Shadow of great britain

Hastings, you are a master of bad things!

The carriage made a creaking sound as it ran over the snowy road. The mixture of ice and snow under the wheels occasionally splashed onto the window sill, making the chill even more pressing.

Mr. Blackwell, the private secretary of the British Cultural Counselor in Russia, was sitting in a corner of the carriage, wearing a long dark gray coat and a scarf covering half of his face, trying his best to hide his unhappiness.

He gently patted away a piece of frost that had fallen on his shoulder. His eyes sometimes stared at the gray winter scenery outside the window, and sometimes glanced at the leisurely and contented superior Sir Arthur Hastings opposite.

Arthur was concentrating on flipping through a thick folder, occasionally reading notes in a low voice to himself, and occasionally making a few impatient complaints to himself.

In Blackwell's opinion, these behaviors of Jazz are early symptoms of mental illness. After all, he has never seen any normal person who likes to talk to himself like Arthur. Sometimes, even if no one messes with him, he can fight with the air.

Of course, Jazz never admitted that he was mentally ill. He always said that he was practicing speaking Russian.

But no matter how he defended himself, Blackwell already regarded him as a madman in his heart.

He worked in the embassy in Russia for seven years and followed countless well-known British diplomats, but the most special one was undoubtedly this evil star assigned from Scotland Yard.

Blackwell closed his eyes and leaned on the hardwood backrest of the carriage, letting the vibration of the wheels make his thoughts drift back to the past - his "golden years" in St. Petersburg.

At that time, his boss was Sir William Collins. His classical education at Harrow School and Cambridge University gave him a noble gentlemanly manner and a humble manner.

Sir William Collins' words were never harsh, and his orders were always tactful. Even if it was a tedious task, speaking from his mouth, it seemed to be inviting Blackwell to complete a pleasant trip.

In those days, Blackwell's job was a joy. He only needs to handle some documents in the office every day, occasionally accompany Sir Collins to dinners or dances, and interact with ladies and officials in the salon.

There, he could not only taste the best champagne and vodka, but also feel the warm laughter and moving melodies on the cold Russian winter nights.

He remembered those luxurious banquets, wearing a well-tailored tuxedo, holding a crystal glass in his hand, chatting and laughing with the guests in French or German.

The eyes of those ladies and ladies always had a bit of teasing appreciation, especially when he softly sang one or two of Shakespeare's famous quotes beside the piano, which always attracted a burst of soft admiration and applause. He had met several attractive women on that occasion, and even had a brief gentlemanly love affair with one of them, a count's daughter named Sophia.

More importantly, Sir William Collins never disturbed the private lives of his subordinates. Whenever Maslenitsa or other important holidays came, he would generously give Blackwell a day off, giving him the opportunity to enjoy the colorful social life of St. Petersburg. He attended wild costume parties, skated with friends on New Year's Day mornings, and even occasionally shared brief romances with charming sopranos at the opera.

In comparison…

Sir Arthur Hastings is a disaster!

He is picky about his work, has no consideration for his subordinates, and can even deprive him of basic holidays at will.

Not only that, this knight also seems to have a natural talent for attracting trouble, and he can always get involved in those complicated and troublesome political whirlpools at the most inappropriate moments.

This is not a figure who appears in diplomatic circles, although it is unseemly to say so, but yes, this guy exudes the atmosphere of a police station and a prison in his every move.

Although he has been working in the diplomatic community for a month, his mind has not turned away from the cold thinking of the internal affairs department.

What's even more annoying is that he seems to feel that he is quite tolerant towards his subordinates.

Perhaps at Scotland Yard, his approach could indeed be called tolerant.

For a group of guys who were shoemakers, farmers, and textile workers yesterday, you can pay them on time, give them half a day off a week, and give them some obscure money from time to time, with an increase of three or three per year. For a salary of five pounds, they will pay you with gratitude.

But for diplomats and these gentlemen, if you do this, it is not tolerance, but tyranny!

Blackwell's fingers drummed nervously on his knees, then clenched into fists.

He had already planned everything for the upcoming Maslenitsa holiday, including several elegant dinners, a theater performance, and even a charming young lady looking forward to spending a romantic evening with him.

But now, all this has been messed up by this unexpected official business!

He could have accepted those boring diplomatic documents and cumbersome itinerary, but now he not only lost the opportunity to relax, but also had to endure the long journey and the biting cold wind.

He recalled the hurried farewell to Miss Anastasia in Petersburg the day before. Her snow-white dress set off her porcelain skin, but she asked with a bit of loss in her eyes: "I really can't stay. ”

Blackwell could only say vaguely: "Official business."

His heart was filled with regret and resentment. How could such an opportunity be repeated at any time?

Arthur Hastings, you are a master of evil!

Your heart of stone is stronger than the bullets fired from the Tower of London!

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but sigh.

This voice obviously attracted Arthur's attention, and the latter raised his head and glanced at Blackwell lightly.

Blackwell quickly put away his sigh and pretended to adjust his scarf, but he muttered in his heart: "What a cold boss, he doesn't even bother to ask about the emotions of his subordinates!"

The atmosphere in the carriage fell silent again, leaving only the sound of horse hooves and wheels grinding snow.

Blackwell leaned back in his seat and tried to close his eyes and take a nap, but found that his mind was filled with those beautiful unfinished vacation scenes.

His hand subconsciously touched the pocket watch on his chest, opened the cover, and saw the small note from Anastasia tucked inside. On it was a message written in her beautiful handwriting: "At the Maslenitsa dance." Come on, I'll wait for you."

Blackwell's heart was broken, like snow crushed by wheels.

"You are so restless, someone wants to date you?" Arthur's voice suddenly broke the silence, with a hint of teasing in his tone.

Blackwell tensed up instantly and forced himself to show a formulaic smile: "It's nothing, Sir. It's just that the journey is a little boring."

Arthur closed the notebook and put the pen back into his jacket pocket: "Is she Miss Anastasia? She is very beautiful, as white as a swan, knowledgeable and courteous, gentle in temperament, everyone in the Golitsyn family Lady."

When Blackwell heard Arthur's words, his eyes were brighter than the snowy scene outside the window: "Have you seen Miss Anastasia?"

The corner of Arthur's mouth raised slightly, revealing a meaningful smile: "Of course I have seen it. As a cultural counselor, I have the responsibility to understand the various social circles in the station."

"I..." Blackwell said incoherently: "You probably misunderstood, there is nothing between her and me. Sir, you know, I am an honest person, I..."

Arthur lit his pipe and raised his hand to interrupt him: "Honest people? I have seen that the hearts of many so-called honest people are very ugly. So much so that I once suspected that whenever the issue involves interests and passion, Are there really honest people in the world?”

Blackwell stammered and replied: "I... Sir... you can't..."

Arthur took a puff of his cigarette: "Okay, Henry, I know you have resentment in your heart. You blame me for ruining a perfect date for you and your chance to be the son-in-law of the Golitsyn family."

Blackwell's face turned red, half angry, half embarrassed.

He clenched his fists and his eyes flickered, but he did not dare to look at Arthur.

"Sir, I didn't mean that." Blackwell lowered his voice, trying to save his dignity: "It's just... I just hope that the occasional private time can be respected."

Arthur knocked on the window sill with his pipe and cast his eyes from the curling smoke to the snowy scene outside the window. His tone was unhurried and unhurried: "Henry, I understand what you are thinking. You hope that your life will be orderly, with a balance between work and pleasure, so that you can have a better future. Find a well-born lady at a ball and live out your life safely, right?"

Blackwell was pricked by this sudden frankness. He raised his head and glanced at Arthur, then lowered his head and muttered softly: "Is there anything wrong with this?"

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"I remember you liked reading Shakespeare?"

"Um……"

Arthur slowly exhaled a puff of smoke: "If this letter falls into your hands, think about it carefully. I am destined to be higher than you, but don't be afraid of nobles. Some people are born noble, some become noble through hard work, and some People become noble by chance.”

"Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 5." Blackwell blurted out, but then he came back to his thoughts.

Because this passage is actually used to mock the vain ambition of the butler Malvolio, and satirize his attempt to climb up to a noble woman like Olivia, thereby improving his status.

Arthur stared at his flushed face and politely advised: "Henry, I don't want to hit you. But you have to understand that no matter how gorgeous we are in clothes or how expensive wine we drink, we are really bottomless. Sex is just a tool. When a farmer leaves the farm, he is still a farmer. When a worker leaves the factory, he can still be a worker. But when a diplomat leaves the job, he is no longer a diplomat."

Arthur knocked on his pipe slowly, shook the ashes into a small box, and then continued: "Henry, you also know about Sir David Urquhart. But have you ever thought about it, if we What are the consequences of improper handling of relations with Russia?”

Blackwell frowned: "We are implementing the policies of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Besides, the responsibility for Sir David's influence on foreign relations should not be entirely borne by our mission in Russia, right?"

Arthur laughed and turned his eyes to the vast snowfield outside the window: "You and I don't have to say who is responsible, so there is no need to pass the responsibility to others, because it is useless. The Tsar has never been a tolerant person. If Britain His actions made him dissatisfied and he could always To order us out of Russia. And all of us, from me to you, from the counselor to the private secretary, will lose this status. Without the mission in Russia, who can you expect to pay your salary? A noble lady is willing to dance with an unemployed secretary?"

Blackwell's face suddenly darkened: "It shouldn't be that serious, right? Are you saying that the Tsar may really... expel us?"

"Don't underestimate his methods, and don't overestimate our status. In the game of diplomacy, power has the final say. If misfortune does happen, it won't be a big deal for me. At most, I will be transferred to India, Canada, or even The colonial establishment in Australia. Although the conditions are difficult, at least there is a job and a regular salary. And what about you, Henry, what are you going to do?"

Arthur described his prospects for Blackwell lightly: "You are a low-level diplomat who has made major mistakes, and there is no one in the family who can support you. Without my letter of recommendation and without the protection of the embassy, ​​how can you Where to go? Go back to London and find a clerical job? Go to some country school and teach French and German? Those aristocratic friends you made at the Maslenitsa dance, who will immediately forget about you and even pretend they never knew you because you are no longer a diplomat, you are just that. An insignificant, worthless little person.”

Blackwell's hands subconsciously clutched his knees, and every word Arthur said hit his heart like snow flakes.

Is there anything your family can help me with?

He couldn't help but think of his own family.

The Blackwell family was just a member of the middle class in London. His father ran a small printing workshop. The income was barely enough to maintain a decent life for the family, but it was by no means an important supporter who could provide him with asylum or resettlement.

His brother did inherit the family business, but the relationship between the two has always been cold, and the brother may not be willing to pay for his mistakes.

As for those distant relatives and nobles, they had already turned a deaf ear to their side clan.

Blackwell knew that if he really lost his job, all his family could offer was a few words of comfort, or at most a loan of several hundred pounds, rather than support that could really make a difference.

He mastered French and German and used them skillfully in foreign affairs, but back in London in 1834, what could such skills do?

Become a translator?

There may be a job, but the salary is definitely not good and there is no future.

Become a newspaper writer?

This industry is highly competitive and relies heavily on connections. Besides, his reputation may have been completely ruined by diplomatic mistakes.

As for teaching languages, although he could try a small French or German class...

But where do students come from?

How much income can there be?

This kind of life will only reduce him from a decent diplomat to a clerk who is busy making a living. Although he is not a poor class, he will never be as comfortable as he is now.

Arthur saw the wonderful changes in Blackwell's expression and knew that this unruly goat was finally willing to put on a collar.

It has to be said that what Talleyrand, the master of French psychology and the number one charlatan in Europe, taught him has always been useful, and this time his words came true again - seeing the little people working hard, people will compromise with the big people.

Agares's voice sounded from Arthur's ears, with the usual teasing and ridicule, as if he was leaning leisurely in a dark corner of the carriage.

"My dear Arthur, your method of manipulating people's hearts is getting better and better! Look at you, you are just like a younger version of Talleyrand Périgord. Even the way you walk with a limp is similar to that of Talleyrand Périgord. He is so similar and never places his hope on the kindness of others. Instead, place your hopes on the fears of others. Otherwise, since you have now obtained the qualification of a professor in the German Confederation, when you retire, I will arrange a position for you and open a course at the University of Hell. What do you think of the administration course?”

Arthur snorted softly, covered his face with the newspaper, and murmured in a low voice: "The students at Hell University are too stupid, they can't learn anything."

Agares smiled instead of being angry when he heard this. He said with a playful smile: "Oh, my dear, what you said is really harsh! But, you are right. Most of the students recruited by us are not smart. Otherwise, how could they take away their souls and exchange them for some third-rate wishes?”