The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1418: Chapter 214: Arthur Hastings, You’ve Gone Too Far!

The carriage crunched over the snow-covered road, making creaky sounds. Occasionally, a mix of ice and snow splashed against the window ledge, intensifying the cold.

Mr. Blackwell, the private secretary of the British Embassy’s Cultural Counsellor in Russia, sat in a corner of the carriage, wearing a dark grey long coat, with a scarf covering half of his face, trying to conceal his inner displeasure.

He gently patted away a frost flower that had fallen on his shoulder, his gaze shifting from the bleak winter scenery outside to his calm and collected superior, Sir Arthur Hastings.

Arthur was engrossed in flipping through a thick folder, occasionally muttering notes to himself and bursting out with impatient complaints to no one in particular.

To Blackwell, these actions of the Sir belonged to early signs of mental illness; after all, he had never seen any normal person behave like Arthur, who enjoyed talking to himself. Sometimes, even if no one provoked him, he would argue with the air.

Of course, Sir never admits that he has a mental illness, always claiming he was practicing Russian conversation skills.

But regardless of his explanations, Blackwell had already classified him as a lunatic in his heart.

He had worked at the Embassy in Russia for seven years, serving numerous renowned British diplomats, but none as unique as this calamity sent from Scotland Yard.

Blackwell closed his eyes, leaned against the wooden backrest of the carriage, letting the wheel’s vibrations carry his thoughts back to the past—that “golden age” he spent in St. Petersburg.

At that time, his superior was Sir William Collins, whose classical education at Harrow School and Cambridge University granted him a noble gentleman’s demeanor and gentle manner.

Sir William Collins’s speech was always polite, his orders invariably gentle; no matter how arduous the task, coming from his mouth, it felt like an invitation for Blackwell to embark on a pleasant journey.

During those days, Blackwell’s work was almost an enjoyment. He only needed to handle some files in the office daily, occasionally attend banquets or balls with Sir Collins, mingling with ladies and noble officials in salons.

There, he could taste the finest champagnes and vodka, feeling the warmth of laughter and enchanting melodies on cold Russian winter nights.

He remembered those luxurious banquets where he wore a well-tailored tuxedo, holding a crystal glass, engaging in witty conversations in French or German with guests.

The eyes of those noblewomen and ladies always carried a touch of teasing admiration, especially when he softly recited a line or two of Shakespeare beside the piano, earning whispers of compliments and applause. He had encountered several heart-throbbing women at those events, even briefly experiencing a gentlemanly romance with a count’s daughter named Sophia.

More importantly, Sir William Collins never disturbed his subordinates’ private lives. Every Shrove Tuesday or other significant holidays, he generously granted Blackwell leave, allowing him the opportunity to enjoy St. Petersburg’s vibrant social life. He attended masquerade balls, went skating with friends on New Year’s morning, and occasionally shared fleeting romance with enchanting sopranos at the opera house.

Comparatively…

Sir Arthur Hastings was simply a disaster!

He fussed over work details, showed no empathy for his subordinates, and even casually deprived them of basic holiday entitlements.

Moreover, this Sir seemed naturally inclined to attract trouble, often finding himself involved in complex and distressing political whirlpools at the most inappropriate times.

He was not the sort of person suited to the diplomatic circle; although it sounds unbecoming, indeed, everything about him exuded the aura of police stations and prisons.

Despite serving in diplomacy for a month, his mind hadn’t transitioned from the cold logic of the Home Office.

What made it worse was, he seemed to believe that he was treating his subordinates quite fairly.

Perhaps at Scotland Yard, his approach could be considered tolerance.

To a bunch of folks who until yesterday were shoemakers, farmers, or textile workers, if you paid them on time, gave them a half-day off a week, occasionally distributed some ambiguous funds, and increased their salary by three to five pounds a year, they would be grateful enough to hold you in esteem.

But for diplomats, for this group of gentlemen, if you did that, it wouldn’t be tolerance; it would be tyranny!

Blackwell’s fingers anxiously tapped on his knees, then clenched into a fist.

He had originally arranged his upcoming Shrove Tuesday holiday meticulously—a few elegant banquets, a drama performance, and even a romantic night anticipated by a charming lady.

And now, everything had been spoiled by this sudden official business!

He could have accepted those tedious diplomatic files and cumbersome schedule arrangements, but now not only had he lost the chance to relax, he had to endure a long journey and the piercing cold wind.

He recalled his hurried farewell the previous day in St. Petersburg with Miss Anastasia, whose snow-white dress contrasted with porcelain-like skin, yet she asked with a hint of disappointment in her eyes: “Can’t you stay?”