending at all, but even a little friendly: “Yes, the voice of an ordinary person who is as dedicated as Robert Culley, that’s what I need most.”

Burke was flattered and almost blurted out, "You're absolutely right!"

Disraeli smiled and continued, “So… tonight I’ll reserve a table at the Red Lion Tavern on High Street. It’s not a big place, but the steaks are pretty good. If you two would like, you could join me for dinner and we can chat about the current state of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, paperwork procedures, and… who can be trusted.”

“If you don’t mind, we would be honored.” Austin replied quickly, without the slightest hesitation. What’s more intriguing is that his attitude had changed from an initial passive response to a tentative move towards him.

After all, for these low-level Whitehall clerks, promotions are nowhere near as rapid as those of the sons of high-ranking officials; the fantasy of instant advancement exists almost exclusively in dreams. But who could have imagined that this dream might just become a reality? After all, not just anyone can gain the favor of their department head. Not to mention, Disraeli is still so young; he has a long road ahead of him.

"We...we will definitely be there on time." Burke spoke with a hint of panic, but the joy in his voice was unmistakable.

“Excellent.” Disraeli nodded in satisfaction. “It’ll be around 6:30, then we can eat and chat. But for now, I won’t disturb your business. Mr. Bonaparte doesn’t like having tails following him, Mr. Dumas might write you into his script, and Sir Arthur will remember every word you use in your reports. I personally suggest you go back early, lest some ‘new intelligence’ comes from Nightingale’s Mansion and you have no one there.”

With these words spoken, Austin and Burke had no reason to refuse.

"You are right, sir. We will take our leave now."

Arthur smiled and nodded, "Have a pleasant afternoon, and don't bother seeing me off."

As soon as the two clerks left, the people in the room exchanged glances.

Alexandre Dumas was the first to lose his composure. He leaned back in his chair and clicked his tongue: "You two are really good at playing the good cop and the bad cop. Everyone else's glasses are practically falling off, but you, with that 'I'll be very disappointed,' sound like a mother scolding her wayward son. If you ask me, what are you two doing in politics? Come to Paris with me. I simply can't find two better stage actors than you two, not even close."

Disraeli rolled his eyes. "Can't find anyone better than us? That's because you weren't at Carlton House that day and didn't see how the Duke of Wellington and Peel put on a show for me. Do you know how disgusting it is to know they're making a fool of you and you still have to play along?"

Having experienced the Russian system, Arthur was already used to this: "That's why everyone wants to climb higher. Being in a higher position can be really annoying."

Everyone burst into laughter upon hearing this.

However, Louis's smile revealed a complex mix of emotions.

He couldn't help but recall three years ago, when Arthur was busy submitting reports every day, and Rowan would repeatedly ask him to revise his case statements. Under normal circumstances, revising them three times was considered a minimum.

As for Disraeli? Back then, this Jewish kid was constantly arguing and trash-talking in the newspapers, saying he was about to be elected as a member of parliament. However, everyone was laughing at him, saying that he would definitely lose the election.

As a result, what now?

Louis forced a smile: "Two years have passed, and you've all gotten back on track. As for me? I've come full circle and am back to square one."

His words carried no resentment, but rather a kind of frankness, tinged with a touch of self-deprecation.

Dickens began by offering words of comfort: “Not everyone who bears the Bonaparte name can keep going like this. Louis, after Strasbourg, the fact that you are still alive and sitting here already puts you ahead of many others.”

Arthur chimed in, “Actually, the failure at Strasbourg wasn’t as bad as you think. Didn’t you see? Since your arrest, all the newspapers in Paris, whether Bonapartist, Republican, or Orthodox, have been speaking out for you. Those who conspired with you in the Strasbourg coup were brought to the Alsace Criminal Court, where the jury acquitted all the defendants, and the French public applauded the verdict. Louis, I think you might be even more popular with the French people than you realize. Admittedly, you failed this time, but success on the first try is rare in this world; good things come to those who wait.”

Disraeli said with a grin, "Besides, you have two friends who helped you get rid of the Foreign Ministry's shrewish followers this time. Although this won't directly help you restore France, it's still a victory in a phase of the battle."

Louis then smiled, though not a hearty laugh, but at least it had some warmth to it.

“I’m grateful for your help.” He raised his teacup and clinked it with his friends. “If it weren’t for you, I really wouldn’t know how I would have gotten away from those two. If… I mean, if you don’t mind, I might have to stay in London for a while again this time.”

Disraeli clinked glasses with him first, shaking his head as he joked, "A permanent resident? I welcome you on behalf of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but you'd better have Arthur give the Ministry of the Interior a heads-up beforehand, lest those old guys see your name and think a coup is about to happen."

Arthur shook his head: "Forget it, after Robert C. C.'s memorial service, the Department of the Interior hates me to the core now."

As Arthur's former police secretary, Louis also had a deep understanding of the rules and regulations within Whitehall. Coupled with his experience working at Scotland Yard, Louis inevitably shared the same hatred as the police officers and was full of resentment towards the Ministry of the Interior.

Louis asked tentatively, "You mean the one behind the desk? The Permanent Secretary of the Interior, Samuel Phillips? Why would that old man hate you? Without Scotland Yard, the Interior Ministry's role in maintaining stability would be negligible!"

Arthur neither confirmed nor denied this, but replied tactfully, "But Mr. Phillips doesn't seem to think so. And Louis, I think you should at least refrain from expressing such radical views in public."

“I will keep a low profile,” Louis chuckled, his expression regaining some of his former carefree spirit. “Compared to three years ago, I should have made some progress, shouldn’t I? I should learn from you, from Alexander, from Charles. Before thinking about the next step, I first need to calm down and write a few autobiographical literary works for ‘The Englishman’.”

(End of this chapter)