The Shadow of Great Britain

142: Chapter 100 The Multifaceted Nature of Politics (Part 1) 142: Chapter 100 The Multifaceted Nature of Politics (Part 1) In the Greenwich District, inside the café opposite the police station, a drizzle fell outside, fogging the café windows with a faint mist from the temperature difference inside and out.

Arthur stirred the teacup before him, as the sugar cube gradually dissolved in the light red tea.

Across from him, the belated guest took off his hat and coat, revealing a light red vest with suspenders and a weary expression underneath.

Arthur asked with a smile, “Mr.

Disraeli, seeing that you’re drenched, I suppose your speech in Hyde Park didn’t go too smoothly today?”

Disraeli felt a surge of irritation upon hearing this, as the one thing the proud young man hated most was being looked down upon by others.

“Mr.

Hasting, if you’ve asked me over today just to mock me, then you might as well have spared the effort.

However, if you insist, I don’t mind making yet another enemy.

Perhaps you’re not aware, but while I don’t count many friends, I certainly don’t lack enemies.”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders.

He smiled and said, “No, no, no, you’ve misunderstood me.

I’m not here today to mock you, on the contrary, I wish to discuss our camaraderie.

After all, you exerted yourself on my behalf during my move.

Even just for that, it’s only fitting that I take you out for a meal.”

Disbelief was all over Disraeli’s face as he retorted, “If that’s the case, why not invite me to your home?

Didn’t you say that you’ve hired a French chef?

I was quite looking forward to sampling his cooking.”

Arthur, covering his forehead and leaning back into the chair, responded, “Unfortunately, it’s not that I deliberately didn’t invite you home.

The French chef and a manservant from Nottingham decided to go to the theatre together, and I forgot my keys, so I can’t even get into my own house right now.

What’s worse, I didn’t bring much money with me when I left the house, so I didn’t dare to go to an upscale restaurant and had to impose on you to come here.

Since I’m acquainted with the owner of this place and he trusts my good credit, he allowed me to put the meal on my tab.”

Having said that, Arthur quite candidly turned out the pockets of his coat; Disraeli glanced over and saw that Arthur indeed had not lied to him; he had only three shillings on him.

After the fare for the ride home, there really wouldn’t be much left.

Yet, Disraeli still harbored doubts about Arthur’s words, “Even if the chef and manservant went to the theatre, couldn’t that prematurely balding tutor open the door for you?

Oh, and I almost forgot to ask, since you’ve hired a tutor, where are your children and wife?”

Arthur took a sip of tea, “That balding man is not a tutor I’ve hired for my household.

He’s a tutor I’ve hired for all of humanity, though this teacher still pays me three shillings a week.

Besides, how could you tell I have a family?”

Disraeli pulled out the chair opposite Arthur and scrutinized this unusual Scotland Yard inspector.

“Why don’t you just say that the man showing early signs of baldness is your tenant?

As for why I think you have a family, it’s obviously a consideration based on your financial situation.

Although Britain has seen a trend towards later marriage and childbearing in recent years, generally speaking, if British men are financially and career-wise ready, they wouldn’t mind advancing their marriage plans.

In my eyes, you’ve become an inspector at Scotland Yard so young and obviously are quite successful in your career and income.

Even if you wanted to stir up some trouble for yourself, such as getting married, it wouldn’t be surprising.”

Hearing this, Arthur couldn’t help but smile, “It seems I was right; you do have quite a few grievances with society.

I felt that when reading your masterwork ‘Vivian Grey.’ That probably explains why you’re considering running for office.”

At these words, Disraeli almost choked on the red tea he had just sipped.

He coughed repeatedly, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief while occasionally casting glances at Arthur.

After all, anyone familiar with the British literary scene knew that the anonymously published satire ‘Vivian Grey’ was part of his dark past.

Because of the book, his partner, friend, and object of satire, Mr.

Mori, nearly ended up suing him.

With Mr.

Mori being highly influential in the publishing world, even dubbed ‘Britain’s second most prominent publishing figure,’ the literary critique magazines ‘Blackwood’s’ and ‘Literary Maze’ spared no mercy in lambasting him as a buffoon making a spectacle of himself to attract attention and denounced him as a despised nobody.

Arrogant, ignorant, hypocritical, con artist, scoundrel—Disraeli himself couldn’t count how many labels those people in the publishing world slapped onto him.

After losing 7,000 pounds in a business venture and then facing such a devastating blow at the onset of his literary career, Disraeli sank into a deep depression and even developed severe psychological disorders.

He remembered that whenever his illness struck, his ears would fill with a terrifying ticking sound, and his sleepless nights forced him to turn to journal writing to ease his emotions.

——Faced with such a blow for the first time, my heart feels so weak, how utterly ridiculous, I really want to die on the spot.

All I hear in my ears is the ticking of clocks, like the tolling of bells in a tempest…

I can hardly think.

Pacing in my room, the sound grows louder and louder, deafening, like the roaring of a flood.

Arthur watched this early victim of ‘cyberbullying,’ noting the beads of sweat on his forehead growing thicker, even his lips were becoming pale, and the hand holding the handkerchief was trembling slightly.

Arthur then spoke differently, “To tell you the truth, Mr.

Disraeli.

Before meeting you, I thought surely you were as despicable as those literary magazines described.

But after actually interacting with you, I think you’re quite a decent person.

At least, you were willing to help me move without expecting anything in return.

You know, in these times, it’s rare to find someone who helps others without seeking something in return.”

Disraeli had been planning to accuse Arthur of deceiving him about moving things, but when he heard this, the complaint that had reached his lips somehow was forcibly swallowed down.

Disraeli nodded and said, “That’s right, Mr.

Hastings, what kind of person I am, you’ll understand after dealing with me.

The contributors to ‘Blackwood’s’ and ‘Literary Gazette’ are nothing but ass-lickers for Mori.

They have no idea of the good Mori has done for me!”

“I invested a hefty sum in a newspaper he founded, but in less than half a year, that newspaper went bankrupt.

Can you imagine?

The second biggest figure in Britain’s publishing, running a newspaper into the ground as if he didn’t have the resources and capability.”

“But when I started attacking him, all his friends in the publishing industry came bounding out.

He had the money and the mind to think about how to buy off ‘Blackwood’s’ and ‘Literary Gazette’, but he just couldn’t manage that newspaper properly.

Did I say anything wrong about him in ‘Vivian Grey’?”

“He wanted to ruin me with that, to make his own shady history disappear without a trace, but he can dream on!

I have to get elected as an MP and really sort out that idiot!

I want him to taste all the humiliation and anxiety I’ve suffered!”

As soon as Disraeli blurted this out, he immediately realized he had spoken too freely.

He quickly explained, “Mr.

Hastings, don’t get me wrong, that’s not entirely what I meant.”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, setting down his tea cup, “Even if that’s exactly what you meant, it doesn’t matter—Scotland Yard’s police don’t have the right to vote.

Not to mention you’re only cursing at Mr.

Mori, even if it were me you cursed at, I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Upon hearing this, Disraeli first stared blankly, then his face overflowed with disappointment: “You mean…

you don’t have the right to vote?”

Arthur smirked, “Am I wasting your time here?”

Disraeli let out a sigh, loosening his collar to make himself more comfortable, “How could you be wasting my time?

It’s even better that you don’t have the right to vote—this means I can speak freely!

To be honest, speaking those words in Hyde Park day after day, my mouth has nearly gone numb.

Having a chat with you to change my mood is quite nice, you don’t have to worry about me cursing at you and I’m not afraid you won’t vote for me, we’re all equal and fair here.”

Arthur looked at him and smiled, “It seems that although you want to be an MP, you’re still not quite used to playing this game of power.”

Disraeli picked up an oyster, prying at its shell with a small knife on the table as he replied.

“Who’s used to that sort of thing?

I’ve come to understand that to be an MP, you can’t have your own opinions.

You say whatever people like to hear—that’s the only way to attract a few idle listeners.”

“For workers, tell them you’re going to shorten their working hours.”

“For farmers, tell them you’re going to reduce their rent.”

“For factory owners, you start talking about import and export tariffs.”

“And for the nobility, that’s where I definitely won’t concede on the issue of amending the Corn Laws.”

“As for the priests, talk about ancient morals, spirits, and principles—you can’t go wrong.”

“But most of the time, I mainly talk about the latter because workers and farmers don’t really go to Hyde Park, and they don’t have the right to vote either.”

“To be honest, sometimes when I do this, I feel a bit guilty.

But there’s no helping it, you must remember my words from the other day—I don’t have the backing of a party, I’m standing there all on my own.”

“The MPs from the Tory and Whig parties are hypocritical enough, so in order to be elected, I must be even more ‘flexible and diverse’ than them.”

Arthur nodded at this, “If a person’s desire is to become something other than himself, like being an MP, a prosperous grocer, a famous lawyer, a judge, or something else equally mundane, he usually gets his way.

But as punishment, those who want these masks have to wear them first.

Mr.

Disraeli, you accepted this early on, so I believe you should be successful.”

Disraeli sipped at the oyster soup.

Slurp~

He sighed, “Is that so?

Then I really hope to borrow your auspicious words.”