When Otto von Bismarck first set foot in London, his heart pounding with excitement, he could not hide his amazement.
"Just look at this. While Prussia has been wasting time, these British have been building wealth on this scale and advancing even further."
"You're absolutely right, sir. It's far more prosperous than Berlin."
"Exactly. And yet those foolish Junkers back home still think Germany is the center of the world. They comfort themselves by saying that Austria and Prussia aren't all that different."
When had the House of Habsburg last truly been the center of the world?
And yet people still compared themselves to Austria.
No wonder the rest of Europe mocked Germany as backward and disunited.
Of course, what angered Bismarck most was that such criticism was not entirely wrong.
"If I could, I'd drag every one of those idiots in Berlin here and make them see this with their own eyes. Look at it! If things continue like this, the gap between Britain and Prussia will only widen. Are you really satisfied with that? Though if I said that back home, they'd just spout nonsense to avoid facing reality."
"At least you possess vision, sir. If you return to Prussia and assume a major office, perhaps our country will become strong like Britain."
"Indeed, that's exactly what must happen. With these hands, I'll rebuild Prussia into a power equal to the British Empire."
Perhaps it was the vigor of youth, but Bismarck had not the slightest doubt that he could change Prussia.
Seeing the bustling streets of London—so different from Berlin—did not discourage him.
Instead, it filled him with determination.
Accompanied by a servant, he spent his days exploring London and buying newspapers from street vendors, studying them closely.
And as expected, two names dominated the headlines.
Charles Wellesley, the Prime Minister of Britain, and Killian, the Prince Consort.
It was natural for the Prime Minister to appear frequently in political news.
But the constant praise directed toward the Prince Consort was unusual.
After only a few days of reading, Bismarck noticed something curious.
The Prince Consort was mentioned even more often than the Queen.
"Damn it, I can't stand it anymore. I'll just meet him myself. If I don't understand what kind of man he is, no amount of analysis will help."
"That's absolutely correct, sir. But he's the Prince Consort of Britain. How could we possibly arrange a meeting?"
"…What if we went to Buckingham Palace and asked a guard to pass along a message?"
"…Like this? 'I am Otto von Bismarck, a Prussian noble, and I wish to speak with His Highness.' Wouldn't we be thrown out immediately?"
Even though he was a noble, Bismarck was not some renowned aristocrat in Prussia.
The Bismarck family had been influential centuries ago, but by the nineteenth century it was little more than a declining house.
To be blunt, the Prince Consort probably had never even heard the name.
Yet Otto vno Bismarck, barely in his early thirties, possessed a flaw alongside his keen intellect.
He often acted on impulse.
Taking forty servants to Berlin to beat up rioters had been one example.
Storming off to London with only a single servant after being slighted by Berlin's nobility was another.
The servant desperately tried to restrain him.
But once Bismarck had made up his mind, there was no stopping him.
"If a Prussian noble arrives from afar, wouldn't His Highness be curious? If I were in his place, I'd want to see what sort of fellow had come calling."
"Sir, what if this turns into a diplomatic incident?"
"Then I'll bow my head and apologize. From what I've read, the Prince Consort of this country is said to be merciful and fair. If I sincerely apologize, he'll forgive me."
"Wouldn't it be better to send a letter first? Or contact the Prussian embassy here in London?"
"That would take too long. I want to meet him now."
Besides, if he went to the embassy and said, "Please arrange a meeting with the Prince Consort," the ambassador would likely laugh him out of the room.
So Bismarck followed his impulse.
He marched boldly to Buckingham Palace and approached one of the guards.
"Good day. I am Otto von Bismarck, a noble from distant Prussia who admires His Highness's reputation. I would very much like to greet him in person. Could you pass along the message?"
"…."
The soldier looked at him as if he had encountered a madman, then exchanged glances with a colleague.
"Do you know His Highness personally?"
"No. But I hope to."
"You're… a noble from Prussia?"
"That's correct."
The servant closed his eyes in despair.
Surely they would be thrown out.
But perhaps the guard wondered if Bismarck might be some important aristocrat.
He told them to wait and went inside.
The Prince Consort would surely dismiss them.
And when the Prussian embassy heard about it, Bismarck would be severely reprimanded.
Perhaps the servant would even be blamed.
Trying to hold back a sigh, the servant noticed a soldier running toward them.
"Sir, perhaps we should apologize and leave while we still can—"
"Let's wait. If they're sending someone so quickly, perhaps the news is good."
Good news?
Impossible.
Yet the guard approached and spoke politely.
"Are you Sir Otto von Bismarck?"
"That's correct."
"His Highness will receive you. He's currently speaking with guests and invites you to join them."
"…Now?"
"Yes. Right this way."
As the guard opened the gate, Bismarck turned to his servant in disbelief.
The servant could only blink.
"Ha… you see? Didn't I say he'd be curious enough to meet me?"
"…."
Even as they followed the guard inside, neither of them could suppress their confusion.
How on earth did that actually work?
Perhaps their family was more famous than they thought.
I heard about the unexpected visitor just as I was about to discuss the ongoing failure of Europe's revolutions with Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels.
At first I thought I had misheard.
Otto von Bismarck?
The future Iron Chancellor?
Apparently the man was a little older than me, which meant it had to be him.
But why was he in London?
And why was he asking to meet me at Buckingham Palace?
Still, when a future giant of history came begging for a meeting, why refuse?
Besides, Marx and Engels were already here.
A meeting between Marx and Bismarck?
How could I possibly miss such an event?
When Bismarck entered the room under the guard's guidance, he bowed deeply.
"Your Highness! Thank you for accepting such a sudden and impolite request. My name is Otto von Bismarck, and I came all the way from Prussia because I admire your reputation."
"Welcome. I never imagined a Prussian noble would travel to London simply to see me. Normally I'd have asked you to return another time, but since you came so far, I thought we might talk. I was already speaking with some young men from Prussia."
"Prussians? You mean the two gentlemen sitting there?"
"Yes. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. Have you heard of them?"
Marx blinked in confusion.
"I've never heard those names," Bismarck replied. "If they were Prussian nobles, I'd probably know them."
"They aren't nobles," I said. "Promising scholars. Marx, have you heard of Bismarck?"
"I may have heard the name somewhere, but I'm not sure."
Interesting.
Either the Bismarck family was still obscure at this time, or Marx simply didn't care enough to remember minor nobles.
Curious, I arranged the seating so Bismarck sat opposite Marx and Engels.
"We were discussing the revolutions currently unfolding in the German states," I said. "Did you come to London because of that?"
"Not entirely unrelated. I believe that if Prussia wants to calm the unrest, it must adopt policies similar to Britain's. While researching the matter, I discovered that Your Highness initiated those policies. I wanted to learn more about you."
"So you came all the way to London. That's impressive initiative."
"I'm still young. If I don't act on impulse now, when will I?"
The Iron Chancellor I knew from history was a cold realist.
Yet the man before me seemed far more impulsive.
Perhaps political persona and private personality were different things.
"So you believe Prussia should begin moderate reforms. But Berlin doesn't agree?"
"Exactly. Too many stubborn fools. In my opinion, they're about as insane as those people preaching nonsense about communism."
"…What did you say?"
Marx frowned and interrupted.
Ah.
That hit a nerve.
Bismarck calmly sipped his coffee.
"Of course they're insane. Communists and the like are nothing but failures trying to overturn society with empty slogans. Though the state bears some responsibility for creating such people."
"That is not true!" Marx snapped. "Communism is a serious academic theory that critiques the contradictions of capitalism."
"…Wait. Are you two communists?" Bismarck asked. "Those red-flag-waving lunatics?"
"We are not lunatics. And the real problem is reactionary aristocrats like the Junkers who think they still own the country."
"…Was that directed at me?"
Even under Bismarck's cold stare, Marx only scoffed.
"You insulted us first. If you want a debate, present arguments and theory. I'll dismantle them completely."
Bismarck slammed his palm on the table.
"Enough! If you're German men, you won't refuse a duel. Come outside!"
"Ha! Losing the argument already? Fine!"
I had invited them to discuss politics.
Why had this escalated so quickly?
Was this the power of youth?
Raising one's voice in German and challenging someone to a duel in Buckingham Palace was incredibly rude.
But I had no intention of stopping them.
Why would I?
Karl Marx and Otto von Bismarck were about to duel in Buckingham Palace.
Missing that spectacle would be a crime.
"Ah… perhaps you should fight in the garden," I suggested. "I'll come watch."
If only portable cameras existed in this era.
It would have been a historic photograph.