The Shadow of Great Britain

The sun just rose over the Saint Michel Bridge, and a small café on the Left Bank, frequented by students and journalists, had already opened its doors.

By the window, Arthur, Heine, Eld, and Great Dumas sat around a round table, with four steaming cups of black coffee and a basket of freshly baked croissants.

”Mercy!” Heine slammed a fist on the table, causing ripples in his coffee cup: ”Arthur, you are too merciful! For dealing with a charlatan like Liszt, you shouldn’t show any leniency.”

Heine grew increasingly agitated as he spoke, his criticisms becoming sharper: ”Liszt loves to brag that he’s the Paganini of the piano world, but in reality? You are the true Paganini of piano, and ’Clock’ is clearly your piece! He always puts on a Messiah’s airs, as if Paris owes him a shrine! But in truth? Arthur, you are the one who climbed out from the coffin of St Martin’s Church!”

Great Dumas, who had been sipping his coffee, almost burst out laughing at this: ”Heinrich, enough already. I remember you and Liszt used to be on pretty good terms, didn’t you? Just because he accidentally owed you a bit of manuscript fee, you’ve been chasing him down for years now?”

”Alexander! Let me remind you!” Heine righteously slammed the table: ”This isn’t about money; it’s a matter of character and artistic taste. Yes, I wrongly believed Liszt to be a promising young talent worth befriending once, but his disregard for the rules of the art world is his fault.”

Eld also chimed in support upon hearing this: ”That’s right, if you’re going to mingle in this world, you must follow the rules of this world, just like the Navy Department.”

”Ah! Mr. Carter!” Heine, hearing Eld agree with him, immediately offered a Heine-style tribute without reservation: ”Who could have thought, in this noisy, corrupt Paris, amid this ink-scented and copper-stained café, we could hear a Royal Navy’s clerk speak truths clearer than all the German poets combined! You truly understand the logic of robbing the rich to give to the poor, as the author of ’Robin Hood’.”

Eld, who was initially a bit tipsy, was thrilled by Heine’s exaggerated praise and reciprocated: ”Mr. Heine, your insights are unmatched by those sycophantic scribes who kiss Metternich’s footsore.”

Seeing this, Arthur hastily interrupted them: ”Alright, Heinrich, Eld, since the matter has occurred, blaming you serves no purpose. Let’s focus on how to resolve it.”

”Resolve it how?” Heine declared straightforwardly: ”Simply compete with him!”

As he spoke, Heine pulled a newspaper from his pocket and slapped it on the table: ”Look at this, look at this, Arthur, can you believe what Liszt is saying?”

The freshly inked page was promptly unfolded.

The bold headline glaringly read: ”The Real Piano Art and the False Imitation.”

Below it, the signature: Franz Liszt.

Arthur frowned, his fingertips pressing down on the corner of the paper.

Even before Arthur could clearly see the content above, Heine couldn’t resist loudly reading it out in the café, his tone tinged with a sharp mockery.

”On Paris’s stage, there are always people with self-important airs, and no shortage of pretentious hypocrites. They might know a few clumsy chords, might find a few cheap tricks in the scores left by predecessors, piecing together dreary tunes, and then dare to pose as masters of the temple.

People say he wrote a little piece titled ’Clock.’ Unfortunately, it’s just a superficial imitation, mimicking Paganini’s techniques but lacking Paganini’s soul. Striking a few cold notes can’t make the clock’s chimes reverberate through Heaven, only making themselves look like a grave robber ringing a death knell.

Others like to use adjectives such as cultivation, restraint, and such to embellish his exterior, as if not getting on stage is a sign of nobility.

Absurd! That’s just because they know, if they were to truly stand on stage, their fingers’ barrenness and soul’s emptiness would inevitably be exposed before real art. So, they simply hide in the corner, feigning depth, and falsely claim cowardice as nobility.

True art is not treating the keys as grave markers to pound but making the whole instrument blaze into flames, illuminating the listeners’ eyes. Those narrow melodies are only fit to be soaked in a shroud, accompanying the coffin on its journey!”

Even with Arthur’s composure, after hearing such a bluntly attacking piece, he couldn’t help but change his expression.

He had heard more offensive sarcasm than this article before; the firepower and speed of Fleet Street in 1832 surpassed this little cannon from Liszt in leaps and bounds.

However, nowadays, Arthur’s identity was entirely different.

Back when Arthur lay in St Martin’s Church, even the furious Scotland Yard could only run to the Home Secretary, Viscount Melbourne, to vent their frustrations.

And during Arthur’s recovery, he could only incite ’British’ to make some negligible noise for self-comfort.

But currently, the person standing here was no Assistant Police Director of Scotland Yard, but the Secretary-General of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland’s Police Commissioner Committee, Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s discretionary Attendant, and the Chair of the Imperial Publishing Company’s board - Sir Arthur Hastings.

If Liszt had raised some personal musical opinions to Arthur in a private setting, Arthur would have graciously accepted and followed them.