The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1518: Chapter 255: Academic Achievements Stained with Blood

In 1834, St. Petersburg was like a poetry collection frozen in ice, and the brass ring on the oak door of the British Club glinted coldly in the twilight.

Arthur Hastings stood by the carved porch, leaning against a velvet chair, pinching his chin and scrutinizing Gogol from behind as he scribbled on a new play while curled up in a high-backed Cossack chair. Occasionally, he would interject with a few remarks, mimicking the tone of Druiysk officials to suggest revisions to Gogol.

As for Gogol, although he was not pleased with this British gentleman’s incessant chatter, he tolerated it for the sake of his captivating stories.

“The part about the corrupt mayor toasting Colonel Hestingov was written too bluntly. I… no, based on the earlier text, Hestingov is not a brutish character; how could he scold people so harshly? You’re writing a comedy, so I think it should be adjusted accordingly. The tax collector, trembling, admits his mistakes at the dinner table, and Hestingov simply smiles and hands him a glass of wine, saying: ‘Drink this wine, and the funds you embezzled for the church’s reconstruction become a donation for Holy Communion—in regard to the blurred numbers caused by the church mice gnawing at the account books, we can call it—God’s handwriting in the report.’”

Gogol rolled his eyes, dipped honey, and drew a comical St. George’s flag on the edge of the draft: “Perhaps I should note that this play is inspired by the story of a diplomat’s hemorrhoid outbreak? After all, that ‘clerk with anal disease’ is the soul of the entire deception.”

The firelight in the fireplace danced in Arthur’s eyes as he dropped a sugar cube into his steaming tea: “My dear Nikolai Vasilyevich, I bet with you that you’re sure to become popular in Russia this time. Do you know? Your ability to use words and phrases is now almost at the level of Heinrich Heine.”

Gogol thought Arthur was mocking him: “Come on, if I truly had Heine’s level, would I have almost given up half my life for a deputy professorship at Kyiv University? Since writing ‘The History of Little Russia,’ I’ve become increasingly aware of how challenging Karamzin’s work was. Not every novelist can successfully transition to a historian.”

“Are you still thinking about the position at Kyiv University?” Arthur sipped his tea: “You are now the deputy professor of the history research department at Peterburg University. Although I am a foreigner, I’m not foolish enough to think Kyiv University is better than Peterburg University.”

“You dare bring this up?” Gogol, who had been feeling dispirited from prolonged work, slumped over the table, but his anger flared up as soon as Arthur mentioned his new position: “To be honest, I’ve already heard from Rukovski and Pushkin that you played a significant role in securing my deputy professor position!”

“No need to thank me,” Arthur raised his teacup and gently clinked it against the bottle of kvass that Gogol had placed on the table: “Helping others is my main occupation, especially in the field of culture.”

“Thank you?” Gogol’s eyes widened: “Do you think I willingly accepted this position? My hemorrhoids cry out day and night, urging me to the warmth of Kyiv! The only reason I’m still in St. Petersburg is not that I am heartless, but because the position here was assigned by the Emperor’s decree—and you are the instigator of it all.”

“Come on, old chap.” Arthur explained: “I promised I’d help you get your name spoken of among the big shots; the Tsar’s order to keep you in St. Petersburg only shows my work was overly successful. Besides, in my view, cold weather isn’t the only factor causing hemorrhoids—even if your backside migrated south to Kyiv, the condition might not fully recover.”

Gogol thought this guy was just spouting nonsense: “I only thought you were an exceptional scholar of electromagnetism. Since when did you become a doctor too? Maybe my condition won’t fully heal in Kyiv, but how do you explain that hemorrhoids are rampant in Petersburg but rare in Kyiv?”

“This can be explained, of course.” Arthur tapped the rim of his teacup, the sound like a gold coin dropping into a confessional box: “Do you know why people in Petersburg generally have hemorrhoids? Tax officials practice double-entry bookkeeping with their buttocks. The left cheek handles treasury deficits, and the right cheek calculates personal surplus. From a medical perspective, Petersburg has a plethora of bureaucratic institutions; everyone here sits like a mountain and neglects exercise, cultivating their rebellious veins amid towering files, which explains the frequent occurrence of hemorrhoids. As for Kyiv, though I haven’t been there, the combined total of officials and public servants in the entire Little Russia region may not even match the number in Petersburg.”

Gogol found Arthur’s explanation completely nonsensical, yet he didn’t know how to counter it from a medical standpoint.

Hence, he ignored the British gentleman, sitting alone in his chair, fuming.

Seeing this, Arthur promptly offered him the candied cherries he had just bought as comfort: “Even if you can’t return to Kyiv, enjoying a local specialty to soothe homesickness is extremely good. The peddler boasted to me that these cherries have been marinated in the sugar jar for ten years, so hard they could crack a wolf’s tooth. Just like your unyielding posterior, it hatched two bloody academic fruits for Russian historiography after eight months on St. Petersburg’s iron throne.”

“You hairless monkey marinated in a London sewer! An idiot whose shoe-shining for the Tsar got his tongue scorned for being too furry!” Gogol clenched the ink bottle and sprang up, the velvet chair tearing the fabric with a suction-like ripping sound, much like a British diplomat’s conscience shredded by a dog: “Ivan the Terrible’s hemorrhoids are cleaner than your smiling face! Such a vile person actually calls himself a knight—did you scrape your knight medal off the Duke of Potemkin’s toilet?”