The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1521: Chapter 256: Hemorrhoids – Eld Carter’s Debut Work on the Tsarist Russian Literary Scene

“Vulgar?” Arthur twirled the stem of a candied cherry: “They call a fable about a nose running away from home vulgar? No wonder you want to pen an ode to the Moscow censor’s hemorrhoids. But on the other hand…”

Gogol slammed the ink bottle on the table, causing the ink to spread on the parchment in the shape of a beetle: “The point is they stupidly say ‘The Nose’ is not as elegant as ‘Saint Alexey’s Martyrdom’! They praise that rag-like ode as ‘shining with the brilliance of faith’. Ha! In my opinion, it’s just as well the sheen of years of oil on an Eastern Orthodox priest’s robe.”

“Calm down, Nikolai.” Arthur spat the cherry pit onto a silver plate: “Though the editors of the Moscow Observer are indeed quite ignorant. If your nose could be considered vulgar, I wonder how they’d view Mr. Eld Carter’s latest work.”

“Eld Carter?” Gogol was initially taken aback, but quickly responded: “I almost forgot, you and Mr. Carter are old friends. What? Has he written to you lately?”

Arthur retrieved a letter, exuding the scent of Pacific sea breezes and the air of British gentlemen, from his leather briefcase and handed it to Gogol: “My relationship with Eld is more than just friendship; we’re practically like brothers. Although he’s on a global voyage and our correspondence is sporadic, we always exchange new stories when we can. See, ever since I shared my experiences in Russia with him a few months ago, he’s been inspired to write a Russian novel.”

“A Russian novel?” Gogol took the new work from this ‘Walter Scott heir’ with keen interest, scrutinizing it closely in his palm: “Hmm…”

Arthur tactfully moved his chair to be a step away from Gogol.

He did this not out of unfamiliarity with Gogol, but because he’d learned his lesson.

When he first saw Eld’s masterpiece, it was during afternoon tea, and he had underestimated his friend’s profound grasp of classical literature, nearly spitting tea all over the secretary Blackwell’s face.

As Arthur sat by the table eagerly anticipating Gogol’s reaction to this new work by the ‘British Club’ heavyweight author, he noticed Gogol’s brow furrowing more and more.

For a while, Arthur didn’t know how to ask.

After all, it took as much courage to reveal Eld’s new work in public as it did to face a bullet under the Tower of London.

And this time, it seemed Arthur had messed up.

Arthur remained silent for quite a while before gently inquiring: “Is the article not to your taste?”

“No, it’s not that…” Gogol flushed, scratching his head as he returned the letter to Arthur: “You see, we’re sitting in the British Club, surrounded by paintings of English countryside, and Shakespeare’s plays and Wordsworth’s poems fill the shelves… But, alright, yes, I admit I don’t understand English. Sorry, would you mind reading out what’s written here?”

Revealing Eld’s letter in public was already embarrassing enough, and now asking Arthur to read it aloud was indeed almost unreasonable.

However, given his limited time in Russia, he had little choice in maintaining decorum.

Arthur sighed inwardly, lamenting the sacrifices he made for his work, yet he still invited Gogol into a quiet reading room nearby, intending to use Eld’s work to teach Gogol what truly qualifies as vulgar literature.

Dear Arthur:

This year, for the 1588th time, I send my regards to the bastards at the Navy Department, hoping the Father above could bless these Oxford and Cambridge bureaucrats with blistering sores to repay the four years of maritime life they gave me.

Eld Carter, that outstanding youth graduating from Britain’s highest institution, the University of London, for the sake of lofty scientific ideals and national interests, didn’t hesitate to leave behind the singing and dancing of London, relinquishing countless lucrative opportunities.

He could have been holding a glass of sweet Tokaj, forking a piece of Wellington steak, drowning in a perfume barrel surrounded by beauties.

But no!

He insisted on making the world turn upside down through his own efforts!

Even though he drank only watered-down beer and chewed on canned corned beef harder than a shoe sole, surrounded not by luxury and beauty but by a bunch of roughnecks reeking of rotten fish…

Alright, say whatever you will!

No one is here to discover me, pretending to be a moral gentleman is indeed ridiculous!

Arthur, guess what I’m truly thinking?

After this global voyage, the Navy Department really ought to assess my personal sacrifices made for the scientific expedition.

Even if they don’t knight me, they should at least keep their promise to transfer me to the Navy Department, wedged on an office chair as solidly as Marshal Gambier’s behind, and impossible to pry me off from.

If they don’t, then I’ll have to emulate Guy Fawkes and John Bellingham in seeking justice for myself!

Alas, in such tough days, entertainment is sparse, and I can only count Charles’ hairs to endure the bumpy voyage.

However, now, with Charles’s hair thinning day by day, even this regular pastime faces grave challenges. Will his hair fall out first, or will we return to England first? Arthur, in this race against time, whose side do you think God will take?