shadow of britain

Chapter 622: Life in Petersburg
The second floor lobby of the St. Petersburg Imperial Bookstore on Nevsky Avenue is ablaze with light, shining softly on the tall wall of books, brightly illuminating the blue, red, and gold-edged books, as well as the dusty, forgotten titles. They are all books, but the difference between slow-selling and best-selling books is quite clear, showing the strength and weakness of human creative power.

The bookstore was packed with people. The carriages were coming and going on the street, and the road and carriages were rumbling, making the windows jingle. It seemed that the lights, books, people, everything were trembling slightly, making the bookstore look even more colorful.

The shop assistants were busy running back and forth, diligently trying to sell the most powerful author among the customers who visited here, and patting their chests to assure them that as long as they would take a closer look at the treasure of the store, they would never move their eyes to any other book.

"What a wonderful book! Have you ever read The Bronze Horseman, sir? No! You have never read any good book."

The man in the brown coat stared at The Bronze Horseman on the bookshelf, took one look at the author's name, and then muttered to the breathless square-faced waiter, "Who is Pushkin? Is he Scott's Russian apprentice? I came here to find a historical novel to read."

"Pushkin? You don't even know Pushkin? Excuse me, man, you'd better introduce him to some French novels. I already know what kind of person he is."

The young second lieutenant of the dragoons said, turning to the man next to him, who was impatiently cutting the last few pages of the book: "Yes, not everyone is suitable to read Pushkin. Some people can only read Dumas. As for poetry, whether it is Byron, Shelley, or Pushkin, they can't read any of them."

The man in the brown coat retorted: "You underestimate me. I don't read Dumas."

The lieutenant ignored his rebuttal and just held up The Bronze Horseman and praised loudly: "My God! Look at this book, some parts are so wonderful!"

"Hey, look, we've finally got The Bronze Horseman!"

A regular customer squeezed through the bustling crowd and asked as he jumped, "What? The Bronze Horseman has been published?"

"Tell me, what is The Bronze Horseman like? What do you think of this new work?"

"It couldn't be better! It couldn't be better! It would be even better if there were a few more scenes...Oh, Pushkin has made great progress!"

The fat man with the square collar badge chattered away with a smile on his face. He bent his fingers and pinched his chin, as if he was pinching a ripe apple. "It's all about technique, technique! Look here, and here, how skillfully it's written here!"

"Yes, it has many good points, it is excellent!" repeated the skinny connoisseur, filling his Roman pipe with half an ounce of tobacco. "Of course, there are some points that need to be criticized severely... Well, you know, he is still young... But it is almost a first-rate work!"

The bookseller joined the conversation with satisfaction: "On this point, please allow me to report that I guarantee that the money will roll in..."

A clerk from the Senate who was taking a lunch break walked into the bookstore, took off his hat and asked humbly, "Is this work really so moving?"

"Of course, it's very moving!" the bookseller replied, and then took a fierce look at his tattered coat: "If it wasn't moving, how could it sell 400 copies in two hours!"

The gentleman in the brown coat was obviously very dissatisfied with everyone's ignoring him. He shouted, "Do you have any works of Walter Scott here? I just finished reading his Rob Roy two days ago, and now I want to read the second part."

The cavalry lieutenant raised his hand and pointed him a way: "Go to the right and follow the stairs to the third floor. There are fashionable French novels, including those by Dumas, Balzac, and Hugo. If you insist on reading Scott, go to the next floor. There are other works by Scott, but there is no second part of Rob Roy."

"Why?" the man in the brown coat asked in a muffled voice, his eyes full of disappointment: "Isn't this the place with the richest collection of books in all of Russia?"

The lieutenant looked at him with contempt. "You claim to be a loyal reader of Scott, but don't you know that Scott died two years ago? If you want to read the second part of Rob Roy, you shouldn't come to the bookstore. You should bring a good prayer candle to the church to find the priest and ask the priest to help you make some concessions and invite Scott back to write the second part for you."

"Scott is dead? My God! Why didn't you tell me earlier? If I had known he was dead, I wouldn't have read his books! Ever since I finished reading Rob Roy, all I can think about is the 'Robin Hood of Scotland'."

The expert shook his head and said, "That's wrong. Scott is the king of historical novels. There is nothing wrong with reading his books."

"Whether he is the king or not is not my business. I only know that it's only been a month this year and I'm already out of food! Excuse me, I want to ask, does this king have no heir? Even if he has no biological son, doesn't he have other blood relatives? There is no one willing to sit on this huge throne of historical novels?"

"He wants to read historical novels and he wants Scott's successor. Well, I know who this gentleman is looking for. Man, take him to the first floor to find Carter's book."

"Who is Carter?"

"Don't worry about it. Don't you want to read a book like Rob Roy? Rob Roy is the Scottish Robin Hood, and Carter's debut novel is called Robin Hood, which is just what you like."

"He writes better than Dumas?"

"You said you didn't read Dumas?"

“I don’t read it, but I’ve heard of it.”

Map of Saint Petersburg, 1844

The gentleman in the brown coat followed the waiter downstairs. The environment on the first floor was obviously much quieter than that on the second floor. There were only a few scattered guests standing in front of the rows of bookshelves. They picked up a book, wrapped themselves in their coats, and curled up on the sofa next to the fireplace to warm themselves by the fire.

"Sir, these books here are Carter's works. The two books on the top are Robin Hood and The Flag of St. George Still Flies. These two are old works, typical works of Walter Scott. I believe they will suit your taste. As for the books below, they should be works written by Carter when he was bored. But they are also a good choice to kill time." The gentleman in the coffee coat stared at the books below and couldn't help but read out the titles: "The Emperor's Toilet? What is this book about?"

"This book! This book talks about a tradition in a certain country that every emperor must have a most noble toilet, which is regarded as a symbol of imperial power. Rumor has it that this toilet was built by the country's top craftsmen, using a variety of rare materials and precious decorations. Because of the preciousness of the toilet, every time someone uses the toilet, strict security and a lot of preparation are required, following a complicated "toilet ceremony."

One day, a foreign businessman came to the country with a new toilet, claiming that the new toilet could save time and improve efficiency while providing the same comfortable experience as the emperor's golden toilet. This caused an uproar inside and outside the court, with some ministers believing that this "new toilet" represented modernization and progress, while others insisted that the golden toilet was a symbol of national authority and could not be replaced.

While the ministers were engaged in a heated debate, the palace guards accidentally broke the emperor's toilet, gold and jewels scattered all over the floor, and the emperor's dignity was instantly lost. In order to avoid the ministers' protests and the resulting national crisis, the emperor decided to repair the toilet into a more luxurious version, but this plan led to a financial crisis due to budget overruns. The story revolves around the toilet, and although it is quite vulgar, it is still quite interesting to read. "

The man in the coffee coat heard the plot introduction and immediately put back the book Robinson Crusoe that he had just picked up: "This... this sounds interesting, but I can only buy one book today..."

As he was hesitating, he caught a glimpse of a gentleman holding "The Emperor's Toilet" standing not far away. He walked closer and was about to ask him about his impressions after reading it, but unexpectedly he heard him mumbling something in some remote mountain dialect.

"There's this one, and there's this one too... They're all from Brussels... Damn Belgian pirates... You better pray to God that I don't catch you... Otherwise, I'll hang you all on the gallows in front of Newgate Prison..."

Arthur noticed someone approaching and looked up at the gentleman. Unexpectedly, the murderous look in his eyes frightened the other person.

He glanced at the book in the other person's hand, curled his lips and asked the waiter next to him: "I heard that Mr. Gogol is here with you?"

"Master, you're looking for Mr. Gogol?" The clever shop assistant nodded and bowed, "He's in his office discussing the publishing of the second part of 'Evening Talks on Dikanka' with several other masters. Do you need me to pass on a message for you?"

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"That's not necessary. Just let me know when they're done talking."

As Arthur finished speaking, a man wearing a Dutch shirt inside and an exquisite dress outside appeared behind him.

"Sir, Earl Darramore has read the diplomatic report you drafted yesterday. He appreciates your hard work attitude and the rigorous professionalism shown in the report."

Arthur asked his subordinates to sit down on the sofa together, then he picked up his pipe and the smoke drifted away.

He ignored the compliment and instead asked, "Henry, how long have you been in the Foreign Office?"

"Me?" Henry Blackwell put the briefcase under his arm on the coffee table. "Seven years."

"Seven years..." Arthur pinched his chin and pondered for a while: "It's indeed a long time. Seven years in Russia? Didn't you think of a way to move westward?"

Blackwell nodded. He was quite helpless about this. "Everyone knows that the embassy in the west is better. At least the weather is warm and your butt won't be frozen in winter. But I'm unlucky. There's nothing I can do."

Arthur laughed twice. "You are not unlucky. You are too isolated from the news and too lazy to think. Do you think my report is good? I don't think so."

Blackwell was stunned by what Arthur said. He frowned and thought carefully: Although the report could not be said to be written in a splendid style, nor could it be called a gorgeous article with gorgeous words, it was superior in terms of detailed arguments and clear logic. Judging by the standards of diplomatic reports, it could definitely be called excellent, but why did the knight say that the article was poorly written?
Seeing that he was not getting the point, Arthur began to give him some pointers, "You should know that even within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, there are differences of opinion on how to handle relations with Russia. Although everyone is suspicious of Russia's intentions, some people believe that Russia is far from threatening the interests of the British Empire, while others believe that the threat from Russia has reached a level that cannot be ignored. Do you know who the representatives of these two groups are?"

Blackwell was stunned and asked, "You mean?"

"Yes, our immediate superior, Count Daramo, is the main supporter of the former view. He believes that Russia's seemingly strong military strength is only of defensive value. Tsar Nicholas may have a dream of expansion, but Russia's current situation does not allow him to pursue this dream. Count Daramo has been trying to prove to the cabinet that external expansion requires a lot of resources, and Russia does not have these resources."

Blackwell suddenly realized and said, "No wonder your diplomatic report made Earl Darramore so happy. I remember that you belittled the Russian army in the report, which just suited Earl Darramore's wishes. Then who are the people who claim that Russia is a threat?"

Arthur took a puff of his cigarette. "Lord Ponsonby and Sir John MacInniel, the ambassador to Persia. They witnessed with their own eyes how Russia was gradually replacing Britain and expanding its influence in the Ottoman Empire and the Kingdom of Persia respectively, so it was hard for them not to be wary of Russia."

"Lord Ponsonby?" Blackwell frowned. "But...I remember he was transferred back to London last year and is no longer the Minister to the Ottoman Empire?"

"Henry." Arthur stared at Blackwell for a long time. "You know the personnel appointments very well, but why don't you think more about the reasons for the personnel transfers? Why was Lord Ponsonby dismissed? What is the attitude of our Foreign Secretary Viscount Palmerston towards Russia? I don't need to say more, right?"

When Blackwell heard this, many things that he couldn't understand before suddenly became clear.

But even though he knew the reason, as a potential anti-Russian diplomat, he still felt uncomfortable because his immediate superiors, Earl Daramore and the Foreign Secretary, both maintained a relatively friendly attitude towards Russia.

"Ah..." Blackwell sighed softly, "If you hadn't revealed the truth, I would probably still be in the dark."

"Henry, most things in the world are connected." Arthur blew out a smoke ring. "For example, you can also think about it. Among so many people in the embassy, ​​why did I choose you to be my personal secretary and take the trouble to explain these things to you."

(End of this chapter)