The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1492: Chapter 244: Darkness! Damn It’s Dark!

Although Martha bluntly expressed her regret, Arthur didn’t feel any sense of loss for missing the opera.

Because according to the arrangement, they were supposed to watch Glinka’s opera ”Ivan Susanyin” yesterday.

Or, if you prefer, you might also call it by its name from 100 years later, ”A Life for the Tsar”.

The content of this opera is not complicated; it tells the story of early 17th century, during the invasion of Russia by the Poland-Lithuania coalition, Russian peasant Ivan Susanyin protected Tsar Mikhail Romanov by leading the Polish army into the forest, ultimately sacrificing himself.

From a literary and theatrical point of view, the opera is extremely artistic, especially the fourth act where Susanyin, feeling death approaching in the forest, sings the tragic aria ”My Dawn Will Never Come”, which is considered a classic.

If he was alone with nothing to do, Arthur would even be willing to pay out of his own pocket to buy a ticket.

However, with Tsar Nicholas I arriving in Moscow and personally attending the premiere of ”Ivan Susanyin” in Moscow at this crucial moment, it added more unpleasant elements to what was already a politically charged show.

Not having accompanied Tsar Nicholas I to the end of the performance, where the people sang ”Hymn to Glory” praising the Tsar and the martyr,

in a sense, was at least like eating one less fly.

Eat one less fly, but receive an extra blow; coming and going, one might barely break even.

”Sir!!!!!!”

As Arthur was calculating in his mind whether he had lost or gained, he heard a mourning-like wail from outside the living room door.

Under his arm, holding a briefcase, came Secretary Mr. Blackwell, who had hurried hundreds of miles from St. Petersburg, pushing open the door: ”Sir, I heard you’ve broken at least three ribs!”

Arthur glanced at him. Blackwell’s speed was so fast that he hadn’t had time to lie in bed pretending to be seriously ill.

Being caught off guard, the veteran actor from Scotland Yard had to pick up the pipe from the bedside table and ask, pretending to be nonchalant, ”What? You seem happy?”

Blackwell took out a handkerchief to wipe non-existent tears: ”God as my witness, I was praying all the way here on a sleigh overnight that you wouldn’t die next to a Slavic chamber pot.”

He glanced at the half-finished woolen socks Martha was knitting: ”But seeing you so calmly chatting with Mrs. Martha, I’m relieved. Surely you faked the rib fracture just to cheat some subsidy?”

”A minor injury won’t keep me off the battlefield; breaking three ribs isn’t a big deal.” Arthur shamelessly flicked the ash into the fireplace: ”Subsidies should be kept for those who need them more. I heard Count Budorov from St. Petersburg even got his gold-plated false teeth stolen while strolling on Neva Street?”

”Correction: diamond-encrusted molars,” Blackwell pulled out a document from the briefcase: ”Even more thrilling is General Sukhotin, who was pushed into a snowdrift by three beggars wrapped in bear skins in front of Winter Palace Square last week, losing all his personal belongings, including love letters. Now, there’s a saying among the noble ladies in Petersburg: Russian robbers are quicker than the Tsar’s Guards.”

Arthur clicked his tongue in wonder: ”I was feeling resentful before, thinking that not all bad luck could possibly befall me. But now, I’m at peace. Even Count Budorov, Russia’s Home Secretary, and General Sukhotin, a seasoned diplomat who served in countries like the Netherlands and Sweden, have stumbled. What complaints could I possibly have?”

Saying this, Arthur softly instructed: ”Martha, please brew a samovar, with milk and sugar, and serve it with some dried fruits. Oh, and tell Grigory that Mr. Blackwell is here, so today’s lunch can be made more sumptuous.”

”Understood, sir.”

As Arthur watched Martha leave the room, the cultural attaché’s aura instantly rose.

”Now, let’s discuss your dereliction of duty,” Arthur tapped the copper bed bell with his pipe: ”Last month, three stubs from the Ballet Theater were mixed into the reimbursement invoices sent to the London embassy—don’t tell me they were for Viscount Palmerston’s research on the current state of Russian arts.”

Blackwell’s action of untying his tie froze for half a second, then he displayed a fox-like smile: ”You know, Lady Golitsyn has a keen interest in British literature. We always need some entertainment when discussing ’Paradise Lost’...”

”Enough entertainment to use the embassy’s special funds to buy her a sable shawl?” Arthur pulled a stack of account books from under the pillow: ”By the way, your poetic talent in writing sonnets to the Duchess is anything but commendable...”

Suddenly, the icicles outside the window broke off, hitting the iron railings of the balcony with a bell-like sound.

Blackwell’s hand, which was taking out the nose snuff bottle, trembled slightly; the malachite-inlaid lid reflected his twitching lips: ”How did you know about this? I... I encrypted all those writings.”

”Oh, my dear Henry,” Arthur raised an eyebrow: ”I told you before that I have more connections and resources than you. I have a friend in London named Charles Wheatstone, and although Mr. Wheatstone might not be able to organize even a single lecture at the Royal Society and has never been in a relationship, it takes him less than five minutes to decode an encrypted love letter.”

”Sir!” Blackwell retorted hoarsely: ”You can’t ruin a romantic love story.”