The first ideological clash ended with Prince Albert utterly speechless.
For the very first time, the handsome German prince felt a double pressure—of intellect and of vision—when faced with a true equal.
He glanced at Arthur's calm expression, and an intense surge of challenge and competitiveness boiled in his chest.
He was convinced the other man had merely relied on a clever tongue—modern sophistry dressed in fashionable rhetoric.
In the realm of art, the field in which he truly excelled and which he considered the pinnacle of human wisdom, that upstart could not possibly compare to him.
He wanted to win the next round.
Midway through the ball, the atmosphere grew even more vibrant.
At the signal of King William IV, the court musicians withdrew temporarily.
By tradition, grand balls always included a segment in which distinguished guests could display their artistic talents.
Prince Albert knew his moment had come.
He straightened his immaculate white uniform and, under the eyes of all present, walked with composed elegance toward the precious grand piano crafted by a renowned master and placed at the center of the hall.
He performed a flawless court bow to the King and to Victoria on the main dais, then took his seat.
His slender fingers rested lightly upon the black and white keys.
A moment later, a cascade of notes—fluid as running water, bright as pearls falling upon a jade plate—flowed from his fingertips.
He was playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
This composition, with its profound technique and rich emotion, is a timeless masterpiece of the piano repertoire.
Under Albert's interpretation, it seemed to breathe with new life.
Whether it was the quiet melancholy of the first movement, like moonlight shimmering upon water, or the passion and storm-like turbulence of the third movement, he mastered each emotion with impeccable control, revealing his extraordinary musical skill.
The entire ballroom fell completely silent.
Everyone was immersed in the beauty of the music.
Ladies covered their mouths with their fans, their eyes shimmering with admiration.
Even King William IV closed his eyes, gently nodding in time with the melody.
Victoria, too, was captivated.
She had loved music since childhood and possessed a solid foundation in piano.
She could clearly sense that her cousin Albert's playing had reached the level of a professional artist.
The depth and power hidden within the music touched her heart profoundly.
When the piece came to an end, its lingering echoes drifted through the hall.
After a brief, breathless silence, the ballroom erupted into thunderous, heartfelt applause.
"Magnificent! Purely divine music!"
"As expected of His Royal Highness Prince Albert—his talent is as admirable as his appearance!"
Albert rose, humility and pride woven delicately upon his face, and bowed once more.
Then he turned his gaze toward Victoria, a clear message in his eyes:
My dear cousin, this is my cultured gift to you.
This is the true art that belongs to our class.
At the same time, his peripheral vision slid gently toward Arthur, with a subtle glimmer of triumph.
He firmly believed his flawless performance was enough to overshadow everyone present.
That nouveau-riche merchant, who spoke only of "factories" and "money," would surely appear crude and ridiculous in such a refined artistic setting.
The King was clearly delighted with Albert's performance.
Smiling, he leaned toward Victoria and said, "My dear niece, your cousin is truly a genius.
And so…"
He abruptly shifted the topic, casting a mischievous glance at Arthur—eager to stir some excitement.
"Arthur, as the new legend of our British Empire, a genius favored even by the Princess, I wonder… would you be willing to offer a performance for our guests tonight?"
The King's words instantly placed Arthur at the center of everyone's attention.
Every eye fixed upon him, eager to witness a spectacle.
"Yes, Arthur—go on!"
"What will he do? Demonstrate how to tighten a screw? Ahahahah!"
a German nobleman—Albert's friend—mocked loudly.
A suppressed, poisonous laughter rippled among them.
Victoria's face immediately tightened in worry.
She tugged gently at the King's sleeve, wanting to help Mr. Lin.
"Uncle, Arthur, he…"
But before she could finish, Arthur had already stepped away from the crowd with a calm smile.
"Since His Majesty commands it, I shall obey."
He did not approach the piano.
He did not reach for the nearby violin.
Instead, he walked to the center of the hall—the brightest spot where Albert had stood a moment before.
He offered Victoria a deep bow.
Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes with a tenderness so deep it seemed almost liquid.
The entire hall fell into breathless silence once more.
Everyone watched him curiously, wondering what this newcomer intended to do.
Arthur cleared his throat.
His voice—clear, magnetic, unaccompanied by any instrument yet full of rhythm and cadence—echoed through the hall.
What he recited was not Shakespeare's sonnets, nor Byron's romantic epics.
It was a beautiful love poem he had once heard from his former lover in another time and space—carefully adapted by him to suit an English setting.
"I left quietly,
And came just as quietly;
I waved my hand
To bid farewell to the clouds in the sky."
At his first words, new and luminous images bloomed in everyone's mind.
"The golden willows by the riverbank
Are brides in the glow of sunset;
The shimmering ripples upon the water
Stir the softest corners of my heart."
Victoria's heart trembled violently.
It felt as though she had been transported back to that twilight in Kensington Gardens—their first deep conversation.
"The green duckweed on the soft mud
Sways in the water's gentle cradle;
In the tender ripples of the river
I wish to become a single water plant."
"That pool beneath the elm's shade
Is no clear spring,
But a fallen rainbow from the sky,
Lying among drifting weeds,
Asleep in a dream of colors."
His voice, sometimes low, sometimes rising, carried each word—each line—with vivid imagery and boundless, tender emotion.
He was not describing grand epics, but the simplest, most delicate scenes.
Yet these scenes wove together into a breathtaking scroll that held everyone spellbound.
At last, his gaze pierced through the crowd and rested solely on Victoria.
His voice turned so gentle it felt like a whisper meant only for her:
"But I cannot sing aloud,
For silence is the farewell I offer you;
Even the summer insects fall quiet for me,
And silence becomes Buckingham Palace tonight."
"I left quietly,
Just as I came quietly;
I waved my sleeve—
Without taking a single cloud with me."
A single poem spoken.
The entire ballroom fell into absolute, unmoving silence.
Everyone was overwhelmed by this sorrowful, enchanting poem—unlike anything they had ever heard.
It required no elaborate language, no complex allusions.
But the faint ache it carried—the tender, persistent love shining through its quiet restraint—became an invisible key that unlocked the softest corners of every heart.
Especially that final line—"without taking a single cloud"—whose mixture of elegance and deep affection was simply a stroke of genius.
Victoria was utterly stunned.
At some point, her beautiful blue eyes had filled with tears.
She stared at the man standing beneath the lights, feeling as if her heart had been seized by a warm, powerful hand—leaving her breathless, yet savoring every moment.
Albert's brilliant piano had given her artistic pleasure.
But Arthur's poem struck her soul—utterly, irrevocably.
It felt as though this poem had been written for her alone—
for every moment they had shared.
At that instant, all thoughts of princes, nobles, suitable matches… evaporated.
In her eyes, in her heart, there was only the man who had "created" such a beautiful poem for her.
After a long, stunned silence, someone—no one knew who—began to applaud.
Suddenly the hall erupted into applause a hundred times more fervent than what Albert had received.
This time there was no mockery, no doubt.
Only pure, heartfelt astonishment and admiration.
Prince Albert stood frozen, pale, staring at Arthur—now surrounded, honored, and exalted—and then at Victoria's dazed, enthralled, love-struck expression.
He knew he had lost.
Lost completely.
Utterly defeated.
In the very field of art he had been most proud of, he had been crushed—entirely, undeniably—by a man whose depths he had never imagined.