The Shadow of Great Britain

484: Chapter 261: Hats Off, Gentlemen!

(4K4) 484: Chapter 261: Hats Off, Gentlemen!

(4K4) The lights went out, and the Astley Circular Theatre fell into silence.

In the darkness on the stage, no one could see what was happening.

Chopin stood behind Arthur, removed his gloves, and revealed those hands capable of splashing countless moving notes.

His palms were covered in sweat beads, and both nervousness and worry were written on his face.

“Mr.

Hastings, are you really all right?”

Arthur smiled, stood up, and placed the Guy Fawkes mask on Chopin’s face.

“Frederick, there’s no need to worry about me, I feel very good now.

Just as I promised you before, I will give you a stage to fully display yourself, it’s up to you to seize it.”

Chopin asked, “But…

but your hand is bleeding…”

As a pianist, no one understood better than Chopin the impact of an arm injury on a musical career.

Seeing him so worried, Arthur could only smile helplessly, “Frederick, I am not injured, and Mr.

Bertrand is also fine.

What you see may not be the truth, and the truth you may not be able to see.

I indeed bled a bit, but it’s not as serious as you think.

Moreover, there are more than just Mr.

Bertrand and I bleeding in this world.

So are the Polish people you care about.

Frederick, if you really want to thank us, then don’t overthink it, just play your notes and let everyone remember, this is all we can do for Poland.”

“But…”

This time, before Chopin could finish, Arthur gently pushed him down onto the bench with a laugh.

Just as Chopin was about to say something else, he suddenly noticed an additional half-filled silver commemorative cup in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur placed the cup next to the musical score in front of Chopin, and smiled at him softly.

This silver commemorative cup had a meaning for Chopin known only to a few people, and inconveniently, Arthur was one of them.

The previous evening, he had made a special trip to Chopin’s residence in London and learned the story of this silver cup from Mr.

Mitskevich, also an exile from Poland.

This was a memento given to Chopin by his teachers and classmates at the Warsaw Music Academy when he left Warsaw to study in Vienna.

Hidden at the bottom of the silver cup was a choral score commemorating Chopin, covered by a seemingly mundane handful of brown soil.

To others, it might seem strange to fill a silver cup with soil, but for Chopin, this handful of dirt carried a different significance.

It was a handful of dirt from Warsaw, representing Chopin’s longing and passion for that deeply cherished land.

Arthur bent down, lowered his voice near Chopin’s ear, and said, “Go on, Frederick, let them see what the foremost pianist of Poland looks like.

Be confident, you have the strength and plenty of talent; even a young prodigy like Mr.

Mendelssohn, famous across Europe, does not seem to outdo you on the piano.

And coincidentally, Mr.

Mendelssohn agrees with me.

Remember Mr.

Heine, who accompanied me yesterday to hear you play?

Do you know how such a proud man evaluated you?

He told me that when you sat at the piano, he felt as if a countryman from his birthplace was telling him about the strangest things that had happened at home while he was away.

If possible, he would like to ask you: ‘Are the roses back home still passionately blooming?

Are the trees still singing so beautifully under the moonlight?’

Frederick, you are right, you are useless because you can do nothing but music.

But at the same time, you are completely wrong, because there is no one better than you on the piano, because you are Chopin.

Since the piano is the only thing you can control, then give it your all.

In doing so, my blood would not have been shed in vain.”

As Arthur spoke, his smile became more radiant.

He clasped his hands behind his back, slowly retreating step by step.

However, as he was about to step off the stage, Chopin suddenly called out to him: “Mr.

Hasting.”

“Hmm?”

Arthur paused, smiling and raising an eyebrow.

Chopin stared at the blurry face in the darkness, his tense expression finally eased, and a charming smile that had long been absent bloomed, radiating a joyful demeanor like that in the music halls of Vienna.

He picked up the silver cup from the piano stand and asked Arthur, “Can I have some blood?”

Arthur stared at him for a while, and after a long minute, finally nodded with a smile.

He extended two fingers above the silver cup, and blood drops fell, staining the cup and moistening the soil.

Arthur gently shook his head with a smile and said, “One drop should suffice.

It’s not that I am stingy, but this ‘blood’ is truly poisonous.”

The stage was once again enveloped in mist, and Arthur turned around and disappeared into the smokescreen.

And along with his footsteps, there arose the long-awaited pleasant notes from the audience.

A breeze swept across the stage, flipping the pages of the scorebook, which only listed the first piece Chopin was playing that night—”Nocturne in E-flat Major.”

The evening breeze flowed through the Astley Circular Theatre, the melodious tune entering so softly from the right hand, indescribably smooth, as if calling unto the summer night’s breeze.