Chapter 1303: Chapter 173: Counter-Poaching
Do you know that I am friends with Pushkin? I’ve been to his house several tis, and he even recited his poems to personally!
—— Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol “The Inspector General”
The burly Shubinsky, with his well-grood, shiny beard, wore a neat uniform. The two treasured dals that he had previously tucked away to conceal his identity were now prominently displayed on his chest.
One of them was a long-service dal awarded for his stable and reliable service in the military, and the other, a third-class Saint Stanislaus dal with red and green stripes, had a rather interesting backstory.
This dal was originally an honor from Poland, but after the Tsar also beca the King of Poland, the Saint Stanislaus dal naturally beca part of the Russian honorary system, becoming one of the significant honors awarded to officials and nobility of the Russian Empire.
However, the dal was primarily awarded to officials who had long served in the Kingdom of Poland.
But suspiciously, Shubinsky had never served in the Kingdom of Poland, yet he was awarded the third-class Saint Stanislaus dal.
Of course, this isn’t to say that one can’t contribute to Poland without serving there. As a top student in Russian history from the University of London, Arthur strongly opposed those who criticized Shubinsky as being undeserving of the dal. The location of one’s service cannot be the only reference for being awarded a dal. It’s well-known that even if one is in Liverpool, they can still contribute to Poland if they wish.
Perhaps overwheld with excitent at the prospect of eting the great musician ndelssohn, Shubinsky even forgot that Arthur had studied Russian history.
Putting on the Saint Stanislaus dal in front of him was akin to standing in court and shouting ‘I’m the murderer.’
Arthur left this friend behind, telling him to stay calm, while he himself went ahead to notify ndelssohn and the others about the guests.
Shubinsky waited here for a while but eventually couldn’t contain his anxiousness.
He paced back and forth backstage at the theater with hurried steps, and even a trace of sweat appeared on his forehead. Today was a big day; he never imagined he could et the great composer ndelssohn!
His “Midsumr Night’s Dream” overture and “Hebrides Islands” overture were considered essential pieces for concerts and aristocratic gatherings in Russian high society. Prince Odoevsky, Princess Mikhailovna, and other such prominent figures were his loyal fans.
To please this highly respected artist in social salons, Shubinsky couldn’t help but prepare so appropriate words in advance.
While wiping his forehead, he rehearsed to himself, “Mr. ndelssohn, I personally admire your talent deeply! That ‘Midsumr Night’s Dream’ is truly stunning, ah! How… how it embodies our Russian soul—”
He paused, realizing that “Russian soul” might not be quite fitting, and quickly corrected himself, “how it embodies the extraordinary German spirit!”
Just as Shubinsky reached this point in his rehearsal, he suddenly noticed the preparation room door being pushed open, with Arthur leading a stranger inside.
Shubinsky promptly put on a flattering smile and jogged over, bowing deeply before the two, his voice low yet filled with obsequiousness: “Honorable Mr. ndelssohn! eting you is my honor—no, it is the honor of all music lovers tonight, that we can welco such a cultural giant as you!”
He deliberately used grand words like “cultural giant” to add a touch of elegance, even worried that his usual coarse pronunciation might ruin his image.
Heine looked at the Russian Constabulary Colonel in front of him, peculiarly, but didn’t speak first. Instead, he cast his gaze toward Arthur beside him, as if to question—where did this bumpkin co from?
Shubinsky ignored Heine’s peculiar behavior, thinking he hadn’t praised enough, and continued enthusiastically, “Mr. ndelssohn, your music is like the sound of heaven, it even reminds of the brilliance of our St. Petersburg opera house—though, compared to your work, ours is nothing but re folk tunes…”
He whispered flatteringly, afraid that any hint of self-aggrandizent in his words would offend the sensitive artist that ndelssohn was.
Arthur finally found an opportunity to speak in the pauses of Shubinsky’s breath: “Sergei, sorry, this isn’t Mr. ndelssohn.”
“Ah?” Shubinsky was initially surprised, then straightened up and asked, “What happened to Mr. ndelssohn? Is he not feeling well?”
“Well…” Arthur explained: “You should know, musicians often have so peculiarities, and Mr. ndelssohn’s peculiarity is that he really dislikes being disturbed before going on stage. Although I did my best to arrange it, he still insisted on refusing the eting request.”
“I see, indeed, musicians always have such peculiarities.” Shubinsky said with a hint of regret: “Arthur, you are the sa, aren’t you? Previously in London, I heard from others that you perform at the theater every Sunday night, but from early Saturday morning you don’t see guests.”
“Oh…”
Arthur sighed lightly, surprised that Shubinsky knew about this.
If having a musician’s reputation brought him any benefit, this was the greatest benefit.
For so reason, people always seem willing to tolerate the rudeness and transgressions of artists, as if they owe their eccentricity to their renown.
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