shadow of britain

Chapter 911 The Night of Hastings
After a short halftime break, the lights came on again.

The commotion in the audience had not yet completely subsided when palace servants carrying trays moved among them.

Everyone was still immersed in the afterglow of Liszt's performance, an experience that was both terrifying and intoxicating. The air throughout Buckingham Palace still carried the scorching smell of the burning piano music.

At this moment, the announcer walked onto the stage.

His voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Now, please welcome with the highest honors Sir Arthur Hastings, the Honorary Conductor for Life of the London Philharmonic Society, who is returning to the stage after many years! Tonight, he will personally conduct the premiere of the Wellington March, a piece dedicated to the 'Heroes of Waterloo'!"

At that moment, the entire hall suddenly fell silent.

The air seemed to pause slightly, and many guests' expressions shifted from confusion to surprise, as if they hadn't heard clearly.

“Wellington?” someone repeated the name in a low voice. “I heard the Duke of Wellington?”

The nobles in the front row exchanged glances, while the ladies whispered among themselves.

All guests at Buckingham Palace received the program upon arrival, and Arthur's name was naturally on it.

This arrangement caused quite a stir, as many of the guests tonight were fans of Sir Arthur.

It's worth noting that before Arthur officially announced his retirement from the music scene, he was quite popular in London.

Whether in London or Paris, pianists with good figures and looks are always sought after by ladies, and Arthur also reaped a small share of this benefit.

That's why the ladies who considered themselves core fans of Sir Arthur had been making bets with their girlfriends before the show even started. They believed that while the Hungarian pianist from Paris was certainly very talented, it didn't mean he could easily defeat "the dreamlike Hastings".

But what these ladies clearly didn't expect was that Arthur didn't choose to perform on the piano, but instead brought out a march.

This turn of events abruptly changed the atmosphere of the entire hall.

The air in the concert hall tightened again, and whispers rose and fell like waves crashing against the golden dome of Buckingham Palace.

Almost everyone’s attention was focused on the Duke of Wellington in the front row.

The old duke slowly raised his head, his well-defined hand resting on his cane, his face showing an unusual look of astonishment.

He was equally unaware of Arthur's new song tonight, and had no time to ponder what this sudden honor meant.

Victoria turned her head and smiled at Wellington, saying, "This is for you, Your Excellency."

She didn't use many embellishments, and her tone was so sincere it was almost clumsy: "Although you already have a Beethoven piece called 'The Victory of Wellington' from the Peninsula War, I think we still owe you one from Waterloo."

“Waterloo…” the old duke repeated softly, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I remember that battle so clearly that I would rather never hear its name again.”

As he spoke, a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“However…” The Duke of Wellington paused, turned to look at Victoria, and bowed slightly, saying, “If this is His Majesty’s will, then everything is different.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Leopold, who was sitting next to him, took the opportunity to continue: "Sir Arthur and Albert put a lot of effort into this piece. It was originally intended to be dedicated to you on Waterloo Memorial Day this year, but... as you know, at that time, His Majesty William's health was... I hope this piece can also bring some comfort to Queen Adelaide."

Wellington nodded slightly and did not ask any further questions.

The lights in the hall gradually dimmed.

A gentle breeze swept across the chandelier flames, causing them to flicker and reflect on the golden wall decorations, making them look like countless battle flags fluttering in the wind.

Very light footsteps came from behind the stage.

Initially, the sound was so faint as to be almost imperceptible, yet it carried a rhythm that could not be ignored, firm, composed, and steady.

The curtains were pulled open from both sides in the next instant, and a tall, slender figure appeared at the boundary between light and shadow.

The deep black tailcoat is a typical Savile Row cut, with straight shoulders, a narrow waist, and a hem that flares out naturally with every step.

The white silk scarf tied around her chest and the folded wing collar accentuated her prominent jawline.

His left white glove was gently folded in his palm, while his right hand gripped the short, slender ivory baton. The stage lights shone on his face, casting shadows that shifted between his cheekbones and jawline, making his eyes appear even more profound than usual.

When Arthur walked onto the stage, the entire St. James's Theatre Orchestra stood up almost simultaneously.

No one applauded.

No one dared to applaud.

Because that aura alone makes all other sounds seem superfluous.

He wasn't a musician like Liszt who could actively attract attention, but when he appeared, the entire concert hall was under his control.

The footsteps stopped in front of the command platform, the figure standing straight.

Arthur did not immediately raise the baton, but simply bowed his head slightly, took off his gloves, and neatly stacked them on one side of the music stand.

The action was almost ritualistic, yet it didn't seem pretentious.

When he looked up, it was as if all the light in Buckingham Palace was gathered in front of him.

He surveyed the audience, his gaze sweeping over members of the royal family, nobles, diplomats, and musicians, calm yet sharp, as if to make sure everyone present was ready.

Lister, who was sitting in the side hall, also noticed this.

He leaned back in his seat, his fingers lightly stroking his gloves, a slight, contemptuous smile playing on his lips.

In his opinion, Arthur Hastings was nothing but a charlatan.

In the shadows of the side corridor, Flora quietly gazed at the figure standing in the light.

Her seat wasn't in the front, it was even a bit out of the way.

But this position gave her a unique perspective.

She had never seen Arthur like this before.

If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she would hardly have believed that the conductor on stage, who was so calm that he showed no emotion whatsoever, was also the tutor she often saw at Kensington Palace—kind, friendly, and even occasionally a little ambiguous.

Her heart was beating a little fast.

The moment Arthur raised his baton, Flora could almost feel the force that tore through the air.

Emotionless elegance, an imposing presence born of extraordinary talent.

At this moment, it is being played by his hands.

The war drums roared.

That sound felt like a blow to her heart.

The brass instruments then take over, followed by the bass strings.

Arthur controlled every note with almost obsessive precision.

He didn't make exaggerated gestures, nor did he possess the dramatic passion of Liszt; instead, he drove the entire orchestra with an almost cold precision.

The entire orchestra, like a fully armed army, quickly formed ranks under Arthur's command.

The strings rise in unison, while the brass bursts into the theme with a proud timbre, the rhythm brisk and clean, like the soles of soldiers' boots simultaneously treading on a gravel road. The melody is not heavy, nor does it contain Beethoven's heroic narrative; instead, it is light, uplifting, and carries an almost proud joy—the exhilarating triumph of victory.

This is the Wellington March.

Every swing of the baton was precise and restrained, as if manipulating some kind of mechanical miracle.

The direction in which the conductor's baton falls is the direction in which the entire orchestra breathes.

When he raised his eyebrows, the musical notes leaped up.

When he paused, even the air seemed to freeze.

Gradually, the rhythm began to spread.

The brass pipes resonated, the snare drum was steady as a drumbeat, and the violins and cellos echoed within, like the marching of an army and the fluttering of military flags.

The audience was initially quiet, still reeling from Liszt's fiery and romantic performance.

But as the melody progressed, their bodies began to sway slightly.

In front of the royal seats, Queen Victoria tapped her gloves lightly on the armrests. She looked a little nervous, but she couldn't hide the light in her eyes.

The Duke of Wellington remained seated, but as the music deepened, the Waterloo hero began to tap his toes lightly in time with the rhythm.

Among the ladies in the back row, soft gasps of breath rose and fell.

They looked at each other, their expressions shifting from surprise to a subtle reverence.

The blonde noblewoman covered her mouth with her fan: "I feel like I can see the Duke of Wellington's triumphant return."

Her companion did not answer, but pursed her lips, her eyes following the baton's every strike.

Lister, who was leaning back in his seat, slowly straightened up, and the smile on his face gradually faded.

That expression was no longer one of mockery and contempt, but rather a complex look of solemnity and resentment.

He recognized Arthur's rhythm; unlike the steady rhythm of most British composers, it contained not an outpouring of emotion, but a steadfast will.

He suddenly realized that Arthur was not trying to please the audience, but rather giving them orders.

At the start of the second movement, the brass instruments are like a whirlwind, and the strings are like waves, with the rhythm becoming increasingly dense and the tempo slightly increasing.

The baton traced an arc like a sword, and when he raised his hand, the entire stadium gasped.

As he landed, the entire audience's breaths and the drumbeats erupted together.

The main melody, with its light triplets and recurring eighth-note rhythms, cascaded down like a golden torrent with bright C major chords, eliciting an uncontrollable gasp of amazement from the audience for the first time. They almost couldn't help but tap their feet to the beat. Arthur's gestures suddenly paused.

It was an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible shift; his right hand rose slightly and swung outward, as if pushing the rhythm of the stage into the entire hall.

The ivory baton did not fall directly, but instead drew an elegant arc in the air before stopping in mid-air.

The audience members, whose bodies were initially swaying slightly, felt a strange pull.

The rhythm seemed to leave the orchestra, travel through the air, and be etched into their minds.

The snare drum continued its steady beat, and the brass band, like sunflowers under the blazing sun, poured out of the stage, crashed against the red velvet wall behind the audience, and then bounced back, sweeping back and forth in the concert hall like a tide.

In that instant, Arthur turned around, the hem of his tuxedo fluttering in the wind.

His movements were not fast, but they looked exceptionally fluid.

Arthur raised his left hand, palm up, to signal to the audience.

At that moment, everyone seemed to understand the meaning of his gesture.

pop - pop - pop -

It's unclear who started it; perhaps it was a nobleman sitting at the back, or maybe a few excited young ladies.

The applause blended seamlessly into the orchestra's performance, becoming part of the rhythm.

Arthur gently rotated his wrist. He did not suppress the sudden harmony, but instead slightly widened the tempo, allowing the brass and strings to blend into the audience's harmony at this moment.

The drumbeats intensified, and the rhythm became steady.

The orchestra seemed to breathe simultaneously with thousands of hands.

Every synchronized beat hits the same moment, like the sound of thousands of horses marching in unison.

Victoria watched this scene with bated breath.

Her eyes gleamed with surprise, and also with an indescribable pride. She turned to look at Wellington.

The Duke sat upright, his face no longer showing the surprise he had shown before. His fingers slowly tapped on his knees, the movement almost in sync with the rhythm.

Lister's gaze remained fixed in the shadows.

He watched as Arthur stood between the band and the audience, subtly drawing hundreds of nobles to his rhythm.

That wasn't a display of skill in the conventional sense.

That is the power of control itself.

The rhythm grew increasingly intense, and the brass instruments played the main melody once again.

Arthur was almost one with the music; his gestures were simple, yet carried an irresistible power.

Amidst the applause of the audience, the music surged to a climax like a storm.

boom! boom! boom!
The final three beats of the snare drum fell heavily, and Arthur's baton abruptly stopped in mid-air.

The applause from the entire audience stopped abruptly and in unison, as if it had been choked by an invisible hand.

silence.

Arthur did not turn around immediately.

He stood with his back to the audience for a few seconds, then slowly lowered his baton.

The movement was like a triumphant sword sheath.

A moment later, applause erupted like a sudden storm, and the entire audience burst into thunderous cheers.

The crowd rose to their feet, the velvet chair backs rippled, people stood up to applaud, shout, and whistle, the female guests closed their fans, diamonds and pearls glittered under the lights, and even the solid dome of Buckingham Palace seemed to tremble slightly.

Amid the cheers of the audience, several pianists who were resting in the side hall looked at each other in bewilderment.

However, compared to Liszt, who was pale and in a complicated mood, Chopin and Mendelssohn, who were Arthur's friends, looked much more relaxed and carefree.

After all, no one understood Arthur's "ability" better than Chopin and Mendelssohn.

For Mendelssohn, it was no surprise that a composer capable of writing Turandot could write any kind of music.

However, even with such high expectations, Arthur's performance and composition tonight were still impeccable.

Whether it was a complaint or a joke, Mendelssohn teased Chopin beside him, "Alfred, why do you think he preferred being a policeman?"

Chopin took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his palms. He smiled helplessly and said, "Perhaps it's because making music alone isn't challenging enough for him?"

Mendelssohn shrugged helplessly as well: "Unfortunately, Mr. Faraday seems to think the same way."

Johann Strauss sat in a corner of the side hall, the program for the evening spread out on his lap.

When the Wellington March erupted, with the brass and snare drums blending together, he was almost frozen in his seat, and he still hasn't recovered from the shock.

He raised his hand and gently tapped the triplet rhythm on his knee, his expression a complex mix of jealousy and inspiration.

Strauss murmured to himself, "This rhythm makes you breathe involuntarily...like...like a Viennese waltz..."

Suddenly, he shook his head again: "No, this is not a waltz... this is a marching waltz. Every note is moving forward, even the silence is moving forward."

Mendelssohn heard this and smiled slightly, saying, "Yes, Mr. Strauss, you seem to understand very quickly, at least faster than I do."

As for Liszt, he remained seated, leaning slightly forward, elbows on his knees, fingertips touching his lips, his eyes unfocused.

The applause in the hall continued, so enthusiastic it was almost like a victory parade, but to his ears it sounded like slaps to his face.

He recalled the arrogant self-assessment he had written in Paris not long ago—"I want the piano to be the whole orchestra."

But at that moment, Arthur on stage did something even more cruel—he turned the entire orchestra into a piano.

London's high society, along with Queen Victoria and the Duke of Wellington, became the keys on that piano.

He suddenly felt very cold, a biting chill from the height of August.

The applause lasted so long that even the air seemed weary.

Chopin observed him quietly from the side.

That face, which was usually full of confidence and sharpness, was now unusually calm, even a little stiff.

His fingers trembled slightly, as if he were unconsciously playing a silent melody.

"Franz?" Chopin called him softly.

“You know what, Alfred,” Lister looked up, his voice a little hoarse, “I spent nearly twenty years studying the power of the fingers, studying how to make ten fingers control fire and storms. But that guy, he won’t even touch the violin anymore, because he doesn’t need it anymore!”

Chopin sat down beside him: "Yes, he can make hundreds and thousands of people breathe in rhythm just by raising one hand."

Liszt closed his eyes in anguish: "He no longer needs to compete on stage."

Chopin sighed. He wasn't good at comforting people, but he still tried to say a few words: "Arthur is a politician. For him, music is just an occasional hobby. As for you, Franz, you are the poet of the piano, and he is the composer of the nation. You are not on the same path."

In the shadows of the side corridor, in a place unseen by everyone, Flora's breathing had not yet completely calmed down.

Applause came like a tidal wave from all directions, but Flora felt as if she were submerged underwater, hearing only indistinct echoes.

Her hand was still on her chest, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst through her sternum.

On stage, Arthur stood ramrod straight, smiling as he accepted the cheers and adoration of the audience. The baton hung limply in his hand, his posture clean and restrained, as if the heart-pounding "reign" he had just witnessed had nothing to do with him.

Flora's fingertips trembled slightly, and the glove crumpled in her palm.

When she first heard Arthur play the piano, his voice was so gentle it was almost shy.

But tonight, he made the entire orchestra, everyone, including her, bow their heads.

This guy is always so unpredictable.

Victoria, sitting in the audience, let out a soft breath, as if she had finally woken up from an overly vivid dream.

Her chest was still heaving, her fingertips in white gloves were still trembling slightly, and her young face radiated complete satisfaction under the light.

She knew Arthur would do a good job, but she still didn't expect him to do this well.

She turned to the Duke of Wellington beside her, who was sitting upright.

The expression on that face, etched with the marks of time, was neither the composure of a soldier on the battlefield nor the usual restraint he displayed during meetings in the Upper House.

His chin was slightly raised, and a slight curve appeared at the corner of his mouth, as if he was trying to suppress some kind of emotion.

Victoria couldn't help but ask, "Your Excellency, what are you thinking about? Do you... like this piece of music?"

The Duke of Wellington turned his head and looked at her with his grey-blue eyes. His voice was hoarse but tinged with amusement: "You like it? Your Majesty, I never thought I would be so thoroughly defeated by a piece of music."

Victoria's eyes widened: "Completely defeated?"

“Yes,” Wellington said. “At Waterloo, I was in charge of the army, but now I’m being commanded by a young man and my heart is pounding.”

Upon hearing Wellington's words, Leopold smiled and said, "Sir, you should at least be thankful that tonight's experience of being commanded is much more pleasant than hearing the French cannons at Waterloo back then, isn't it?"

Wellington stood up with a smile and clapped, saying, "A great commander commands soldiers to obey, while a great musician commands the audience to obey willingly. If that's what Your Majesty is referring to, then I agree."

(End of this chapter)