The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 81 - 81 41 The factory has no holidays

81: Chapter 41: The factory has no holidays 81: Chapter 41: The factory has no holidays On the road leading out of London, a nondescript public carriage rattled along.

Agares sat opposite, frowning at Arthur and the coffin next to him, shaking his head incessantly.

“Can’t you stop meddling in such trifles all day, just find any graveyard and bury her.

You’re actually planning to step into a church you’ve never been in your whole life just to hold a funeral ceremony for her?”

Arthur showed no reaction to Agares’s provocation.

He lit his pipe and took a puff, enveloped in smoke, he felt relieved.

“I’ve been to places more absurd than a church in my life, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

The Red Devil pointed at him and glared, “Arthur, please get it straight, I’m not praising you!”

Arthur rested his hand on the window sill, his gaze drifting over the landscape of the fields in the distance, showing a touch of disinterest in his conversation with Agares.

“Is that so?”

Agares said angrily, “You seem pretty pleased with yourself, huh?

You goddamn loser, what right do you have to be so smug?

A fine heroic epic, and you’ve turned it into such a farce, don’t you feel any shame?

Don’t you feel any remorse?

Do you even want to be on stage anymore?”

Arthur spoke calmly, “Agares, don’t get angry.

Actually, you’re right, but I don’t think my life is any sort of heroic epic.”

The Red Devil, infuriated, threw the scroll of parchment he was holding, and the pitchfork that had never left his hand returned to him.

Clutching the pitchfork, he pressed it against Arthur’s throat and demanded, “You deny my points, but admit I’m right?

Is it your brain that’s got a problem, or is it mine?”

Arthur raised his hands, adopting the pose of a Frenchman, and began, “Don’t rush, let me finish.

Although I don’t consider my life to be an epic, I do agree it has turned into a farce.

However, Agares, do you know the difference between a comedy and a farce?”

Agares furrowed his brow in thought, “What’s the difference?”

Arthur said, “The difference lies in that, at its core, a farce is closer to a tragedy than a comedy is.”

“Oh!

My dear Arthur.”

The Red Devil tossed the pitchfork out of the window and, with a satisfied smile, clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“You’ve finally begun to reflect on your mistakes.

Life has turned into a tragedy, don’t you plan to change anything?

I’ve been the Devil for so many years and have seen too many tragedies.

You should listen to veterans like me more, to avoid repeating such tragedies.”

Arthur shook his head gently, “Why do you think humans will listen?

Do you know why humans make progress?

It’s because the next generation doesn’t listen to the previous one.

So, even if life is a tragedy, I shall play it out happily.

Even if life is a dream, I shall savor it fully, never losing the passion and joy of the dream.

Speaking of which, Agares, your devilish career seems even more tragic than mine, why do you think I should listen to you?

I became a Police Superintendent at age 20, what were you doing at that age?

I think you could use some of my advice.”

“Hey!

Arthur, you son of a bitch!”

The Red Devil, infuriated, slammed the seat, one eye larger than the other, glaring at Arthur, “Don’t think being a Police Superintendent is something to be proud of.

It’s only because I’m not in Hell right now.

If I were still in Hell, and you dared talk to me like this, I’d tear you to shreds alive!”

Perhaps driven by anger, Agares blurted out, “What’s more, do you think the priests will perform a funeral ceremony for a dissected corpse?

If they were willing to do so, there would be no need for the Archbishops in the House of Lords to be at each other’s throats over the Anatomy Act.”

“If I remember correctly, wasn’t the Anatomy Act of 1828 repeatedly vetoed by the archbishops several times?”

Arthur nodded, “Of course, I know that most bishops and the majority of priests are unwilling to pray for those who are dissected, but that doesn’t mean all priests are unwilling.”

“Don’t you never participate in religious activities?

You don’t even know a single priest, where would you find the unusual priest willing to hold a funeral for the dissected dead?”

Arthur shook his head, “I do know one priest, and only that one.

But if even he’s unwilling to conduct a funeral for the dissected, then I’m afraid there wouldn’t be a second priest willing to do so in the whole of England.”

The Red Devil frowned and thought for a while, then suddenly, a lightbulb went off in his head, and he covered his mouth.

“Are you talking about that madman?”

Arthur shook his head, “He’s not a madman, he’s just an Oxford priest who agrees with Paine.”

…

Oxford University, St.

Mary’s Church.

Priest Newman was sitting quietly in a church pew, lost in thought.

Ever since he returned from London, he had often fallen into this state of deep contemplation, to the point where he was oblivious to the passage of time.

He felt as though he had only sat for a moment, but in an instant, dusk had arrived.

Upon reflection, he felt something was amiss, so he reached out beside him in search of the reading notes he had brought along.

But after groping around for a while, he failed to grasp anything.

Newman furrowed his brows and looked beside him, where a familiar figure was seated.

Newman’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but before he could comprehend what was happening, he saw the ivory-white little coffin lying beside Arthur.

“Mr.

Hasting?

Are you considering converting to the Anglican faith?”

Arthur leaned back in the chair, his head bowed low, “Mr.

Newman, let’s not talk about anything else for now, I need a quiet, undisturbed gravesite, and a funeral that can bring the deceased as close to God as possible.”

Newman glanced at Arthur, then crouched down and gently moved the coffin lid.

He only glanced inside for a moment before closing his eyes in agony.

“What in the world happened?

Such a small child, why would…”

Arthur said nothing, simply pulled out a newspaper from his chest and passed it over.

Newman quickly skimmed the headline of the paper, and as he read further, his hands could be seen trembling.

Afterward, Newman let out a long sigh.

Almost without thinking, he responded.

“All right, Mr.

Hasting, where is this little girl’s family?

Embalmment, farewell, service, burial—I’ll arrange these procedures as best as I can in consultation with them.

When are they free to come over?”

Arthur fell silent for a moment, unsure of how to explain the situation to Newman.

“They…

probably can’t make it, just treat me as this little girl’s family.”

Newman said in astonishment, “Why?”

Arthur said calmly, “Because the factories don’t have a holiday.”

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