The Shadow of Great Britain

And the premise of all this is that he first has to please Victoria, this 18-year-old Queen.

At this time, leaving London, staying away from Victoria’s side, might seem incomprehensible to ordinary people.

After all, nowadays, everyone is flocking to her side. However, Arthur Hastings, this gentleman who appears to be in the best position to reap the benefits, gave up his spot when the fire was blazing.

Ultimately, everyone has different views, attributed to their different perspectives on matters.

Everyone else regards Victoria as the Queen, except Sir Arthur Hastings, who treats Victoria as a young girl.

Arthur set down the teacup and picked up a slightly worn but very handy quill. He spread out a pale yellow sheet of letter paper from the notebook on the table, the top of the letter paper printed with the address No. 218 Saint Honore Street and bordered with a pattern of dark green vine tendrils.

Dear Her Majesty the Queen:

Please forgive me for writing a perhaps not very important letter on such a lazy morning.

The sound of carriages and street vendors outside Saint Honore Street rises and falls. Yet, I have no affairs to handle, so with a cup of not-too-sweet black tea, I sit at the desk and think of you.

Summer in Paris is very hot and dry. Last night, there was a rare breeze, so I took the opportunity of the cool night wind to visit the French Comedy Theater. The play was a political satire adapted by Auguste Valerian. The members of parliament on stage, wearing fake noses, amusingly argued for half an hour, all just to decide who should be responsible for the ”national cough.” The laughter in the audience was unending, and I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit myself.

In the next box sat an exiled Polish poet, who reportedly wrote a few famous pieces. While chewing almond candies, he occasionally commented on the actors’ hairstyles in a low voice and finally said to me, ”The English always have serious faces; they don’t understand this kind of play.” I smiled silently, but was thinking in my heart that if you were here, you would perhaps let them see what humor and wit lie beneath a serious face.

A few days ago, I also attended a piano concert at the Italian Theatre. Talberg played his ”Moses Fantasy,” and Liszt, in disguise, was seated not far from me. He remarkably listened to the entire piece without displaying his usual wildness. He must also realize that Talberg is ultimately an adversary not to be overlooked.

If Your Majesty has time to come to Paris, we could sit in the third row by the aisle, listening to Liszt tossing notes like a storm with his left hand while Talberg lays a calm lake surface with his right. But I understand you are currently entangled in preparations for the coronation ceremony. Correspondence from London mentions a budget for the ceremony set at seventy thousand pounds, three drafts of the parade have been formulated, and security orders have been received by Scotland Yard.

I have written to both Carl Czerny and Talberg, inviting them to London on their tour next spring to perform a true ”Parisian Night” for you. As for Liszt, he has a capricious nature, but if I suggest your presence, he might give up a concert in Vienna.

Of course, if none of them are willing to come, I will play for you myself, even if I can only use my long-out-of-repair left hand.

Speaking of my left hand, it has recently become even more uncooperative than my right. I suspect it’s the old injury acting up, or perhaps it’s just the passage of another year. Every time I fall deeply asleep at night, there’s a tightness in my chest. At one point, I thought that the heart which was nearly taken by shrapnel in 1832 finally planned to quit now.

The medicine the doctor gave me makes me dizzy, so I reduced the dosage myself. He warned me that if I continued to make decisions on my own, he would no longer write notifications for me. But I thought, it’s not like I’m going to college, what do I need a notification for?

The bustle of Paris is ultimately not set for me, but I am willing to pack the most enchanting parts and bring them back to London, just to gift them to you. If you are willing, those actors, musicians, even the bakers, I can invite them all, to let them know that the one truly worthy of their bow and salute is not on the Champs Elysees, but at Buckingham Palace.

Your forever loyal servant.

Sir Arthur Hastings

August 7, 1837, in Paris