The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1524: Chapter 257: The Russo-French Fallout

The British Club in Drutsky Alley was shrouded in thick gray haze, and the oak door ring reflected the cold light of icicles.

When Arthur stepped into the entertainment room, his nose caught a warm hint of Darjeeling black tea and Havana cigars. The yellowing spine of ”King Lear” on the bookshelf coincidentally overlapped with Pushkin’s fluffy curls in a subtle manner.

The Russian great poet, who was reclining on a sheepskin sofa chatting with acquaintances, couldn’t help but tease upon seeing the arrival of this British Knight: ”Sir, you’re seven minutes late.”

Arthur threw aside his half-glove and stirred the citrus slices in his cup with a silver teaspoon: ”I heard your ’Pugachev’ is about to be published? This year has been a bountiful year for Russian literature. St. Petersburg readers had ’The Bronze Horseman’ early in the year, and mid-year they could appreciate ’Pugachev.’ Not that I’m deliberately flattering you, but honestly, putting aside Balzac and a financially constrained Dumas, you should be the most prolific among the literati I know.”

Upon hearing Arthur mention two French literary figures greatly admired in Russia, Pushkin immediately showed interest.

Those originally conversing with Pushkin also couldn’t help but close their mouths and began to glance up at this mysterious prominent figure.

Pushkin humbly said: ”Prolific? You should take a look at our friend Mr. Gogol; that little Russian wrote a five-act satire in just two months, titled ’The Imperial Envoy.’

Speaking of which, he suddenly lowered his voice: ”You really should take a good look at that play—it tells of how provincial bureaucrats worship a false imperial envoy, the mayor and his wife and family, the entire small-town officialdom...”

A middle-aged man in a velvet vest sitting nearby quickly extinguished his cigar and quietly reminded: ”I have to admit, Gogol’s play is indeed well written. But, Alexander Sergeyevich, His Majesty the Tsar just signed new theater censorship regulations last month...”

Arthur promptly poured the teapot, and the amber liquid of Darjeeling tea washed over the sugar cube at the cup’s bottom: ”I was late precisely because of that play. I must say, it is indeed a masterpiece; anyone seeing it for the first time would laugh until their stomach hurt. Perhaps staging such a play in Russia would be difficult, but British readers happen to favor this type of dark humor. Do you know ’The British’ is serializing ’Oliver Twist’? The critique of societal phenomena there is far sterner than in ’The Imperial Envoy,’ but I hear that even priests have cited Oliver Twist’s lines in sermons this year.”

Pushkin dipped his pen in the coffee stain, writing out the French spelling of ’Oliver Twist’ on the tablecloth, his expression somewhat peculiar: ”The Bishop wouldn’t cite that particular line...”

”Exactly the line you are thinking of.” Arthur cut a piece of scone, the cream knife ringing clearly on the dinner plate: ”Just imagine, on some Sunday, priests standing beneath stained glass in church reciting sections from Chapter Nine—where the orphanage child timidly raises his wooden bowl and says, ’Please, sir, I want some more.’”

Almost immediately, cigar smoke froze, and the gentleman in the velvet vest laughed till tears came: ”Taking the plight of the hospice as sermon text?”

”And it’s not just ’Oliver Twist,’ the priest then read the Fifth Chapter of the Gospel of Matthew: ’Blessed are the merciful.’ Arthur spread a thick layer of strawberry jam on the scone: ”Now the London Anglican Church receives more than twice as many anonymous donations daily. Thanks to Mr. Dickens, they promise all these donations will be used entirely for literacy classes for child workers in the East District.”

Many of the gentlemen nearby laughed heartily at these words, shaking even the Shakespeare collections on the shelves.

Some devout believers made the sign of the cross across their chests: ”Mr. Dickens has truly performed a meritorious act.”

Pushkin also exclaimed: ”Your writers can sway God with words, while Russian literati cannot even...”

Upon hearing this, several neighboring poets suddenly went pale, exchanging glances with Pushkin as if making silent gestures towards the several Imperial Guard officers chatting idly in the corner with champagne glasses.

The Third Bureau had undercover agents in the British Club; this was already an open secret in St. Petersburg.

Seeing his friends’ reactions, Pushkin, appearing as though he wants to speak yet hesitates, swallows back the curses already on his lips.

Actually, even without him speaking, Arthur understood what was troubling him.

About several days ago, a letter purportedly written by Pushkin started circulating around St. Petersburg; even the Tsar recuperating in the Imperial Village mentioned it to the Crown Prince’s tutor, Rukovski.

Initially, Pushkin didn’t take this matter seriously because similar things had happened before, and the content of the letter was mostly a lowbrow poem full of foul words, concocted by his literary rivals to tarnish his reputation.

But soon enough, the truth revealed itself; the letter was indeed penned by Pushkin. The Moscow Post Office had secretly opened his letter to his wife Natalia Nikolaevna!

Besides some domestic trivialities, the main controversy of the letter was Pushkin’s description of the grand ceremony of the Crown Prince’s coming of age held recently.

—On the Wednesday of the week following Easter, the prince’s coming-of-age ceremony was held. I did not attend the ceremony but heard others mention the situation of this event. It was both a solemn state event and a familial affair. The soon-to-be adult prince looked particularly excited; he recited the oath in a determined and joyful tone. However, when he began to recite the prayer, he couldn’t help but pause, tears streaming down his face. His Majesty and the Queen cried too. After finishing the prayer, the Crown Prince lunged over to hug his father. The father kissed his forehead, eyes, and cheeks, then led his son before the Queen. The three embraced, full of tears. At St. George’s Hall, under the flags, they repeated the first oath, by which time people’s emotions had calmed down.