The Shadow of Great Britain

In the presence of this tyrant, one cannot help but be on edge while working.

However, just as Bonne was about to reprimand the next trumpeter with an unstable pitch, a sudden thump of boots landing came from the lobby.

Traversing the dusty corridor under renovation, Arthur removed his gloves and stood smiling at the corridor’s end, looking every bit like a squire inspecting his newly purchased manor.

From the stage, Bonne immediately spotted the gold mine. This tyrant, contrary to his usual habit of letting people come up to him, leaped off the stage and briskly trotted over, even wearing a rare friendly expression not often shown to actors.

"Sir," Bonne spread his arms, still holding the rehearsal baton in his hand, "I was just wondering if you’d drop by tonight, and here you are."

Arthur nodded, smiling, and asked, "How is it? Does this theater suit your needs?"

"Honestly, it’s more complex than I expected," Bonne candidly replied, "There’s an issue with the acoustics of the roof. The backstage corridor is designed too short, which might affect the set change speed. Also, whatever fool picked the color for the ceiling and frames in the rest area made choices so ugly they defy description."

Yet, despite his complaints, Bonne’s longing for a bright future remained unthwarted.

Having spent a lifetime managing theaters, he finally could own a theater truly his own.

Even though...

In this theater, he only held thirty percent of the shares.

But in Bonne’s eyes, these sacrifices were worth it.

The entry of the Empire Publishing Company not only saved him a considerable sum, but also brought an endless repertoire of new plays to the St. James Theatre.

Of course, the most delightful benefit was none other than Sir Arthur Hastings as a major pillar of support.

After all, having new plays means little; the ability to pass new plays through reviews is what matters!

With Sir Arthur’s connections at the Royal Family, getting Marquis Cunningham, the Lord Chamberlain, to approve a few new plays was hardly a challenge.

At this thought, Bonne couldn’t help but grin widely: "But luckily, our theater finally has a backbone. Ever since the Empire Publishing sign went up, the actors have rehearsed with extra diligence, and even those backstage workers dare not slack off."

"They’re not afraid of the Empire Publishing sign," Arthur smiled, "Mr. Bonne, they’re afraid of you."

Bonne was momentarily taken aback, then laughed heartily, tucking the baton into his waistband, "Fear or respect, it doesn’t matter, what matters is that people are moving. St. James can’t continue as a flower vase theater. We have to sell tickets, make money, make headlines, do reviews, and sign tour contracts. Sooner or later, we’ll surpass Drury Lane and Covent Garden."

"How’s the rehearsal of the ’Wellington March’ going? Other performances can wait, but this piece must be rushed out," Arthur paused and looked towards the stage, "The Buckingham Palace concert is imminent. Whether our St. James Theatre makes a splash depends entirely on this piece."

"Sir," Bonne raised his hand towards the stage, "The orchestra was actually rehearsing the first segment when you arrived."

"Oh?" Arthur slightly raised an eyebrow.

"Wait here, I’ll have them play it again."

With that, Bonne turned to the stage direction and signaled with the baton.

Seeing Bonne’s cue, the brass section, timpani, violins, and cellos instantly lined up.

The next second, the brass resounded, rhythm robust, and the familiar and mighty melody filled the stage.

Arthur stood at the corridor’s end, listening silently. He hardly reacted to this melody—after all, he had heard it countless times before.

Bonne, however, was not as composed.

When the whole piece finished, he involuntarily opened his mouth slightly.

Bonne, immersed in the theater performance industry for so many years, had heard at least hundreds if not thousands of pieces.

Yet, a piece so magnificent and inspiring had indeed reached a level that rivaled the classic repertoire of a century.

In fact, driven by personal taste, Bonne would even rank this ’Wellington March’ first.

But one could hardly blame Bonne for thinking this way.

After all, this ’Wellington March’ was simply a renamed version of the finale piece, the ’Radetzky March,’ from the annual Vienna New Year Concert.

Bonne turned and fixed his gaze on Arthur, as if afraid Sir was teasing him, "Sir... I beg pardon, did you really write this piece?"

Arthur nodded calmly, "I started it. Prince Albert helped with some brass orchestration."

Bonne inhaled deeply, then exhaled forcefully, as if trying to expel the echoes shaken loose by the beats from his lungs: "I’ve seen plenty of pomp and attended hundreds of concerts, yet this piece... Sir, forgive my bluntness, it’s not merely good. It’s the kind that you remember after one listen, tap along to after two, and want to buy a ticket, applause, and stand up after three. I truly mean it, this is not flattery."

Then Bonne made a joke: "If you truly perform this at the Buckingham Palace concert... perhaps the Queen will award you a medal right on the spot."

Arthur chuckled slightly at this remark, choosing not to argue further, but instead asked, "Over at Prince Albert’s side, have you sent someone to invite him?"

"Of course!" Bonne replied, "Right, I’ve done everything according to your suggestion. The ’Wellington March’ will have a test rehearsal tonight, and I’ve instructed Little Crohn to liaise with Prince Albert’s side. Considering the time, he should arrive in about half an hour."