The Shadow of Great Britain

Each synchronized beat strikes the same moment, like the sound of thousands of soldiers marching in unison.

Victoria held her breath, watching the scene unfold.

Her eyes sparkled with amazement and an indescribable pride. She turned to Wellington.

The Old Duke sat poised, his previous astonishment gone, and his fingers slowly tapping his knee in rhythm.

Liszt’s gaze remained fixed in the shadows.

He watched Arthur stand between the orchestra and the audience, making hundreds of nobles unconsciously follow his tempo.

This wasn’t the usual sense of virtuosity.

This was dominance itself.

The rhythm soared higher, as the brass reprised the main melody.

Arthur seemed almost intertwined with the music, his gestures were simple but carried an irresistible force.

Amidst the audience’s applause, the music surged towards a stormy climax.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The last three beats of the snare drum fell heavily, and Arthur’s baton abruptly stopped in mid-air.

The applause throughout the venue froze in that instant, as if seized by an invisible hand.

Silence.

Arthur did not immediately turn around.

He stood still with his back to the audience for a few seconds, then slowly lowered the baton.

That gesture was like a triumphant sheathing of the sword.

Moments later, applause erupted thunderously, like a sudden storm, with the entire hall erupting in a roar of cheers.

The crowd stood up, velvet chair backs creating waves, people stood clapping, shouting, whistling, the ladies’ fans all closed, diamonds and pearls sparkling dazzingly under the lights, even the sturdy dome of Buckingham Palace seemed to tremble slightly.

Amidst the cheers of the audience, several pianists resting in the side hall exchanged glances.

But compared to Liszt, whose face was pale, and whose mood was complex, Chopin and Mendelssohn, Arthur’s friends, appeared much more relaxed and carefree.

After all, no one understood Arthur’s "prowess" better than Chopin and Mendelssohn.

For Mendelssohn, a composer capable of writing "Turandot," it’s no surprise what kind of music he could compose.

Yet, even with such high expectations, Arthur’s performance and composition tonight remained impeccably perfect.

Mendelssohn, perhaps complaining or joking, teased Chopin beside him: "Alfred, tell me, why does he like being a policeman?"

Chopin took out a handkerchief, wiped the sweat from his palms, and smiled helplessly: "Maybe because simply making music isn’t challenging enough for him?"

Mendelssohn shrugged helplessly: "Unfortunately, Mr. Faraday seems to think so too."

John Strauss was sitting in the back of the side hall, with tonight’s program sheet still laid flat across his knee.

When the "Wellington March" fully erupted, with brass and snare drums merging into one, he nearly froze in his seat, unable to recover since.

He raised his hand, lightly drumming the rhythm of those triplets on his knee, his expression complex, filled with both jealousy and inspiration.

Strauss murmured: "This rhythm unconsciously makes one breathe along... just like... just like the Viennese waltz..."

Suddenly, he shook his head in thought: "No, this isn’t a waltz... this is a march dance. Every note moves forward, even silence moves forward."

Mendelssohn heard this, and smiled slightly: "Yes, Mr. Strauss, you seem to understand quickly, at least faster than I did."

As for Liszt, he remained seated, body slightly leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingertips pressed against his lips, eyes losing focus.

The applause in the hall continued, fervent almost like a victory parade, yet all this sounded in his ears like slaps across the face one after another.

He recalled a self-important remark he’d made not long ago in Paris—I want to make the piano encompass the whole orchestra.

Yet now, Arthur on stage had done something more brutal—he turned the whole orchestra into a single piano.

And London’s high society, along with Queen Victoria and the Duke of Wellington, had become keys on that piano.

Suddenly, he felt cold, a biting chill amidst the August summer.

The applause lasted so long that even the air grew tired.

Chopin quietly observed him from the side.

That once confident, sharp-featured face was now exceptionally calm, even slightly rigid.

His fingers trembled slightly, as if subconsciously playing a silent melody.

"Franz?" Chopin called softly.

"You know, Alfred," Liszt raised his head, his voice slightly hoarse: "I’ve spent nearly twenty years studying the power of the fingers, researching how ten fingers could command fire and storm. But that fellow, he doesn’t even touch the piano, because he doesn’t need to!"

Chopin sat down beside him: "Indeed, just by raising his hand, he can make hundreds of thousands breathe in time."

Liszt painfully closed his eyes: "He no longer needs to compete on stage."

Chopin sighed, not adept at comforting, but he still tried: "Arthur is a politician, for him, music is just an occasional hobby. As for you, Franz, you’re the poet of the piano, he’s the composer of the nation, you’re not on the same path."

In the shadows of the side corridor, in a place that no one could see, Flora’s breathing had not yet fully calmed.

A wave of applause surged from all directions, yet Flora felt like she was submerged, hearing only muffled echoes.

Her hand lay on her chest, heartbeat so strong it seemed ready to burst through her chest plate.

Arthur stood on stage upright, smiling as he accepted the cheers and worship of the audience, the baton hanging in his hand, posture clean, restrained, as if the heart-pounding "domination" earlier had nothing to do with him.

Flora’s fingertips trembled slightly, her gloves twisted into a bunch in her palm.

The first time she heard Arthur play, his tone was so gentle it was almost shy.

But tonight, he had the entire orchestra, everyone including her, bow their heads.

This guy, always so inscrutable.

Victoria in the audience exhaled gently, like waking from an overly intense dream.

Her chest still rose and fell, the fingertips of her white gloves maintained a slight tremor, her young face bathed in the glow of complete satisfaction.

She thought Arthur would certainly do well, but she hadn’t imagined he’d do this well.

She turned to the Duke of Wellington beside her, the Old Duke now sitting upright.

That face, marked by the passage of time, at this moment bore a demeanor neither like the composure found on the battlefield nor the usual dignity during House of Lords sessions.

His chin slightly lifted, corners of his mouth showing a hint of curve, like suppressing some emotion.

Victoria couldn’t resist asking: "Your Excellency, what are you thinking? Do you... like this piece?"

The Duke of Wellington turned his head, those grey-blue eyes gazing at her, voice raspy but carrying humor: "Like? Your Majesty, I never thought I could be utterly overwhelmed by a piece of music."

Victoria widened her eyes: "Utterly overwhelmed?"

"Indeed." Wellington replied: "At Waterloo, I commanded the army, but now, well, I’ve been commanded by a young man whose heart even beats in time with the music."

Leopold, hearing Wellington’s words, allowed a smile to sweep across his face: "Your Excellency, you should at least take comfort in tonight’s directed experience being far more pleasant than hearing the French cannons at Waterloo."

Wellington stood smiling, clapping: "A brilliant commander demands soldiers obey, whereas an outstanding musician should make the audience willingly submit. If Your Majesty means this, then I must agree."