shadow of britain

Chapter 901 An Idol for Middle-Aged and Elderly Women? An Idol for Whitehall Civil Servants!

As evening approached, a light mist veiled the Thames, and the gas lamps on either side of Whitehall glowed with a dim, yellow light.

Henry Blackwell walked out of the Foreign Office residence and watched as his smiling colleagues were picked up by carriages, chatting and laughing as they rolled off toward restaurants near Charing Cross or gentlemen's clubs on St. James Street.

Look at these glamorous colleagues, and then look down at yourself.

The tuxedo jacket looks crisp at first glance, but upon closer inspection, you'll find that the cuffs are worn white and the buttons are worn shiny.

The bowler hat she was wearing was bought on sale last Christmas, and the edges were frayed from being soaked in rain several times.

Seeing this, Blackwell subconsciously tugged at his scarf, not to make himself look neater, but to cover up his collar, which had turned slightly yellow from repeated ironing.

He was well aware, of course, that he wasn't really poor; at least in most people's eyes, the fact that he could work in Whitehall was a respectable thing.

Besides, he came from a proud middle-class family and attended Oxford University.

but……

That said, it seems, probably, and possibly... there are differences even among middle-class families...

Although Blackwell himself said he didn't care, every time he left the Foreign Office after get off work and saw his Whitehall colleagues wearing new black wool coats and silver-tipped canes, he would subconsciously put his hands in his pockets, as if that way others wouldn't notice that his deerskin gloves hadn't been changed for years.

Thinking about this, Blackwell couldn't help but sigh.

He flipped through a few pages of the folder in his hand as he walked, then closed it again. His footsteps clattered on the cobblestones of Whitehall Street.

I only copied half of today's meeting minutes; I'll have to finish the other half tomorrow morning...

repair……

Fuck!
Sometimes he really wanted to shove that pile of documents into Foreign Secretary Palmerston's mouth!

It's been three years!
It’s been three whole years!
He has been transferred back to London from the Russian embassy for three years!
Admittedly, the position of senior scribe in the Secretariat of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, while not exactly marginal, is certainly not of high importance.

But what about going further up?

Every year they talk about promotions, but how many people are actually waiting in line?

An annual salary of eighty pounds sounds good, but when the end of the month comes, you realize that you have to be careful with every pound.

Living in a rented room in Clerkenville, the downstairs water pipes are still leaking, and the oil lamp whose wick should have been replaced three months ago is still only burning so far.

A high-end theater in the West End?
Ha, I went there once earlier this year. Because of that ticket, he even had to change the Christmas gift he gave to his friend to a cheap cedar soap.

But what about this year?

This year, I probably won't even be able to afford a cedar tree!

He wanted to get a new suit, preferably one with black satin trim, not for any other reason than to avoid looking shabby at meetings. But the thought of the price made Blackwell silently pull out his old gloves and straighten the cuffs.

The landlady was saying last week that the rent was going to go up, since even postage has gone up by two pence these days.

Those colleagues in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the sons of real estate developers, the illegitimate children of nobles, or the nephews of certain members of parliament.

Those respectable people earned and spent a lot, while a lowly copyist like him, in order to prove that he was on the same level as them, had to stay in the middle, unable to go to the taverns frequented by workers for entertainment, nor could he climb the ladder of the gentlemen's club.

He began to constantly ask himself, when will I get a promotion? When will I get a raise?
It's not that he lacks ambition or the desire to pursue a better life.

He certainly wanted a promotion, even if it was just from "senior scribe" to "third-class clerk" in charge of a department. That way, he would have formal document authority, be able to approve official letters, and be able to mentor interns...

But those positions were forever taken by the nephew of a certain knight or the cousin of a certain noble friend in the House of Lords.

You'll never get these positions, and don't ask him why.

He suddenly regretted going back to London.

If it weren't for that transfer order, if he hadn't thought that returning to Whitehall meant he was one step closer to promotion, he could have stayed in St. Petersburg indefinitely.

At least there, he could live like a person.

Back when he was an attaché at the Russian embassy, ​​although he was just a subordinate civilian official, he was often treated as a real diplomat.

Those minor Russian nobles, especially the provincial nobles who hadn't received much education and whose minds were filled with European ideas, all treated him with utmost respect.

They would invite him to dinner, go ice skating with him, and even invite him to family concerts.

Whenever Blackwell revealed his identity as a British diplomat and appeared in the aristocratic salons on Grand Marscaia Street, people would approach him, offer him champagne, and the girls would always smile at him.

As for the high-ranking Russian nobles, despite their noble status, they rarely put on airs when speaking to Blackwell.

Whether you are an adjutant to a duke, the son of a minister, or a general from somewhere, you will always treat him with courtesy and friendliness, addressing him as "Mr. Blackwell".

Even the most stern-faced members of the State Council would occasionally nod at him in the corridor.

In St. Petersburg, no one cared whether he was just an attaché or not; he was a member of the British Embassy and one of the faces of the British Empire, which alone was enough to earn him great respect.

Back then, every evening after get off work he could still order a real black coffee and a maple apple pie at a café on Nevsky Prospekt, gazing at the golden dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral shimmering in the winter moonlight.

He recalled being invited to see an open-air ballet at the Summer Palace, where a countess sat next to him and praised him for speaking French better than her husband's tutor.

But now?

Now he even has to think twice about his wallet before going to see a play at the Covent Garden Theatre.

Senior scribe in the Secretariat of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

That hat is nothing in London!
He could kill three men of higher rank by simply throwing a brick at Whitehall.

He once thought that returning to London, returning to England, returning to the Foreign Office meant getting closer to power, closer to those who determined the fate of the world.

But now he realized that those people didn't need him to get close at all; they were already surrounded by people.

Blackwell glanced around at the crowds on Whitehall Street, said goodbye to his colleagues, and watched them board their private carriages. He then walked along the main road to Trafalgar Square before flagging down a fairly clean-looking taxi parked on the side of the road.

Blackwell glanced at the sky and felt a tightness in his chest. After thinking it over, he decided to splurge a little today and go to a fancy restaurant for a few drinks.

"Go to...Mayfair district, Grosvenor Square."

He reached out and opened the car door, but froze the moment the door opened.

There were already people sitting in the carriage.

The people in the carriage sat casually, leaning slightly against the corner of the seat, with their right leg naturally resting on their left knee.

The hem of the gray wool coat still carried the dampness of the night fog, and the brim of the hat was pulled low, obscuring his expression.

Only the end of the silver-tipped cane was gently tapping the side of the boot, the rhythm neither too fast nor too slow, as if in thought, or perhaps as a reminder.

He didn't rush to speak, but simply raised his head slightly, revealing a small section of his pipe glowing in the light, which looked like he was smiling, or perhaps he was scrutinizing him.

His smile wasn't very obvious, but it felt strangely familiar.

Good evening, Henry.

That familiar voice seemed to slowly seep out from the smoke, carrying a hint of harshness characteristic of northern English accents, as well as his usual irritating confidence.

Blackwell reacted as if struck by lightning, taking a sharp half-step back and almost instinctively blurting out, "Sir Arthur?!"

“You look thinner.” Arthur patted the seat next to him with his gloves. “Come on up, let’s go get a drink today.”

Blackwell paused for a few seconds, then quickly looked around to make sure that the pedestrians were busy with their own things and hadn't noticed their car.

So she lowered her voice and asked, half surprised and half hesitant, "You...you just got off work too? I thought you had left a long time ago..." Arthur raised an eyebrow and smiled, "What? Do all the senior officials in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs leave so early?"

“It’s not that they all leave very early, it mainly depends on whether Viscount Palmerston is here today…” Blackwell started to say but then realized he shouldn’t be talking about this, so he could only laugh awkwardly and say, “You know, I thought it was the same at the Ministry of the Interior…”

“The Ministry of Foreign Affairs isn’t wrong in doing this,” Arthur said. “The Ministry of the Interior does want to relax a bit. Unfortunately, robbers, thieves, and murderers never wait for us to come to the negotiating table.”

After saying that, he lowered his head and took another puff of his pipe, as if it were just a casual remark and he didn't want to waste any more time on the topic.

Blackwell stood by the car door, hesitating for a few seconds.

He didn't step inside immediately, but asked softly, "You... you wanted to see me tonight, is there something you need?"

Arthur did not answer his question.

He merely raised his chin, lazily gesturing with his eyes to the empty seat, as if asking, "Are you going to get in or not?"

A brief silence fell over the carriage.

Blackwell's grip on the car door tightened slightly.

Seeing his expression, Arthur didn't dwell on it any longer. Instead, he gently tapped the front of the carriage twice and instructed the driver, "Let's go. Tonight's guest has stood us up."

But just as the carriage started moving, before the wheels had even rolled two feet, Blackwell, who was lagging behind, hurriedly trotted after it, shouting, "Wait! Sir! I'll go! I'll go!"

A short, nasal sound, like laughter, came from inside the carriage, and then the wheels slowly came to a stop.

Blackwell hurriedly stepped into the carriage and closed the door behind him.

He was still a little dazed after sitting down, and his knee almost hit Arthur's cane, so he quickly pulled his leg back and awkwardly tugged at his sleeve.

Arthur then took off his pipe, glanced at him sideways, and said, "Then let's go have a drink. Henry, you do look like you need one."

Blackwell did not speak.

He simply nodded, placed his hands neatly on his knees, his shoulders slightly tense, and looked out at the fog outside the car window, as if deliberately avoiding Arthur's gaze.

Arthur looked at him and exhaled a puff of smoke. "I found a fur shop in Greenwich the other day. The owner is a Russian named Fyodor. I asked him if he was from St. Petersburg, and he said yes. I then asked him if he used to sell tea on Nevsky Prospekt. He actually remembered you, saying that there used to be a British diplomat who would always come to buy black tea in the winter and always leave a tip, looking like a nobleman."

Blackwell gave a soft "hmm," his tense expression relaxing considerably.

Arthur chuckled and continued, “He said you would always squat by the tea barrel and rummage through it for ages, making sure to pick out the most broken pieces. He also said that whenever you got paid, you would buy an extra small bag of dried orange peel from him.”

“Yes!” Blackwell’s eyes were filled with reminiscence: “Because adding it can cover up the medicinal taste in the tea... It was so cold back then, drinking some before bed could warm the stomach.”

Arthur nodded: "You looked much more energetic back then than you do now."

“Perhaps,” Blackwell said with a wry smile. “After all, back then, the Russians always treated me like some important person.”

Arthur didn't reply, but simply moved his cane to the side. He joked, "He might not be a big shot, but he'd definitely be a dashing British gentleman. I remember back then, even when it was minus ten or twenty degrees Celsius, girls would still send flowers to you at the embassy by sled."

Blackwell finally couldn't help but laugh: "It was given by Yulia Ivanovna, not by some young girl. At the time, she mistakenly thought I could speak up in the palace and help her son get into the Praetorian Guard."

“Of course she would think that,” Arthur said with a smile. “After all, back then, anyone who looked at you would think you were a big shot in the embassy.”

Blackwell's smiling face froze for a moment.

He lowered his head and stopped talking. His hands, which had just been separated, were clasped together again, his thumbs rubbing back and forth.

“However…” Arthur leaned against the car wall: “Henry, as much as you’re a womanizer, you’ve always had a bit of luck on your side.”

He said it casually, his tone devoid of emotion, but Blackwell felt like he was sitting on pins and needles.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He then quietly turned his gaze away from the car window and onto his knees.

The carriage rumbled along, the light from the streetlights flickering through the glass and falling on his face, making him appear somewhat pale.

After a while, he finally whispered, "Sir, I thought you... wouldn't talk to me anymore."

Arthur did not respond immediately. He simply took off his pipe and gently tapped the ash onto the lid of the tin box he carried with him, moving very slowly, as if waiting for him to finish speaking.

“My transfer order…” Blackwell’s voice tightened slightly, “It was three years ago when I was transferred from St. Petersburg back to London… I was truly blinded by greed at the time. They were the ones who approached me to talk, saying that regarding… the Caucasus, they needed to know more details… Sir, I…”

“Henry.” Arthur raised his hand to interrupt, then smiled. “What do you take me for? I may not be broad-minded, but I’m not that narrow-minded. Besides, didn’t I already tell you that this matter was over?”

At this point, Arthur paused, then continued, "If betraying someone could secure a good future, I believe most people couldn't resist the temptation. Because in Whitehall, within this system, and even throughout politics, such things are commonplace. But..."

“But…” Arthur paused, his voice still calm, “If you were truly after your future… then you should at least have gained something. Right now, Backhouse is still the Permanent Under-Secretary of State, and Viscount Palmerston has returned to the position of Foreign Secretary. But three years have passed, Henry, what have you gained?”

Blackwell's face paled even more.

Arthur flicked the ash off his knees, looking both regretful and as if he were slowly reprimanding a not-so-bright student: "I don't blame you, Henry. If I were you, at that age, in that position, I might not have been able to do as noblely as you."

He spoke of “noble” with a slightly sarcastic tone, but it was fleeting.

"You think you've made a good deal, right? You handed me over, hoping to get a transfer order in return, a position closer to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The carpets at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs are thicker than those at the Russian Embassy, ​​and the doors in London are lighter than those in St. Petersburg—that's certainly true. But you actually believed all those promises they made?"

Blackwell clenched his hands on his knees: "At the time, Sir Backhouse said... he said that it was Viscount Palmerston's idea to recall me."

“It was indeed his idea at the time. But what was the result?” Arthur’s voice deepened slightly: “In the end, it was my idea to bring you back; it was Mr. Disraeli’s instruction.”

The carriage swayed slightly.

The streetlights cast their light on the side of Arthur's face, and his eyes instantly sharpened.

"I'll just ask you one question, Henry: Where are you right now? Which desk are you sitting at in the Secretariat of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs? Whose old pen are you using? What documents are you approving? What is your annual salary? Your residence, landlord, gloves, coat... and that worthless 'Ministry of Foreign Affairs Promotion Notice,' are they worth betraying me for?"

Blackwell's lips moved, and after a long pause, he uttered in a low voice, "I... am not worth it."

Arthur remained silent, as if waiting for those words to be spoken.

After a moment, he slowly leaned back in his chair, his tone regaining its composure: "I told you, I don't blame you, Henry. You didn't exactly betray me, you just... misjudged people."

Blackwell looked as if he had been struck by a heavy blow, and he jerked his head up.

“You trust Backhouse too much, and you trust Palmerston too much,” Arthur said. “Keeping your word is a quality that not everyone possesses.”

“But they…” Blackwell instinctively wanted to argue, but he swallowed the words back down.

He recalled the promises made by Permanent Under-Secretary of State, Backhouse, in his letter, and Palmerston's words, "Do a good job, and we'll take care of you."

But now, these sentences seem so ironic, almost like tincture of opium used to numb patients.

Arthur stared at him, his eyes filled with a complex expression: "Henry, you're not suited to make deals with them. Because you don't understand that in politics, all promises on paper are meaningless."

The carriage was silent for a few seconds.

Then he casually added, "You're too naive."

Blackwell didn't speak, but simply lowered his head and let out a heavy sigh, as if the pent-up frustration of three years had finally dissipated.

He spoke slowly, his voice slightly hoarse: "Sir, I know... what I'm saying might sound shameless. But... do you... do you still believe me?"

Arthur glanced at him sideways, a slight smirk playing on his lips: "The reason I stopped the carriage today is because I trust you, isn't it?"

Blackwell froze, a look of near disbelief appearing in his eyes, a mixture of shame, excitement, and redemption: "I...you...Sir..."

Arthur, however, was no longer looking at him. Instead, he turned and tapped lightly on the wall in front of him: "Turn left, into Lambourne Street."

(End of this chapter)