CHAPTER 1292: CHAPTER 69: EVEN AMONG POLICE, THERE ARE RANKS

Arthur is one of the most complex souls I’ve ever seen, a power hidden within his calmness, elusive and unfathomable. His gaze is like the fog of London, cold and dark, as if he has long lost his way in the labyrinth of power. His rationality and calmness make him a defender of the system, yet beneath this rigid shell, I can vaguely sense a struggle—perhaps a yearning for a sliver of freedom or a higher understanding of the world.

I admire his wisdom and decisiveness, but cannot help feeling a deep regret for him: How can a person with such a clear mind be content to be trapped in order and scheming? Sometimes I wonder if Arthur truly understands what he is guarding. To him, the order he believes in, the operations of power, and those cold laws—are they tools for a stable society, or an absolute truth that transcends morals and human heart?

I see him suppress demonstrations, quell riots, like a merciless judge, never questioning the legitimacy of the system. But is he really unwavering? Deep in his heart, perhaps there was a moment of doubt about the nature of power. I dare bet, during moments of deep contemplation at night, he might also feel a flash of confusion, like a ship adrift in a storm—lonely yet unable to deviate from its course.

A person with such insight and decisiveness should devote himself to greater ideals, fighting for the freedom of the human heart, yet he chose to be a part of the system. I do not mean to belittle his choice, but I can’t help hoping that he could go further, break free from the shell of cold order, and let his light shine on more people.

But sometimes I have to admit, Arthur indeed makes me feel awe, as he is more capable than many of us in mastering his own destiny. His strategy, his manipulation of people’s hearts, is like a calm chess player who seems to have foreseen every move in the game of power. He can remain calm in any situation, able to be both the enforcer at Scotland Yard and the elegant guest in diplomatic circles.

Even without stepping out of White Hall, he can still have everything within his control. Perhaps it is this calm self-restraint that allows him to survive in the world of power. And I, am I too romantic to accept the path he chose? I can’t help but ponder, am I vainly trying to change him, or is he silently reminding me of the limitations of human struggle?

——Alexander Ivanovich Herzen "My Past and Thoughts"

"Nicholas?"

Sure enough, upon hearing this news, Shubinsky, who was just being evasive, immediately stood up to keep the departing Arthur and Bismarck.

"Artie! My dear brother, why are you in such a hurry to leave? We two old friends reunited after such a long time, and only had one drink—this does not align with Russian customs for entertaining friends."

In his urgency, Shubinsky even directly used Arthur’s nickname.

Hearing this nickname, the York pig farmer for a moment thought he was back in his old home in the countryside of York, for usually only his elders there would call him that.

As for Eld, Disraeli, and Great Dumas, though they would occasionally call Arthur like that, Arthur always felt this nickname was too cheesy, so he consistently forbade them from using ’Artie’.

However, today, considering Mr. Shubinsky had important news, Arthur decided to suppress his quirks and indulge him a bit.

Shubinsky warmly invited the two friends back to their seats, and this secret policeman who in Russia could make people feel as if they fell into an ice hole with just a look, now revealed a smile warmer than the sun.

He personally filled their glasses, all the while introducing Russian customs to them: "In Russia, it’s impolite to have wine in the glass, so..."

Shubinsky raised his glass high to clink with theirs: "To our friendship! May it flow like the Volga River, forever full of strength!"

With that, Shubinsky took the lead, downing a full glass of hot whiskey, not feeling dizzy in the head but looking more invigorated instead.

He didn’t forget to fork a slice of salty pig knuckle and kept it in his mouth to suppress the liquor.

While chewing this delicacy, best for keeping warm in the icy snow, he gestured a ’please’ motion to Arthur and Bismarck.

Arthur and Bismarck exchanged a glance and could only follow Shubinsky’s example, downing their drinks in one go.

Seeing their empty glasses, Shubinsky immediately intended to refill them.

Arthur saw through his intention to turn guest into host, and although he had a decent tolerance, he wasn’t confident enough to compete in drinking with Russians.

He saw Shubinsky about to pour the wine, and instead of refusing outright, he leaned slightly, a faintly apologetic smile appearing on his face: "Sergei, your kindness honors me greatly. However, tonight I have been given a small responsibility—I must stay sober, otherwise tomorrow’s work might become rather troublesome."

"Work?" Shubinsky’s action paused for a moment. He knew Arthur was making an excuse, but he wasn’t about to let ’an old friend’ off so easily. Shubinsky jested: "What work could be more important than a night of revelry with a reunited friend? Are the students of Gottingen planning to storm the arsenal tomorrow?"