The two of them simultaneously turned their gaze to the portrait of the Tsar on the wall, with a layer of wax oil accumulating beneath the fra, resembling a stream of congealed blood.
"The old guys from the interrogation committee..." Shubinsky sat back in his seat, poking at a sugar cube with a teaspoon. "Should at least allow philosophy students the right to dream a little."
Yet, in an instant, Shubinsky seed to realize his tone was too soft, and then he emphasized, "However, the principle of the interrogation committee..."
"Is like the hydrological asurent data of the Thas River," Arthur suddenly interrupted in German. "An automatic adjustnt of three correction factors is added during the spring flood period."
The tip of Shubinsky’s teaspoon picked up a sugar cube and drew a cross in the air. "Three years ago, the archives of the Kyiv Governor’s Mansion caught fire, burning a batch of... templates for archiving special recomndation letters."
"So, your Ministry of Education only needed to import Prussian fireproof ink last year?" Arthur, unhurriedly took a letter out of his briefcase, the tip of his pen trembling slightly above the date column. "The archives in Gottingen still have backups from before the 1812 Moscow fire."
The teaspoon suddenly hit the rim of the cup heavily, and when Shubinsky abruptly stood up, the Persian velvet cushion flipped over, exposing the double-headed eagle emblem at the bottom. "Are you aware of the Third Bureau’s recomndation and review process for German professors coming to work in Russia?"
"It’s precisely like the restoration procedure of the Kazan Mother of God image," Arthur retrieved a bronze wax seal, the face of which gave off a faint scent of pine as it was ward by the hearth. "First authenticated by the Holy Affairs Bureau for miracles, then filed by the Winter Palace Restoration Bureau, and finally... needs a devout keeper to polish the back of the fra with holy oil."
"The clocks in St. Petersburg have recently been suffering from a fever-chill illness," Shubinsky suddenly grabbed the sugar tongs and started stacking sugar cubes into a Gothic spire. "I’ve heard that Berlin clocksmiths, when treating this kind of condition, always line the gears with parchnt dipped in Rhein wine."
"No wonder when the bell tower of Mainz Cathedral was renovated last year..." Arthur’s pen tip suddenly pierced the letter paper, causing ink to spread over Herzen’s surna. "They used three more barrels of wine to maintain the ti-reporting gears."
The silver buttons of Shubinsky’s mink coat brushed against the edge of the table, as his boot heel ground out a crescent-shaped dent in the carpet. "The ink bottles of the Third Bureau keep freezing at midnight recently, turning the periods in the interrogation records into snowflakes."
"I heard the gardener of the Kremlin say that greenhouse roses can bloom at minus ten degrees, as long as a layer of Venetian glycerin is applied to the back of each petal." Arthur balled up the stained recomndation letter and tossed it into the fireplace, the flas instantly devouring the words "dical Departnt." "Of course, it must be done before the morning fog of the Peter and Paul Fortress drifts over the Neva River."
The Constitutional Soldier Colonel suddenly pulled out a pocket watch and pressed it to his ear, the gold watch chain casting a noose-like shadow on the Tsar’s portrait fra. "The calendar at Saint Petersburg University shows that the registration deadline for freshn in the Philosophy Departnt is..."
"The third new moon after Easter." On the newly drawn letter paper, the crest of the University of Gottingen was prominently printed. "However, the ice period at Gdansk Port always lasts until the Pentecost week."
"So, the ocean-going vessels require a customs-issued..." Shubinsky traced a wavy line on the title page of the dossier with his fingertip. "Recent sea condition report."
"Coincidentally, the Gottingen Observatory published the 1834 North Sea ice prediction last month." Arthur slowly pressed the wax seal upon the lting red wax. "Copies were sent to the Hamburg Consulate and... the Riga Bay Customs Headquarters."
When Arthur’s ring left the solidified wax, a wisp of blue smoke coiled between them, forming the shape of an hourglass.
Shubinsky suddenly covered his mouth with the interrogation record. "Five pages are missing from Herzen’s file."
"Just like the missing sections of Goethe’s ’Theory of Colours’ manuscript during the Battle of Jena." Arthur stuffed the recomndation letter into a confidentially sealed docunt bag and casually tucked it into Shubinsky’s bosom. "Fortunately, the Gottingen Library houses the laundry bills of the mistress of Napoleon’s guard captain."
The sound of the colonel’s boots paused suddenly on the seventh floor tile of the entrance hall. "The interrogation committee will resu the proceedings next week, but as you know, collective voting is like St. Petersburg’s weather..."
"I can certainly understand," Arthur rose gracefully, the deerskin gloves brushed against the copper-inlaid doorknob, and he took off his hat, bidding farewell to his old friend. "However, the rcury column of the thermoter in my study suddenly dropped to the average temperature on the coronation day of Peter the Great this morning, and I think that’s a good on."
As the final click of boot heels faded at the end of the corridor, Shubinsky stood before the door and took a glance outside, turning his head only to find a spark bursting from the ashes in the fireplace, singeing a pinhole-sized black spot in the Tsar’s beard.
...
The iron gates of the Moscow Police Headquarters exuded a bile-like glow in the dusk, and Blackwell counted the twelfth cough spilling out from the crack of the door, as Arthur’s silver-handled cane finally tapped the granite steps.
Arthur climbed into the carriage, patting the ice crystals off his cloak, the scent of pine resin from the office still clinging between the sable fur.
"The rain of London has reached Moscow," Blackwell subtly reminded.
The mont the velvet curtains fell, the secretary had already retrieved a brand-new docunt from a hidden compartnt in the Persian carpet. "The secret docunt that arrived on the 15th, from the Foreign Office, Viscount Palrston, neither approving nor opposing your plan, but rely emphasizing he had authorized the Russian Embassy to take suitable actions."
"Neither approving nor opposing? Taking suitable action?" The wheels slowly turned, and Arthur lit his pipe, a slender wisp of smoke rose. "Ha! It seems our dear Palm does not want to bear the responsibility and could have just said so. He knows full well we are already in motion, yet he talks so ambiguously, which in fact makes it seem rather underhanded. If not for the sake of the Earl of Dalmo, I wouldn’t be helping this Foreign Secretary clean up this ss."
"As far as I know, it doesn’t appear to be just avoiding responsibility so simply." Ever since being reprimanded by Arthur earlier, Blackwell had made a resolute change, even taking his work more seriously. "You should know, a substantial number of British rchants are doing business in the Ottoman Turkish Empire, right?"
"After all, it’s where the Levantine Company is located, this is not unusual. Where there is money to be made, there are British rchants, this is a long-established custom."
"It is indeed a custom, but the problem lies in their significant numbers and strong influence. To safeguard their vast interests in the Ottoman Empire, they have continuously exerted pressure on the governnt, demanding we undertake political intervention in the Ottoman. The Foreign Office’s previous concession to Russia and Sir David Eckett’s accusations against Viscount Palrston seem to have stirred this group of rchants’ resistance. In recent months, they have increased their funding to Blackwood’s and the Edinburgh Review, so, as you know, if the matter of tarnishing Sir David’s reputation gets out, it might be impossible to end well."
If it had been two years ago, Arthur might indeed have feared these people, but now, hoping to get an old officer with a pierced heart to back down by wagging their tongues was impossible.
"I really didn’t know Viscount Palrston could appear so fragile before the news dia. Whatever happened to that Minister of War, who, even after the Peterloo Massacre, unhesitatingly participated in drafting the Six Acts, restricting freedom of speech, assembly, and press? Maybe switching positions ans he switched faces too?"
"If it were just the news dia, perhaps things wouldn’t be this serious," Blackwell pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his forehead. "But you also know, there are many pro-Ottoman individuals among the real power holders in the Foreign Office. Lord Ponsonby and Sir John Macneil, although they feel Sir David’s actions are too daring, also deem it a worthwhile exploration. As for Sir Stratford Canning, he’s privately cheering for Sir David’s actions."
"Little Canning is cheering for Sir David’s actions?"
Arthur pondered for a mont, then couldn’t help but laugh. "He’s probably still holding a grudge against the Tsar, right? After all, being the Ambassador to Russia, he stayed in Petersburg for two months yet didn’t even get to see what the Tsar looked like. It is indeed rare to see such a humiliation of a British diplomat in history. But speaking of which, although he had previously badmouthed Russia quite a bit, there are indeed not many countries in Europe he hasn’t spoken ill of. And the Tsar’s behavior was indeed sowhat unbecoming. You see, the Sultan of the Ottoman, Mahmud II, is obviously much more magnanimous than Tsar Nicholas I. I rember a few years ago, Little Canning even cursed the Ottoman as a barbarous nation, yet now he’s been transford by the Sultan’s influence, becoming a pro-Ottoman person."
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