The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 823: Original text: Chapter Three Hundred Eighty-Two Rain, Police, and the Tower of London—Arthur Hastings’s 1832 Modified: Chapter 382 Rain, Police, and the Tower of London—Arthur Hastings’s 1832

London, in a quiet house in the Chelsea District, the art studio is bathed in the gentle and ever-changing light of the afternoon.

The large windows face north to south, and friends familiar with the studio’s owner know that he arranged the windows this way to let the unique, unpredictable London sky become his source of inspiration on the canvas.

The furnishings inside are simple yet practical. On the easel, an unfinished painting occupies the central position, already beginning to present delicate interplays of light and shadow and a hazy mist. This arrangement is also a mark of his distinctive and strong personal style.

Various tubes of paint are scattered on the floor, among them the vibrant colors particularly loved by the owner, especially those used to capture the magnificent hues of sunrise and sunset: gold, orange, and purple.

By the window, piles of oil-soaked drafts and sketchbooks record the instant impressions he brought back from his plein air painting excursions. The air is filled with the scent of turpentine mixed with fresh paint, and the surrounding walls are crowded with completed works and experimental sketches.

As for the painter himself, he’s dressed in work clothes stained by the passage of time, holding a paintbrush, fully engrossed in the canvas, sometimes painting swiftly, sometimes meticulously applying smooth strokes, as if he were capturing the invisible forces of nature and the fleeting beauty of life.

Perhaps because he was too fatigued from work, he often walked to the window, gazing into the distance, observing the movement of the clouds and the changes in light, then quickly returning to the easel, transforming the freshly gathered impressions into vivid and lively brushstrokes on the canvas.

At this moment, the studio feels like a small theater; he is both the director and the actor, staging a splendid performance of a dialogue with nature. His paintbrush is the key that opens the door to mystery; through it, he not only records the real world but also creates a visual universe filled with poetic and emotional dreamscapes.

Knock, knock, knock.

The servant opened the door to the studio, humbly bowing slightly to him: “Mr. Turner, the poet you admire, Mr. Alfred Tennyson, is here.”

“Mr. Tennyson has arrived?”

William Turner, delighted, laid down his brush and picked up the latest issue of “The British” placed by the table, instructing the servant, “Please, invite him in.”

Soon, a tall man appeared outside the door. He had a head of thick curly hair and wore a loose robe and woolen cardigan. The gentle and profound smile that usually played on his lips was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, his eyes bore a melancholic air, and he clutched a “Bible” to his chest.

Perhaps it was the impactful rainstorm of the night before, or perhaps it was the two nights of sleepless inspiration that followed. The twenty-three poems published in “The British,” titled “In Memoriam,” were the best indication of his dazed state today.

Turner, smiling broadly, stood up to greet Tennyson, but before he could reach him, the young, famous painter noticed that Tennyson’s emotions seemed off.

“You don’t look well. Perhaps you need some rest? Mr. Tennyson, while I am very eager to discuss your new work with you, it can actually wait for another day.”

Tennyson shook his head: “Thank you for your concern. I do need rest, but I cannot close my eyes. Whenever I think of lying down, the terrifying scene of that rainy night at the Tower of London comes to mind. The shouts of the crowd, the flash of the gun barrels, the smell of gunpowder, and the ground covered in… blood. Mr. Turner, I can’t sleep, nor dare to close my eyes.”

“I knew it,” Turner took a deep breath and said, “You must have been at the Tower of London that night, too.”

“Too?”

Tennyson paused for a long moment, his reactions becoming somewhat slow: “You mean, you were there as well?”

Turner called a servant and considerately ordered a cup of invigorating Earl Grey tea for Tennyson before seating him and saying.

“To be precise, I was not at the Tower of London but on Tower Bridge over the Thames River. I was there waiting for the sunrise, planning to paint a busy scene of the Thames at dawn. But as you know, the situation in London became very tense from dusk.”

“The police, the military, and demonstrators were everywhere. My assistants were worried that wandering around at that hour might attract unnecessary trouble, but I discovered an even better subject for my painting, an unprecedented surge of emotion filled my chest. I planned to use my brush to depict this riot sweeping the entire city.”

Tennyson seemed to recall something, holding the hot teacup, forcing a smile: “How did your work go?”

Like Tennyson, Turner had not fully emerged from the stormy night. His emotions seemed somewhat agitated as he spoke, his eyebrows unintentionally rising.

“Honestly, capturing this subject well was not an easy task. By then, the sun had set, and all the tones had become dark. I sketched several drafts in a row but could not capture the strange feeling inside my chest.”

“It wasn’t until later, when the riotous crowd began to storm the Tower of London, that they clashed with the Tower guards. Then, the Scotland Yard police arrived. Leading them was an officer on a black horse. When he waved his white glove, the gunfire illuminated the scene, and in an instant, the colors of the world brightened.”