The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1361: Chapter 194: Hemorrhoids Unhealed (Part 2)

He had an incredibly beautiful large long-distance four-wheeled carriage, like those with spring beams. You know, riding a rural freight cart compared to this kind of long-distance four-wheeled carriage is very beneficial to one’s health, especially for those suffering from depression and hemorrhoids. We traveled in this carriage, talking all the way about Little Russia, discussing the characters of the Little Russians.

The General also told me that his mission of visiting various places this time was entrusted by the relevant committee of the Home Office to investigate the history of the Pugachev Rebellion, and he believes that the information he collected will definitely help with the history of Little Russia that I am compiling.

This was supposed to be a pleasant and amusing journey, and indeed it was. But when the carriage reached the small town of Druiysk in the Vitebsk Province, the comedic level of this trip hit a new high. You probably wouldn’t guess what I encountered in this small town? It’s almost as if this isn’t a true story; perhaps I’ll write a comic play based on this incident.

—— Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol, January 1833 to Pushkin, “Gogol’s Letters”

It was a gloomy winter day, snow fluttering outside, and the temperature was so low that one dared not stay outside for long. Meanwhile, in this quiet little town, the wooden doors of the inn could barely withstand the ravages of time, seemingly about to collapse in the wind and snow at any moment.

Gogol sat on a hard stool, enduring intense pain, his neck wrapped in a thick scarf like an ancient knight about to head into battle. His sitting posture carried a peculiar stiffness, as if his bones and muscles were unable to move freely due to illness and pain.

Whenever he tried to adjust his posture slightly in hopes of gaining some relief from the unbearable pain, the ever-spreading burning sensation and piercing pain dragged him back into deep agony.

Restless, Gogol occasionally glanced out the window, seeing the Cossacks hurrying along the streets, but his mind was filled only with complaints about his physical discomfort.

“Damn it! This little place is so inefficient! Alas… If I had known it was all in vain, I wouldn’t have bothered to make a special trip to Kiev, truly tormenting myself.”

Gogol rather indecorously clasped one hand over his buttocks, feeling as if the affected area would crack in this cold, dry weather: “No way, even if I encounter setbacks, I still must go to Kiev! I can’t endure the weather in St. Petersburg for a single day longer. All the doctors have been advising me to leave St. Petersburg quickly. If I continue staying in St. Petersburg for a few years, I’ll surely die of blood loss due to my buttocks cracking. A person destined to do great work should not die for such a ridiculous reason, I don’t want to be a laughingstock for future generations.”

Just as Gogol sat in that cold inn, frowning and enduring the pain, soft footsteps suddenly came from outside the door.

Soon after, the door was pushed open, and the bear-like tall figure of General Balakov appeared at the doorway.

He squinted his eyes at Gogol, revealing a trace of concern: “Mr. Gogol, are you okay?”

Gogol forced a bitter smile and couldn’t help but complain: “Ah, General, it’s absurd! I left St. Petersburg aiming to find a warm place to secure a livelihood for myself, and yet this place has become my ‘sanatorium.’ My illness hasn’t improved, I’m almost beginning to suspect whether the heavens are unwilling for me to have a peaceful day.”

He abruptly grasped the thick scarf around his neck, carrying a hint of self-mocking smile, saying, “It really is… even my buttocks forbid me from traveling long distances.”

Balakov held a smoking pipe in his hand, shaking his head: “Your body is indeed somewhat weak. By rights, I should take a patient’s feelings into account and take you straight back to St. Petersburg. But orders from above must ultimately be carried out. Please bear with us, I’ve already asked them to hurry as much as possible.”

Gogol pursed his lips and took a deep breath, trying to appear less pained, although it was a futile effort: “Even under such circumstances, you’re still concerned for me, I truly appreciate it.”

Suddenly, a cold wind swept into the inn, snowflakes drifting in with the wind, landing on Gogol’s face.

Before Gogol could react, he saw a dozen Russian Military Police in uniform appear at the door, instantly turning the atmosphere tense.

Among them, the leader was none other than Constitutional Soldier Captain Richard Hutter.

Dressed in a dark military uniform, covered with a heavy winter coat, his epaulets glinted coldly in the frigid sunlight, appearing cold and dignified.

His gaze was razor-sharp, like a blade, carrying a force that could not be ignored.

Hutter made no announcement, walking straight into the room, his gaze sweeping over Balakov and Gogol, as if he had no intention of changing due to anyone’s identity or status.

Seeing this, General Balakov immediately flashed a hint of anger in his eyes.

He thought this Constitutional Soldier Captain was merely an officer of the Druiysk garrison, unexpected that this person would be so presumptuous.

In his rage, he almost lost his calm: “Devil strip the skin off your ancestors for eighteen generations! Do you think because you’re a Captain, you can splash cold water on others in this freezing weather? You’re simply not taking me into account!”

Hutter remained unmoved, his gaze cold as ice, indifferent to Balakov’s provocations.

After standing firm, his deep and clear voice broke the silence in the room: “Colonel Arthur Agaresovich Hastings, present!”