The Shadow of Great Britain

Liszt, who was sitting in the side hall, also noticed this.

He half-reclined in his seat, fingers gently rubbing his gloves, with a slight contemptuous smile on his lips.

In his view, this fellow Arthur Hastings was merely putting on airs.

In the shadows of the side corridor, Flora quietly watched the figure standing in the light.

Her position wasn’t close to the front and was even somewhat secluded.

But such a position gave her a unique perspective.

She had never seen Arthur like this.

If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed the calm conductor on the stage, who showed no sign of emotional fluctuation, was the same as the Kensington Palace family tutor, amiable, kind, and sometimes even a bit ambiguous.

Her heart beat a little fast.

The moment Arthur raised the baton, Flora could almost feel the force cutting through the air.

An emotionless elegance, a natural-born authority.

At this moment, it resounded under his command.

Military drums exploded.

That sound was like a strike on her heart.

The brass followed, with deep strings laying out behind.

Every note was controlled by Arthur with almost scrupulous precision.

He didn’t make exaggerated gestures, nor did he have the dramatic passion of Liszt, but instead drove the entire orchestra with an almost cold precision.

The orchestra was like a well-equipped military corps, quickly forming ranks under Arthur’s command.

The strings rose in unison, the brass boldly entered the theme, the tempo brisk, rhythm clean, as if the soldiers’ boots simultaneously stepped on the gravel road. The melody wasn’t heavy nor did it have Beethoven’s heroic narrative, but was light, uplifting, with an almost proud joy, a delight of post-victory triumph.

This was the "Wellington March."

Every swing of the baton was precise, restrained, as if orchestrating a mechanical miracle.

The direction in which the baton fell was the direction in which the entire orchestra breathed.

When he raised his brow, the notes leapt up.

When he paused, even the air seemed to still.

Gradually, the rhythm began to spread.

The brass resounded, the military drums steady as a heartbeat, violins and cellos responded with a swell, like the strides of thousands, flags rustling in the wind.

Initially, the audience was silent, not yet recovered from Liszt’s flame and romance.

But as the melody progressed, their bodies began to sway gently.

In front of the Royal Box, Queen Victoria’s gloved hand gently tapped the armrest; she looked a bit tense but couldn’t hide the light in her eyes.

The Duke of Wellington sat motionless, but as the music deepened, the hero of Waterloo’s toes began to tap lightly with the rhythm.

In the back row among the noble ladies, soft gasps rose and fell.

They exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from surprise to a certain subtle reverence.

The blonde noble lady covered her mouth with a fan: "I feel like I can see the Duke of Wellington’s triumphant return."

Her companion did not reply, only pursing her lips, her gaze following the baton’s every descent.

Liszt, leaning back in his seat, gradually sat upright, the smile on his face slowly diminishing.

That expression was no longer mocking and contemptuous, but carried a complex look of gravity and reluctance.

He heard Arthur’s rhythm, different from the steadiness of most British composers, containing not an outburst of emotion, but a firmness of will.

He suddenly realized that Arthur was not pleasing the audience, but commanding them.

As the second movement started, the brass was like a swift wind, the strings like waves, with the rhythm becoming denser and the tempo slightly quicker.

The baton traced an arc like a sword, and when he raised his hand, the whole venue inhaled.

When he lowered it, everyone’s breath exploded with the drumbeat.

The main theme’s lively triplets, repeated eighth-note rhythm, bright C major chords poured down like a golden flood, and for the first time, the audience broke into uncontrollable exclamations. They almost couldn’t help tapping along with the music.

Arthur’s gestures suddenly paused.

It was a very subtle, almost imperceptible change; his right hand gently lifted, flicking outwards, as if pushing the tempo on stage into the entire hall.

The ivory baton did not drop directly, but traced an elegant arc in the air, then stopped mid-air.

The audience, originally swaying gently, now felt a strange pull.

The rhythm seemed to leave the orchestra, passing through the air, engraved in their minds.

The military drum’s beat continued its steady knock, the brass section like sun-drenched sunflowers, the music surged out from the stage, crashed against the red velvet walls of the auditorium, rebounding back like a tide sweeping through and fro in the concert hall.

At that moment, Arthur turned, the tails of his tailcoat fluttering in the wind.

His movements were not fast, yet appeared exceptionally smooth.

Arthur raised his left hand, palm upward, gesturing to the whole venue.

At that moment, everyone seemed to understand the meaning of his gesture.

Pa—pa—pa—

It was unclear who started, perhaps a noble sitting in the back, perhaps a few excited young ladies.

The applause smoothly merged into the orchestra’s performance, following the rhythm, becoming part of the beat.

Arthur gently rotated his wrist; he did not suppress the sudden synchronization but instead leveraged it to slightly broaden the tempo, letting the brass and strings at that moment integrate with the audience’s synchronized clapping.

The drumbeat grew heavier, the rhythm steady.

The orchestra breathed as if in unison with thousands of hands.