The Shadow of Great Britain

The London morning was permeated by gentle sunlight, which slipped quietly through the gaps in the curtains into the living room, illuminating Arthur’s face as he had just gotten up.

Arthur was sitting at his warm dining table at that moment, with a tray of freshly delivered newspapers on the table, the papers felt warm in his hands, evidently Becky had preheated them with an iron. To his left was a steaming teapot and a plate of freshly baked muffins.

Arthur pulled open the curtains, returned to the dining table, picked up a newspaper with one hand, and held the freshly brewed cup of tea with the other.

There was nothing urgent on today’s schedule, except for a few letters received yesterday that needed replying, and the rest of the time he could relax. He had already arranged his activities for the day last night: breakfast, reading the paper, taking a walk, or simply sitting idly at a nearby café. He even considered whether to go to the bookstore in Mayfair to hunt for a few new books, or find a bench in Hyde Park to sit quietly for a while.

Of course, going to Oxford Street to pick out a new hat, and then to Jermyn Street for a haircut and buying a coat was also a good choice. Before the social season arrived, Disraeli had recommended to him several trendy coats for this year, said to be high-end products made from ”Himalayan wool.”

Previously, Arthur had only heard of Scottish tweed, flannel, and velvet, but what ”Himalayan wool” really was, he didn’t know.

Speaking of which, in recent years, textile manufacturers have indeed gone to great lengths in naming their products; Valencia cloth, Saxon Coburg Cloth, Moscow Beaver Cloth, Orleans Cloth, Chechen cloth—any foreign place name appearing in the newspapers seems to be used for naming.

Apart from foreign place names, words derived mainly from Greek and Latin were also a major area of misuse. Nowadays in London, ventilated military caps were no longer called military caps, but were renamed ”Korekramid,” silk hats were renamed ”Nooum Pileum,” pants were changed to ”Golden Country Shirt,” and even cosmetics and toiletries have now fallen into this bad trend.

Take Mr. Hastings for example, this morning when he got up, he washed his face with Londolatia, brushed his teeth with Dantifris, smeared his hair with Makasa, and even rinsed his eyes with stuff like Collyrian.

Mr. Hastings didn’t show any moral outrage about this, he just found it somewhat amusing.

Behind this whole set of lengthy, awkward names that seemed ready to be submitted for scrutiny by the Royal Society, there was nothing but soap, tooth powder, hair oil, and clear water. If one day someone solemnly renamed ”hot water” to ”thermal activation liquid” and called ”towels” ”porous fiber moisture absorption fabric,” most people in London would likely adopt them without hesitation.

Nowadays, even the most common daily items, as long as they’re covered with a layer of exotic place names, Latin roots, or a semi-fake academic facade, could instantly raise their value in the windows of London. Most London citizens seemed to believe that if medicine had a beautiful, lengthy, and awkward name, it was likely more effective than ordinary medicine. For fashion enthusiasts, if the clothing’s name was long and cumbersome, there was a high chance it was high-quality.

Following this train of thought, Arthur even considered renaming Imperial Publishing, like ”Muse System, or Hermes Pan-European Knowledge Communication and Printing Joint Stock Company.” Maybe after the renaming, the already booming stock price of Imperial Publishing could climb even higher at the Exchange.

Arthur picked up his teacup and took a gentle sip.

The taste of the tea was consistently honest, not claiming to come from the Ceylon Plateau, nor implying that it had been blessed in the court of some Chinese Emperor or Indian Prince.

He returned the newspaper to the tray, casually picked up a muffin, muttering to himself, ”At least tea and muffins don’t require a Greek name for now...”

Before he could finish his words, the doorbell of the Hastings family suddenly rang loudly.

The metallic vibrations transmitted through the door into the house, carrying an untimely urgency, Arthur took a bite of muffin and instinctively added an appraisal for this visitor in his mind—impatient, not particularly polite either.

It usually meant the visitor either had a significant status or was in a bad mood, and in London, these two often coincide.

From the direction of the kitchen came hurried footsteps, Becky evidently put down what she was doing and ran to open the door.

Her actions were always swift, rarely wrong, so Arthur didn’t pay much attention, until he noticed the time Becky’s footsteps lingered in the hall seemed slightly longer.

Then came the sound of her deliberately lowered breathing when she reappeared.

Becky stood at the dining room door, not entering as usual, but first peering in, fearing her voice might be heard by someone.

Her expression was noticeably unnatural, her lips moved, seemingly hesitating which way to start.

”Sir...” she finally said in a quiet voice, ”There’s a visitor outside.”

Only then did Arthur raise his head.

”At this hour?” His tone was calm, even with a hint of undissipated morning laziness: ”Did they have an appointment?”

Becky shook her head: ”He probably doesn’t need one, you mentioned before, people from the Bonaparte family don’t need to send a card in advance here.”