The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1747: Chapter 79: Leopold? Eld!

That winter, London was as gray and cold as ever. Smoke hovered over the Thames River, the gas lamps on the street cast semi-transparent halos, and the palace curtains were always half-drawn to keep its secrets from prying eyes.

In the office of the University of London, Arthur Hastings smoked alone.

The gunfire beneath the Tower of London, the despondency when exiled to Hanover, the frantic flight during the service in Russia, all were now fleeting memories.

In the vile, exceedingly mundane world of politics, it’s not always a bad thing to occasionally stand on the sidelines. For oftentimes, it is only then that a politician can observe the conflicts of various forces with detachment and examine the world from a fresh perspective, weighing pros and cons. Therefore, amidst the ups and downs of the political scene, there’s nothing more fortunate than a temporary setback.

If someone is always looking down from high above, from the heavenly clouds of the imperial throne, from the towering ivory towers and the heights of great power, he can only see the sycophantic smiles of the obsequious and the dangerous willing service of flatterers. Whoever holds the scale in hand will forget his true weight. For the artist, the commander, and the ruler, nothing is more harmful than continual success and getting everything as one wishes.

It is only through failure that an artist learns the true relationship with his work. It is only through defeat and loss that a commander recognizes his errors. It is only through losing favor and grace that a politician truly understands the grand scheme of politics. Unceasing wealth makes a person lethargic, constant applause makes one numb, only setbacks and pauses can endow one with vitality and resilience.

Two years of dormancy honed this fashionable literary artist, the commander of Scotland Yard, and the evergreen emblem of British politics into an old, seasoned style, just as the short epitaph on Arthur Hastings’ tombstone embedded the words: ”Once a good man.”

If we return to the late winter of 1834, to the early spring of 1835, maybe we could hear Arthur Hastings outside the office window of the University of London, whispering empathetically while smoking and reading ”Faust”: ”Alas, two souls dwell in my breast.”

His student, the fifteen-year-old Victoria, was standing at the threshold of her life. This threshold was neither built by Parliament nor decided by the Crown, but interwoven by a maiden’s bashfulness, the expectations of the Royal Family, and the fate of the Empire—she had to choose her future husband.

Her uncle King William IV, her uncle Leopold I, her mother the Duchess of Kent...

In Britain, in France, in the Netherlands, in Belgium, in Prussia, in Russia, in all the royal families of Europe, they all closely followed the marriage of the future successor of the world’s most powerful nation, watching Victoria’s choice of a spouse.

But unexpectedly, someone had already gained insight into Victoria’s views on marriage before anyone else.

Victoria did not know that her grammar teacher Arthur Hastings perhaps understood her minor preferences better than she herself did.

She would furrow her brows slightly when hearing others mention the ”Orange Brothers” in the carriage. When mentioning the ”Duke of Nemour,” she would inadvertently look at her reflection in the mirror. She might not understand her own heart, as she was still young and had not yet been robbed of the glow of innocence by reality.

But Arthur Hastings understood, this is how young girls are, they can be enthralled by a love letter from distant lands, can be entranced by a portrait, can fall in love with this handsome man today, and be smitten by that gentleman tomorrow, and by the next day, will refuse to marry anyone but a peerless hero. Young men and women are always easily swept away by passion, but if they overdo it, they end up bound together for a lifetime. In this regard, even a future queen cannot escape the common fate.

Only, who exactly will be this lucky person? Hastings did not dare to make a rash conclusion, though he understood in his heart that the lucky fellow certainly wouldn’t be someone he detested.

—Stephen Zweig, ”Arthur Hastings: The Ambitions of a Rational Prisoner Driven”

April sunlight poured through the tall panes of the library in Kensington Palace, the fireplace was out, hanging in the air was the faint smell of smoke and ink.

Victoria closed the book; perhaps a bit too forcefully, as it closed with a disrespectful snap.

”Today I’ve already read thirty-seven pages of Italian prose, memorized two German poems, and endured that stupefyingly boring geography class in the morning. Now it’s English grammar and rhetoric... I feel I’m about to turn into an encyclopedia.”

Arthur removed the gold-rimmed monocle from his nose, wiped the lens with his thumb, and said unhurriedly, ”If that’s truly the case, it would indeed be a great fortune for Britain, Your Highness.”

Victoria didn’t retort immediately.

She merely tilted her head slightly, her eyelashes fluttering a few times, as if weighing whether Arthur’s mild and tactful response was worth a retort.

If it had been any other class before, she would not have dared to impulsively retort Arthur, but now, things were different.

Not only because her relationship with Arthur had grown more familiar, no longer as awkward as it initially was.

But because, since entering 1835, perhaps considering her approaching age of sixteen and being eligible to attend social balls, the control over her at Kensington Palace had eased somewhat.