shadow of britain

Chapter 767 Leopold? Elder!

That winter, London was as gray and cold as ever. Smoke floated on the Thames, the gaslights on the streets cast a translucent glow, and the curtains of the palaces were always half-drawn, so that the outside world would not peek into their secrets.

In his office at the University of London, Arthur Hastings smoked alone.

The gunshots under the Tower of London, the disappointment of being exiled to Hanover, and the humiliating escape during his tenure in Russia are now all things of the past.

In the despicable and utterly secular world of politics, occasionally remaining an outsider is not necessarily a bad thing. It is often only at such times that politicians can observe the power struggles of various factions with detachment, examining the world from a completely new perspective and weighing the pros and cons. Therefore, in the midst of the ups and downs of officialdom, there is nothing more fortunate than being temporarily hindered.

A person who always looks down from a high vantage point—from the clouds above the emperor's throne, from the towering ivory tower and the imposing heights of power—will only see the fawning smiles of sycophants and their dangerously obsequious flattery. He who holds the measure in his own hands forgets his true worth. For artists, commanders, and those in power, nothing is more harmful than constant success and the fulfillment of every desire.

Only through failure do artists learn the true relationship between themselves and their work. Only through defeat do commanders recognize their mistakes. Only through loss of favor and disappointment do politicians truly understand the overall political situation. Constant wealth breeds complacency, and constant applause numbs the mind; only setbacks and periods of stagnation can give people vitality and resilience.

Two years of seclusion honed the shrewdness of this fashion artist, Scotland Yard commander, and evergreen in British politics, just as the brief epitaph on Arthur Hastings' tombstone reads: "He was a good man."

If we could go back to the late winter of 1834 and the early spring of 1835, perhaps we could hear Arthur Hastings, smoking and reading Faust, whispering with deep empathy outside his office window at the University of London: "Alas, two souls dwell in my breast."

His student, fifteen-year-old Victoria, was standing at a threshold in her life. This threshold was not built by Parliament, nor determined by the crown, but rather woven together by a young girl's shyness, the expectations of the royal family, and the fate of the empire—she had to choose her future husband.

Her uncle William IV, her maternal uncle Leopold I, her mother the Duchess of Kent...

In Britain, in France, in the Netherlands, in Belgium, in Prussia, in Russia, and in all the royal families of Europe, they were all closely watching the marriage of the heir to the world's most powerful nation, and the direction of Victoria's choice of spouse.

But to everyone's surprise, someone had already gotten ahead of the curve in understanding Victoria's views on choosing a partner.

Victoria had no idea that her grammar teacher, Arthur Hastings, probably knew her trivial preferences better than she did herself.

She would frown slightly when she heard others mention the "Orange Brothers" in the carriage. When she mentioned the "Duke of Nemours," she would glance at herself in the mirror. Perhaps she didn't understand her own heart; she was still young, and reality had not yet robbed her of her innocent radiance.

But Arthur Hastings understood that this was simply the nature of young women. Their hearts could flutter at a love letter from afar, they could stare blankly at a portrait, they could fall for one handsome man yesterday and be captivated by another gentleman today, and by tomorrow, they would only marry a peerless hero. Young men and women are easily blinded by passion, but if impulsiveness goes too far, they may be bound together for life. Even the future queen was not immune to this.

But who exactly will be the lucky one? Hastings dared not make a definitive conclusion, but he knew in his heart that the lucky guy would definitely not be one of the guys he disliked.

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

April sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Kensington Palace Library. The fireplace was out, and a faint smell of smoke and ink filled the air.

Victoria closed the book, perhaps too forcefully, as it made a rather impolite snapping sound.

"Today I've already read thirty-seven pages of Italian prose, memorized two German poems, and had to endure that sleep-inducing geography class this morning. Now it's English grammar and rhetoric... I feel like I'm turning into an encyclopedia."

Arthur removed the monocle from his nose, wiped the lens with his thumb, and said calmly, "If that is the case, then it is indeed a great blessing for Britain, Your Highness."

Victoria did not immediately retort.

She simply tilted her head, her eyelashes fluttering a few times, as if weighing whether Arthur's lukewarm reply was worth arguing with.

In the past, she would never have dared to talk back to Arthur in class, but now, the situation is different.

This is not only because her relationship with Arthur has become more familiar and is no longer as awkward as it was at the beginning.

Furthermore, since 1835, perhaps considering that she was about to turn 16 and reach the age to attend social balls, Kensington Palace relaxed its control over her.

At Arthur's suggestion, Victoria can now read not only Shakespeare, but also some old British adventure novels. Most thankfully, works by Charles Dickens, Charles Darwin, and Benjamin Disraeli have also been included in the Crown Prince's reading list.

But this wasn't what made Victoria happiest. What made her happiest was that her mother no longer had to supervise every class. In most cases, only Mrs. Lezen accompanied her to class.

Even Leizen wasn't present for today's class.

She was sent to Regent Street to contact private tailors to have various evening gowns made for Victoria for the upcoming social season.

As Victoria watched Arthur deftly wipe his glasses, she couldn't help but comment with her own aesthetic sense: "Why do you wear these monocles? They don't suit you at all. You look like a melancholy old bat that just flew out of a church bell tower and refuses to admit that it's dawn."

Arthur didn't respond immediately. He simply lowered his head and wiped the lens even cleaner. "Since you've started criticizing my appearance, can I take that Your Highness has completely mastered today's lesson? By the way, I'm far from being an old bat. I'd be happy if you were willing to use a different adjective."

“I’d rather spend an afternoon commenting on your appearance than read ‘May I compare you to summer?’ again,” Victoria complained, leaning back in her chair. “Shakespeare was so good at writing fight scenes, why do we have to memorize all these convoluted metaphors?”

“Because summer also has its thunderstorms,” Arthur replied calmly. “Just as the human heart is not always warm and sunny, Your Highness will understand this sooner or later.”

“I knew it a long time ago.” She muttered softly, “My mother is not a sunny day, she is the London fog in November.”

If Victoria were to mutter something else, Arthur might be able to respond, but since she said that about the Duchess of Kent, Arthur could only pretend not to hear.

Fortunately, the girl was very energetic and soon shifted her attention to another topic. She lowered her voice and said with a hint of smugness, "Do you know where Leizen went today?"

Arthur shook his head.

"She went to Regent Street to see that tailor from Paris, who is said to be particularly skilled at handling tulle and ruffles. I want to order three evening gowns: royal blue, off-white, and a newly popular silver-grey satin dress."

When Victoria said this, her joy was written all over her face. However, it's understandable that she forgot her ladylike decorum, since this was the first time she had been able to choose her own clothes and appearance independently.

She excitedly declared, "It's the kind of skirt that trails on the ground, adorned with feathers and jewelry, just like in the magazines."

Upon hearing this, Arthur imagined it for a moment and said, "It sounds beautiful, but unfortunately I'm not Mr. Disraeli, so I can't give you much advice on fashion."

"By the way, has Mr. Disraeli published any new articles in 'London Lady' recently? I remember he said that the skirts popular in Paris this year are no longer as voluminous as before, but have become more fluid and philosophical... Did you ask him what exactly he meant by philosophical?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He wasn't unaware of those women's magazines filled with fancy handwriting and strong perfume, nor was he unaware that the Jewish boy who called himself a "believer in Eastern romanticism" was trying to conquer the gaze of all upper-class women in an almost provocative way.

However, he had to admit that he still hadn't expected that the Jewish kid's reputation as a "fashion icon" had already reached Kensington Palace.

As for the philosophical aspect that Disraeli mentioned...

Arthur couldn't understand what Disraeli's philosophy meant either. He understood Elder's philosophy quite well, but it was something that obviously couldn't be discussed openly.

Arthur pondered for a moment, then tapped his fingers lightly on the table: "A philosophical skirt... I think, if we interpret it according to Mr. Disraeli's thinking, it would be: Conservatives' skirts reach the ankles, Whigs' skirts reach the knees, and as for radicals... well, if you don't mind, you could just tie a Hegel book to your skirt, I think that would be quite philosophical."

At this point, Arthur suddenly pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

Victoria noticed his subtle movements and said with some dissatisfaction, "You've been checking your watch far too often today. Is there something urgent that you need to take care of?"

Arthur nodded, then shook his head: "Yes and no. My matters are minor; yours are the most important."

“My business?” Victoria paused, recalling some unpleasant memories. “Could it be… those two Dutchmen… they’re back again?”

Don't you like the Prince of Orange and his family?

Victoria nodded gently and said, "I... I just think they're too boring, and their German accent is weird, not nearly as nice as the Hanoverian accent from Lezen."

"You mean...it sounds like a frog?"

Victoria's lips twitched slightly, but she quickly put on a serious face again: "I didn't say they were like frogs, Sir Arthur. Don't presume to use my words to say what you yourself dare not say."

Arthur shrugged. "Your Highness, this wasn't my opinion, but that of Mr. Heinrich Heine. I think I should introduce him to you if the opportunity arises in the future, since you two share the same view on the Dutch accent."

As soon as Arthur finished speaking, he snapped his pocket watch shut: "Alright, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Your Highness, the reason I kept checking my watch today wasn't just to pass the time. To tell you the truth, your mother passed me a note before class, instructing me to finish the lesson before three o'clock."

"Why?" Victoria immediately sensed the unusual courtly atmosphere permeating the air.

“Because, this afternoon…” Arthur paused, “His Majesty the King of Belgium, your uncle His Majesty Leopold, will be arriving in London. If you depart at three o’clock, you might still have time to personally meet him at the dock.”

Victoria was leaning back in her chair, but as soon as she heard her uncle's name, she jumped up as if struck by lightning.

"Really? It's Uncle Leopold?" She blinked in disbelief, her voice rising involuntarily. "He didn't tell me beforehand! Lezen didn't say anything either! Why didn't either of them tell me?"

“Perhaps I wanted to surprise you.” Arthur smiled. “Of course, it could also be that I was afraid you’d be too excited and wouldn’t be able to concentrate on class.”

Victoria suddenly looked down at her clothes as if she had remembered something: "I need to change into a dress. I can't go to the dock to see him in this old dress; that would be too impolite."

"The rose-red one?" Arthur asked casually.

“That dress was just altered yesterday.” She pondered for a moment, then muttered to herself, “How about a cream-colored satin dress with pearl earrings? It would look more mature… Or, no, I’ll have to ask Leizen.”

As Victoria was talking, she started to push open the door and leave on her own.

Arthur called out twice from behind, as if trying to stop her: "Your Highness, today's lessons aren't over yet. Even if you wanted to go find the dress, Lady Lyzen hasn't returned!"

But without the Duchess of Kent's restraint, how could Victoria, who was in her adolescence, possibly be controlled by him?

The servant guarding the palace gate, seeing Victoria walk away, turned back with a smile and said, "Alright, Sir, don't bother. It's rare for Her Highness to be so happy, just let her be. Even if get out of class ends early today, I'm sure the Duchess won't blame you."

Hearing this, Arthur could only smile helplessly, then picked up his small leather bag and began to pack up his teaching materials: "Then I'll take it easy today. It's perfect timing, I'm going to the docks to pick up some friends today, so ending get out of class early will be convenient for me."

(End of this chapter)