The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1230: Chapter 146: The Neighboring Prime Minister Grows Up

What is termed realism, I mean a form of art that not only faithfully depicts the details of reality, but also truthfully represents typical characters in typical environments. The authenticity of details is certainly important, but more crucially, a writer should showcase through these authentic details the typical character within that social environment, allowing readers to see not only the individuals’ lives in the storyline, but also the trends and contradictions in the development of society through these individuals. In this regard, the authors from ”Britain” have always done an excellent job.

——Friedrich Engels

The small room of the inn echoed with the sound of knocking.

Perhaps to commemorate the failed yet significant Savoy expedition, Garibaldi and others, who had been trapped in self-doubt and guilt over the past week, took ”The Internationale” as a channel to vent.

In a less than twenty-square-meter small room, the chief tenor of the Paris Opera House, Adolphe Nourri, served as the temporary conductor, with Garibaldi and other Young Italy members acting as the chorus. Even the tone-deaf Heine and Great Dumas spontaneously kept time for them.

As for Bismarck, the young man was initially unwilling, but under the temptation of a scholarship, he could only blend in with Garibaldi’s magnetic and infectious voice.

Bismarck singing ”The Internationale,” just how absurd is such a scene?

This absurdity perhaps is only second to a fellow playing the violin accompaniment to ”The Internationale” being none other than Arthur Hastings.

Garibaldi and others sang with grandeur and passion, as if they had boundless energy.

Soon, Bismarck could not bear this hell-like torment any longer and raised his hand to go outside to smoke a pipe to relax.

The young man’s cherished traditional Prussian values did not allow him to stay in this place for even a second longer, even with the temptation of a scholarship, it was not worthwhile.

With even one more breath of the room’s air, he felt that the Bohemian aristocratic bloodline passed down in the Bismarck family since the time of the Great Emperor Charlemagne would be tainted by a bourgeois scent.

Bismarck walked down the inn’s stairs, came to the streets, leaned against a wall, lit his redwood pipe, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled billowing smoke.

He looked up down the street, at every window flanking the street, students’ heads and shoulders protruded, wherever he saw was all tacky smoking caps and seemingly mismatched robes, and whether or not long pipes and shiny tassels could be seen through the windows depended on how addicted they were to smoking.

Indeed, just like London, smoking in Gottingen was likewise a fashion statement, keeping up with the trend of smoking was not just for those with ’von’ in their names like Bismarck, even those without ’von’ were equally fond of it.

Only in such a moment, could Bismarck reluctantly accept that he had something in common with most students in Gottingen.

But he still wanted to say, smoking does not mean maturity, although each had a pipe in their mouth, more than half of those in the windows were puerile patients.

Bismarck smoked his sulking pipe while greeting friends passing by on the street.

”Hey, Gustave.”

Gustav Schublan, with a sword at his waist, was looking down, adjusting his dueling gloves, when he heard someone call him, he hurriedly looked up, only to teasingly say after seeing it was Bismarck.

”Oh, isn’t it our Student Union President, Your Excellency Otto? I heard John, that fellow from the United States, saying that you, the peasant leader, plan to change your tune and become a civic leader?”

If someone else said this, it would most likely be a compliment to Bismarck.

But the one speaking was none other than Gustav Schublan, a brother of Bismarck’s in the ’Pomerania’ Sword Society—a master member.

So, these words were almost an indirect ridicule of Bismarck’s intention to abandon the German traditional dueling honor of the ’Pomerania’ society, and instead, cater to those small-town students who were not very interested in fencing sports.

Bismarck, though hot-tempered, did not lose his temper with everyone.

Especially since Gustav Schublan was a respectable master of swordsmanship, as he could recite backward the masterpiece ”Light Saber Technique” left by the German Swordsmanship Master Marxins Lusena and successfully applied it in actual combat.

And to express their respect, the junior members of the ’Pomerania’ society usually added his nickname when addressing Schublan, calling him ’Light Sabre’ Schublan.

Bismarck did not want Schublan to look down on him, so he could only argue: ”You don’t understand, I have my difficulties in doing so. I’m becoming the Student Union president not because I want to wallow with them, but because I have a grand plan. Moreover, I think everyone in ’Pomerania’ should not only not criticize me but should also rally around me?”

”A grand plan? Rally around you?”

Schublan mocked: ”What? Do you intend to turn us into small-town folk who only dare to curse but not fight? Since the establishment of ’Pomerania,’ for over a hundred years our creed has been—talk less, do more, fight whenever you could instead of just talking.”

At this point, Schublan paused, seeming to recall something, firstly he was dazed for a moment, then suddenly burst into laughter, clutching his belly: ”Sorry, Otto, I almost forgot. You were so miserably scolded by the new Academic Director before, now you probably don’t have the courage to draw your sword anymore, do you?”