It was ridiculous, really.
Men like Otto von Bismarck and Karl Marx—not street thugs—were suddenly talking about settling an argument with a duel.
But then again, this was the nineteenth century.An age of romance and lawlessness.
In modern terms, it was probably comparable to Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg arguing online and then deciding to settle things in a cage fight.
If anything, people still ended arguments with fistfights after drinking even in the modern era.
Perhaps human nature had not changed as much as people liked to believe.
Of course, there was an old saying:Nothing is more entertaining than watching someone else's fight.
So while pretending to remain neutral, I casually suggested a location.
"If you go out into the back garden, no one will see you. And come to think of it, a duel requires a witness, doesn't it? If you truly intend to fight, I'll observe."
"I have no objections," said Bismarck confidently. "If it allows me to show this ignorant bookworm the true spirit of a German."
"I feel the same," Marx replied coldly. "I'll show that arrogant Junker the anger of the proletariat."
One might wonder why educated men behaved like this.
But in the German world of the nineteenth century, dueling among young men was common.
Bismarck himself had fought numerous duels in his youth.
Judging from appearances alone, Bismarck possessed a powerful build that discouraged anyone from picking a fight with him in the street.
In a fight, weight classes mattered.
Unless the smaller fighter had overwhelming skill, defeating someone significantly larger was almost impossible.
Looking at Marx and Bismarck, the difference resembled a cruiserweight facing a lightweight.
Unless Marx suddenly awakened some mystical martial arts technique, there was no way he could win.
Still, this was Karl Marx.
Surely he had some plan.
While the two men prepared, I quietly asked the cooks to bring some food out to the garden.
After all, a spectacle like this deserved refreshments.
If I was going to witness such a historic duel, I might as well enjoy it properly.
For the sake of the two men—who would undoubtedly cringe at this memory in the future—I made sure no one except myself could enter the garden.
Well… almost no one.
I also summoned my personal painter.
Naturally, the painting would remain private.
"Very well," I said. "Let's establish the rules. Since you have declared this a duel, it cannot simply become a brawl. And once the result is decided, both parties must accept it."
"Of course," Bismarck said confidently.
"Usually duels are fought with Mensur fencing," he continued, glancing around. "But since we have no weapons here, we'll have to settle this with our fists. Unless the gentleman here is afraid?"
"I have no objection to fighting barehanded," Marx replied. "But your size gives you an overwhelming advantage. Surely you're not proposing rules designed only to benefit yourself?"
Marx had a point.
Given the difference in size, a fistfight would hardly be a fair contest.
Bismarck scratched his head.
"Well then, what do you suggest? Will you fetch weapons and armor?"
"No," Marx said calmly. "We simply want additional conditions."
"That's fine," Bismarck said. "As long as it balances the fight."
At that moment, Friedrich Engels, who had been watching quietly, stepped forward.
"He is at least a head taller than us," Engels said. "So instead of one fight, how about two? First he fights me, and then he fights Marx."
"So you'll take turns fighting?" Bismarck asked.
"Of course. A duel where two people attack at once would be absurd."
Bismarck hesitated briefly before examining Engels from head to toe.
Even to my eyes, Engels looked far more capable of fighting than Marx.
Still, Bismarck clearly held the advantage.
"Very well," Bismarck said at last. "Who fights first?"
"Karl, stay here," Engels said. "I'll deal with this arrogant Junker first."
"Fine," Bismarck replied. "Today I'll correct the thinking of both of you in the name of the German people."
If one didn't know better, it sounded as though they were heading into war.
Still, some basic precautions were necessary.
Although modern boxing gloves did not yet exist, padded cloth gloves were available.
I handed them to both men.
"Remember," I said sternly, "this palace belongs to Her Majesty the Queen. If anyone is seriously injured, the consequences will be beyond your control. Keep the gloves on. No kicking a fallen opponent, and no strikes below the waist."
"Understood."
"Then let the duel begin."
I sat down in the shade with a plate of fried food.
Turning to the painter beside me, I asked, "Who do you think will win?"
"The larger nobleman has the advantage," he said. "But he must fight two opponents. It could be close. Still, size matters in a fight. I'll bet on the noble."
"Really?" I smiled. "Then I'll take the other side. If you win, I'll give you ten pounds. If I win, you get a special dinner tonight."
"Deal!"
The painter even shouted encouragement.
"Go, noble sir! I'll paint you well!"
Not to be outdone, Marx shouted from the sidelines.
"Engels! Show that Junker what you can do!"
"Of course!" Engels replied.
The fight began.
But instead of charging recklessly, Engels carefully kept his distance.
Bismarck tested him cautiously as well.
"What's wrong?" Bismarck taunted. "You seemed confident earlier."
"And you?" Engels replied. "You spoke of teaching Germany a lesson."
"Fine," Bismarck said.
He threw the first punch.
The air whistled.
But Engels avoided it.
Again and again, Engels dodged while occasionally striking back.
For nearly half an hour he simply evaded Bismarck's attacks.
Eventually, however—
THWACK!
A punch landed.
Engels collapsed onto the grass.
"Ugh!"
Bismarck stood over him, breathing heavily.
"You were all talk."
Engels lay on the ground, blood trickling from his nose—but he was smiling.
"Heh… for someone saying that… you seem pretty… out of breath."
Ah.
So that was the plan.
Engels had never intended to win.
He had simply exhausted Bismarck.
Right on cue, Marx rushed forward.
"Friedrich's sacrifice will not be in vain!"
Strictly speaking, Engels was not dead.
But Marx was clearly enjoying the drama.
After so many minutes of throwing punches, Bismarck's attacks had lost much of their power.
Still, the larger man fought fiercely.
Punches flew.
THUD!
"Is that the best you can do?" Bismarck growled.
CRACK!
"Ugh!"
The two exchanged brutal blows.
Even with padded gloves, the fight looked intense enough to cause a concussion.
Engels, still lying on the ground, began cheering.
"Don't fall, Karl! He's a Junker!"
Perhaps the encouragement worked.
Or perhaps it was coincidence.
But Marx finally landed a clean punch.
Bismarck staggered.
Then collapsed.
"Damn it… you used a cowardly trick."
Marx panted heavily.
"A victory is a victory… as long as the rules weren't broken."
Perhaps Bismarck's real mistake was not having someone shouting:
"Get up, Sir Otto! He's a communist!"
Marx, barely able to stand, raised his arms.
"WE WON! This is not just my victory—it is the victory of the proletariat! Let the old Junker order tremble before the workers of the world!"
"WE WON!" Engels shouted from the ground.
Honestly, I hadn't expected them to win.
Though technically, neither of them were proletarians at all.
They were both bourgeois.
Still, I clapped enthusiastically.
Glancing at the painter's canvas, I saw two images taking shape:
Engels sprawled dramatically on the grass.
And Bismarck and Marx exchanging punches.
Perfect.
Someday, I thought, this painting would hang in National Gallery, London.
Visitors from the future would come to see it.
The title would be simple:
"The Clash of Ideologies."
The tourism revenue alone would be enormous.
Marx waved excitedly at me.
"Your Highness! Did you see? I won!"
What else could I say?
I simply smiled and applauded.
Thank you, Karl.
The National Gallery will appreciate your contribution.