The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1374: Chapter 199: The British Claws

Just as Blackwell was savoring Arthur’s words, Arthur had already risen from the sofa.

He leaned on a beautifully carved cane. Although his black short hair was slightly tousled by the north wind, it matched the well-tailored black tailcoat that had just arrived yesterday, maintaining a noble demeanor as he walked among the rows of bookshelves.

The shop assistant, still yawning, was sorting out books that hadn’t been placed back the night before, when suddenly he heard a mixed Russian-French accent in his ear.

Arthur’s gaze swept around the shop with a hint of scrutiny: “I’m looking to buy some authentic Russian literature. Do you have any recommendations?”

The shop assistant was taken aback, first glancing at this unfamiliar gentleman. He was used to attending to middle-class scholars and the occasional wealthy young customer, thus had long developed a knack for assessing people.

But this stranger seemed neither like the spendthrift youth squandering an inheritance nor like the cautious students or minor officials who hesitated to spend money. Coupled with his peculiar accent, the gentleman’s identity was self-evident: he was either a foreigner or a newly settled Russian resident.

Such individuals were not uncommon in St. Petersburg. Any Russian aristocrat with some money would like to hire a British Jones or a French Kirk to educate their children, and even the Tsar was no exception in this regard.

If you’re a Russian-born university professor, you can only reach the rank of eighth-class civil servant.

Even if you want face and beg earnestly, people might at most call you ‘Major.’

But if you’re hired from abroad, it’s entirely different.

Foreign professors can start directly from the fifth-class civil servant, on the same level as the presidents of Moscow University and Peterburg University.

Once outside, even if you don’t mention it, people will tactfully address you as ‘General.’

The customer before his eyes was clearly not an ordinary home tutor; even if he wasn’t a foreign professor, he was at least a wealthy foreigner or a significant diplomatic official.

“Please wait a moment, Sir.” The shop assistant hurriedly bowed, turning to dash behind the bookshelves.

Soon, he returned, carrying a pile of the shop’s bestselling Russian books, jogging all the way: “How about these? Pushkin’s ‘Eugene Onegin,’ ‘Poltava,’ and ‘Roslavlev,’ Rukovski’s ‘Ludmila,’ Bulgarin’s ‘Ivan Vizhkin,’ and others… these are the quintessential representations of Russian literature.”

Arthur didn’t respond but merely raised his cane, pointing to the stack of books in the assistant’s hands, stating: “These, wrap them all up for me.”

“And this shelf, this shelf, and this shelf.” Arthur indicated several directions of different bookshelves one after another, with a calm and firm voice: “I want them all.”

The shop assistant’s hands were already trembling, and he quickly placed a Nikolai Karamzin’s ‘Russian History’ onto the counter, then went to fetch a book with yellowed spine, ‘Russian military system,’ which had sat in the shop for countless years.

A thought involuntarily crossed his mind: “So many books, can this gentleman really afford them all?”

But when he saw Arthur flicking a Gold Coin with his fingernail, causing it to draw an arc in the air and land in his palm, the assistant’s last shred of doubt instantly vanished.

The commotion soon drew the attention of the bookseller, a slightly plump, middle-aged man whose face was perpetually adorned with an ingratiating smile. His sharp gaze turned slightly more respectful upon seeing Arthur’s tailcoat and the faint glimpse of a gold watch chain at his waist.

He hastily put down his task and walked over, directing the assistants to wrap the books in fine parchment, bowing quickly: “Honorable Sir! Your visit today is truly the honor of our shop! I dare say, our collection here is second to none in all of Saint Petersburg; every book here will surely add luster to your bookshelf.”

Arthur completely ignored him and pointed to several more bookshelves: “One of each.”

“You have truly exquisite taste!” The bookseller’s heart swelled with joy, though he tried not to appear money-minded, he couldn’t retract the smile from his face: “Oh, God blessed you with a discerning eye, you truly have a keen eye! These books are high-quality imports straight from Paris, recommended by Mr. Pushkin as classics!”

Arthur frowned at the remark: “Are you sure these books were shipped from Paris? Would French people title their books as ‘Napoleon Defeated by Russian Emperor Alexander I near Paris,’ ‘The Russian Who Taught Napoleon to Dance,’ ‘Napoleon’s Winter,’ ‘The Oddly Shaped New Army of Napoleon,’ and ‘The Russian Strongman Expelling the French’?”

“Ah!” The bookseller’s smile suddenly froze, a flicker of panic in his eyes. He hurriedly waved his hand, his ingratiating expression turning to embarrassment: “Sir, you misunderstood, misunderstood! I thought…”

He fumbled for a long time, not knowing how to explain, so he resorted to feigned anger to clear himself, grabbing a young assistant moving books, scolding: “Didn’t I tell you all not to bring in such books for no reason? Who, who put these books on my shelf? It really lowers the standard of our bookstore! Nonsense!”

Arthur casually opened one of them, raised his hand to stop, saying: “It’s alright, I actually find these books quite interesting. I’ll take two copies of each, one for myself and the other to send to my friends in France.”