The Shadow of Great Britain

The strongest bond is often woven for us by education.

— James Bryce

The cold wind from Berkeley Square streamed through the gaps in the stone walls, invigorating the two senior civil servants who had just emerged from Dalmo Mansion.

Arthur leisurely put on his gloves, his demeanor devoid of any sympathy, respect, or patience he had shown in the study earlier.

Those emotions, like a change of clothes, were left behind in the mansion.

Eld followed closely behind Arthur’s steps, and only when they turned the street corner did the long-huffled Eld finally speak up, ”Arthur... what I said just now, was it a bit too much?”

Arthur didn’t look at him, instead focused on lighting his pipe: ”Too much? No, I don’t think so.”

”Those words just now weren’t too much? I felt sick saying them myself.”

Arthur blew out a smoke ring and leaned against the gas lamp post, sizing up the second-in-command at the Hydrographic Office: ”What else? What do you think convinced him? Your tears? Or your sense of morality?”

Eld had his mouth half-open, unable to think of a good answer for the moment.

Arthur tossed the matchbox to him: ”It’s power, always power. You gave him a dignified enough reason to take what he already wanted, solving his self-esteem problem. Those words aren’t sickly sweet, but kind. Kindness is a language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see. What you did today, I’m sure the Earl has noticed. From today on, his impression of you will no longer be limited to ’the boy who delivers tea to the professor.’”

Eld caught the matchbox, stunned for two seconds: ”Are you really not mocking me?”

”Mock? How could I?” Arthur said as he walked, casually patting Eld on the shoulder: ”I rarely want to praise you.”

Eld murmured, ”But my acting... was so poor, I could even feel myself saying awkward nonsense. Don’t you think that my nonsense would be seen through?”

Arthur stopped walking and looked back at him: ”Eld, you overestimate politicians’ insight.”

”Huh?”

”Among politicians, more than half...” Arthur judged with his pipe in his mouth: ”are narcissists.”

Eld blinked: ”What?”

”I’m stating a fact.” Arthur kept walking: ”Whether he’s a Prime Minister, a minister, or a backbench MP, these people are immersed in their own narratives all day long. Look at Earl Dalmo, he’s not listening to what you’re saying, but how you imagine him to be the person he wants to become. They love being praised, understood, and told they’re the only heroes qualified to save the country. Perhaps initially, they might be skeptical, but after hearing it long enough, they can’t distinguish truth from falsehood anymore, believing themselves to be truly great.”

”Eventually...” Arthur took another drag of smoke: ”all they can hear is one kind of sound, the sound of praising themselves, true or false.”

As the words fell, he had already pushed open the warm-lit corner café.

The copper bell rang, cutting off the cold wind outside.

Inside, only a few scattered patrons and a dozing waiter occupied the space, the air filled with the aroma of strong tea, toasted bread, and the scent of the coal stove burning.

Arthur took off his gloves and casually found a seat by the window.

The waiter recognized this regular who visited about once a week, nodded, and asked: ”The usual, Mr. Hastings?”

”Yes.”

Arthur ordered tea and also a portion of bread and a meat pie.

Eld sat across, his hand still tightly gripping the matchbox. After walking such a long distance, this heavy smoker hadn’t managed to light his smoke, indicating some jitters, though his performance today was much calmer than when intercepting Navy Department documents previously.

”So... my clumsy flattery, in his ears, it’s...”

”Your age, your words, and your position, for a politician of Earl Dalmo’s age, all just right. Those few words of praise today let him see himself in the eyes of students and young officials—a still worthy to be recalled to the political stage, still carrying a mission, still capable of influencing the Empire’s destiny, old hero. You transformed accepting compromise to return to politics into responding to young people’s expectations—there’s no more dignified reason than that.”

Arthur delicately considered the edge of the teacup: ”In a few days, I’ll have Fleet Street publish a few articles, I’ve already thought of the headlines: ’The Most Respected Voice of Reform in the House of Lords May Return to Politics,’ ’Expectations from the Younger Generation: Dalmo’s Wisdom is Still Irreplaceable,’ ’When the Country Calls Again, the True Politician Never Withdraws,’ ’Unfinished Business: The Inescapable Mission of a Reformer,’ ’The Old Lion is back’... Haha, good deeds delivered to the end, sending the Buddha to heaven. We need him to go out in style.”

Eld echoed, holding his teacup, settling an issue in his mind: ”In this way, the Radical Party’s mouths could also be silenced, and the Cabinet likely sees this favorably as well.”

Arthur took a sip of tea, the fog on the cup wall shading his eyelashes: ”However, the matter of Earl Dalmo is settled... but we must learn something from this incident.”

Eld looked up and asked: ”What is it?”

”The older generation of the London University system people... are too radical.” Arthur tapped the table: ”Of course, I’m not saying being radical is a problem, after all, it’s the foundation of our institution, the University of London is arguably the hub of radicalism. Earl Dalmo, Lord Brougham, Grotte, Warburton... these people are the founders of London University and the earliest reformers, their contributions to social progress are undeniable. But... their era is coming to an end.”