shadow of britain

Chapter 762 I want more than just Scotland Yard, I want the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
In the hazy winter of 1834, when Arthur Hastings finally stood before the brightly lit lectern in the Rose Room of Kensington Palace and looked down at the fifteen-year-old girl intently copying Tennyson's poems, he felt a long-lost tranquility.

This tranquility did not stem from faith, but from the calm that comes after a successful conspiracy. He no longer needed to explain his origins to the crowd, nor did he need to hesitate outside Whitehall for a letter of appointment. For he knew that in the Rose Room, with its low-hanging red curtains and crackling fireplace, he had, in a sense, already sat on his throne.

But his fate never stopped; for Hastings, this was merely the prelude. He was a man who could never say no to higher power. Hastings could forgive failure, could endure humiliation, but could not tolerate being marginalized. He was not noble enough, not romantic enough, and not pure enough. He was not a tiger, not an eagle, not even a fox or a hyena.

What is he like? Like a pig, a pig silently rolling in the mud, lost in thought before its trough. Don't misunderstand, this isn't an insult, or rather, it's more than just an insult. Because it is precisely this seemingly humble, unpoetic creature that can withstand wave after wave of blows, yet still display vibrant vitality. It's not eager for victory, doesn't get angry at being looked down upon, and doesn't retreat because of being ignored. When it bites its target, it doesn't flaunt it, nor does it let go.

This is the least romantic, yet most enduring and resilient quality. As a proverb from Hastings' hometown of Yorkshire goes, "He who has pigs will not starve." German and Austrian farmers often say, "May you have pigs!" They consider this a most beautiful blessing. For country folk, pigs signify that the family can survive the winter, symbolizing wealth, prosperity, and stability.

Hastings, with the inherent character of a peasant, walked toward the door to supreme authority. This time, he no longer tried to simply use his reputation or follow the lines of the Conservative Party to knock on the door. He found a key, a key that gleamed on the outside but was actually full of cracks: Benjamin Disraeli. This young Jewish man, with a complex background, skillful tactics, and a sharp tongue, was trying to enter the political court through his literary reputation.

Hastings knew all too well that the pinnacle of power never favors the lone wolf; to continue climbing, one needed not only an iron will but also a group of people willing to step on one's back. Although Robert Peel's minority government had the backing of William IV, it was clear to everyone that this new cabinet, which did not hold a majority in the House of Commons, would not last long. While everyone was busy betting on who would be the next prime minister, Hastings had already bypassed the betting table and placed his bet in an unnoticed envelope.

When Disraeli, newly arrived and feeling isolated and helpless within the Foreign Ministry, was recommended by Hastings to the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State, his former deputy from his time in Russia, Henry Blackwell, was urgently recalled to 15 Whitehall Street just a week later. Meanwhile, Richard Hughes, Captain of the Gendarmerie of the Second District, Third Bureau of the Imperial Household Agency of the Russian Empire, had already submitted his resignation to Count Benkendorf much earlier…

—Stefan Zweig, *Arthur Hastings: The Driven Ambition of a Reason Prisoner*

"see a visitor out."

Arthur didn't look at Blackwell again, but simply placed the teaspoon gently on the saucer. His voice wasn't loud, but the force was like a judge's gavel.

Blackwell jolted, as if those words weren't just meant to make him leave, but rather to negate his entire life at any moment.

He didn't say "thank you," nor did he exchange a few casual pleasantries.

As a diplomat, he knew that any word spoken at this time could be seen as tactless, and diplomatic circles were intolerant of such people.

He slowly stood up, moving very carefully, as if afraid that the chair would make any more noise.

The police officers who had just come upstairs silently made way for them when they saw this scene.

After Blackwell left, the upstairs area returned to a brief silence.

Arthur then looked up and tapped on the windowpane: "See? He doesn't dare to look people in the eye when he walks, but once he steps out the door, I guarantee that the kid will immediately puff out his chest and pretend to have escaped unscathed."

Hugh looked out the window and saw that Arthur had indeed said so.

He coughed softly and picked up the teapot to refill Arthur's teacup.

Although Hughes and Blackwell didn't have a particularly close relationship, he wouldn't stoop to kicking someone when they're down, so he simply said, "You really know him."

Seeing that Hughes had no intention of delving into the topic, Arthur changed the subject: "Never mind, talking about him is really a downer. By the way, how's your brother?"

“You’re asking about James? I had dinner with him yesterday, and he told me that he just submitted his promotion application the day before yesterday, and it should be approved next month.” At this point, Hught added with considerable gratitude, “It was definitely the right decision to let him join Scotland Yard. That rascal has now become a decent person, all thanks to your advice.”

Arthur shook his head, picked up his teacup, and blew on the steam rising from the tea. "Don't pin all the good things on me. If James is a hopeless case, even if you asked me to be his godfather, I couldn't save him. James did an excellent job in the Golden Cross case. Given his outstanding performance, it's only natural for me to write him a letter of recommendation. But even if the letter is sent, in the end, he'll have to secure his position himself."

Hearing this, Hughes laughed and agreed, "You're absolutely right. He's afraid he won't be able to stay in his position, so he's working overtime every day even harder than when I was a military policeman in Russia."

Arthur paused, then said calmly, "It's not that serious. Tell James not to be too nervous. What this world lacks most is not smart people, but people who work hard without being presumptuous. If James can understand this, it's only a matter of time before he gets promoted again."

Hugh nodded and replied half-jokingly, "I will definitely pass on your message. He has indeed changed a lot in the past two years. Not only is he more composed in his work, but he is also more patient. He used to lose his composure when he saw a pretty girl, but now when he looks at someone, he at least knows to ask what her father does first."

Hughes’s words immediately drew laughter from the police officers at the tables behind him.

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle, holding his teacup and smiling gently: "Speaking of which, I do owe you an apology. Back in Druisk, didn't I tell you that I wanted to get you a second secretary position at the embassy in Russia? I found someone, I wrote the letter, and Palmerston initially agreed quite readily, but in the end, it all fell through."

Hught paused for a moment after hearing this; it was indeed a small thorn in his side. However, considering that Arthur had taken care of his younger brother, Hught hadn't brought it up again before.

He waved his hand and said with a smile, "Sir, I had already guessed this. After all, this is a position in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and it's not so easy to get one. Even those rich kids who graduated from Oxford and Cambridge find it incredibly difficult to get a position as an overseas secretary in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I am already very grateful that you are willing to go to the trouble for me."

Hughes's words were not entirely insincere politeness.

Because in 19th-century Britain, positions in the Foreign Office were always highly coveted and in high demand.

First, like most departments in Whitehall, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs does not have an examination or open recruitment system. To become an official in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, one usually has to be recommended.

Diplomatic positions have always been considered the ideal career for the second sons of noble families. The eldest son inherits the title, while the second son is sent to the church, the army, or the Foreign Office – this was a common arrangement for the offspring of many upper-class British nobles. Moreover, usually only such upper-class nobles could find recommenders with sufficient political influence; these recommenders were either highly respected elders in the family or close friends of cabinet members.

If you want to secure a senior position of second secretary or above abroad when you're just starting out, then the recommender must be even more influential, such as the Foreign Secretary himself, or a member of the Privy Council (former prime minister, former cabinet minister, archbishop of Canterbury, etc.).

Therefore, for someone like Hught, from a middle-class background, to be selected when the Ministry of Foreign Affairs occasionally had the urge to recruit intern scribes was considered incredibly lucky. He certainly didn't dare to dream of becoming a second-class secretary.

Take Henry Blackwell, who was just scolded by Arthur, for example. Blackwell was one of those people who got lucky.

But good fortune doesn't mean Blackwell was entirely useless. This seemingly ordinary embassy attaché in Russia was a true Oxford gentleman. Although Arthur often joked about Oxford, he had to admit that in those days, a middle-class child attending Oxford was a testament to their exceptional learning ability and personal qualities.

In all his years in England, Arthur only knew four Oxford graduates from middle-class families, besides Blackwell.

The first was Isaac Newton, the second was Jeremy Bentham, the third was Thomas Malthus, and the last was the eccentric Oxford clergyman and the youngest Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford University, John Newman.

Although Blackwell is far inferior to these people, he is still a rare talent.

As a product of a quintessential Oxford classical education, Blackwell was fluent in six foreign languages: Latin, Greek, German, French, Spanish, and Russian. While his literary skills may not quite match those of Elder Carter, a luminary of classical literature at the University of London, they are at least comparable, which is already quite remarkable.

Although Hughes believed he was quite capable, he had some shortcomings in terms of education and background. Moreover, unlike Arthur, he didn't have political heavyweights like Lord Brougham and Earl Daramo backing him up. Therefore, he didn't feel particularly regretful about not getting a high-ranking position in the Foreign Office.

Arthur put down his teacup, stood up, and patted Hugh on the shoulder: "Let's go, it's too cold in here, let's find somewhere else to sit."

"Then let's go to the private room." Hugh said with a smile as he stood up. "The one on the east side was reserved for you by Miss Ivan. The fire is burning 24 hours a day."

Hughes turned and led the way, taking Arthur to the far east end.

The private room was tucked away in a corner at the very back of the second floor. There was no number on the door, only a silver-edged ebony plaque with two simple letters engraved on it: AH.
When the waiter saw Arthur arrive, he respectfully opened the door and led them inside.

The private room was elegantly decorated, with a warm fire burning in the fireplace. A floor-to-ceiling window faced the gardens of Kensington Palace, and in front of the window were several large, deep red sofas and two bronze coffee tables, on which were placed today's newspapers such as The Times and The Manchester Guardian. In the wine cabinet were a few unopened bottles of sherry and champagne.

As soon as he sat down, Arthur took out a letter from his pocket, placed it on the table, and gently tapped the cover with the back of his finger.

“This letter was written three days ago,” Arthur said softly, his gaze fixed on the letter rather than on Hught’s face. “Originally, I was thinking of waiting until you were settled in London and until James’s promotion was settled before we talked. But your performance today has made me change my mind.”

Hughes frowned in confusion: "What's this?"

Arthur pushed the letter in front of Hugh: "Open it and take a look."

Hughes took it hesitantly. The handwriting on the envelope was strong and powerful, with a deliberately casual and unrestrained style. He even added a sentence before the signature: "Your most unorthodox admirer."

And at the bottom of the page, it was clearly written: Benjamin Disraeli.

Hughes's eyes widened suddenly, as if he understood something: "Could it be..."

Arthur nodded: "Mr. Disraeli recently received an internal selection quota from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. You must have heard what this quota is for. If you don't know, then I'll be frank. It's a special channel for recommended candidates to submit their resumes and go through a review process, bypassing the regular staffing system. There aren't many spots available, and this selection wasn't announced beforehand."

Hughes didn't respond immediately; his gaze remained fixed on the letter.

He never expected that such a windfall would fall into his lap.

It was only then that Hught slowly realized why Arthur had insisted on meeting Blackwell at the coffee shop today.

It's possible that Arthur had been hesitating for a while about whether to give the spot to him or Blackwell.

It now seems that Richard Hughes was the one who pleased Sir Arthur Hastings more.

“I…I have indeed heard about it.” Hught’s voice was a little hoarse, and his mind was still a bit fuzzy: “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ review process never opens the door for people like me.”

“Someone like you?” Arthur raised an eyebrow, smiled, and picked up his teacup. “What do you mean, ‘someone like you’? I’m that kind of person, and Mr. Disraeli is that kind of person too. Times have changed, Richard. You’ll have to adapt eventually. The old era is over, and the new era is knocking on the door. Perhaps the idea that hard work pays off was just an empty phrase in the past, but for me, it has always been a very real statement.”

Hugh gave a bitter laugh, unsure how to describe his feelings: "I... of course, working for you has always been rewarding. But I really never expected to encounter something like this. I thought you might arrange for me to go to Scotland Yard, just like my brother."

"Scotland Yard? No, no, you're a military policeman in the Third Bureau. It would be a waste of your talent to go to Scotland Yard. You should have heard from your brother that the Fifth Division of the Police Intelligence Bureau only handles domestic affairs. The Intelligence Liaison Division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is responsible for dealing with overseas matters."

Suppressing his excitement, Hughes carefully put the letter away, pressing it against his lap as if afraid it might suddenly fly away: "Sir, may I ask you something?"

"please say."

"Why did you choose me? If I'm not mistaken, you must have other candidates, right? If this opportunity were given out, I don't know how many people would fight tooth and nail for it."

Arthur opened a bottle of champagne, the bubbles filling the room. As he poured Hughes a drink, he said, “Richard, didn’t I just say that? Don’t attribute all the good things to me. This isn’t because I chose you; it’s because you proved you deserve this position. I’m not Christ, I show no mercy, and I don’t intend to atone for anyone’s sins. I won’t choose a mediocre person who climbed up through connections, much less someone who can’t sit still and blames their failures on their background. I only look at one thing: whether you’ve done what you’re supposed to do.”

"Sir...I...I really have no way to repay you."

Arthur handed the champagne glass to Hugh: "You don't need to thank me. Take my advice, never say thank you at a time like this. Gratitude is a heavy word; it can make a relationship that could be relaxed become constrained. I don't like debts of gratitude; I only like people who can sit across from me and still look me in the eye with an open and honest heart."

Hugh opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed the "thank you" that was stuck in his throat. He simply nodded slightly and raised his champagne glass: "If I understand correctly... if I am fortunate enough to join the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, then please advise me on what matters a newcomer like myself should pay attention to in my work?"

Arthur glanced at him, a meaningful smile slowly creeping onto his lips. He raised his glass and lightly clinked it against Hughes's: "You see, Richard, this is the key to our ability to get along."

(End of this chapter)