It is commonly said that among those who loudly boast about their machismo and call themselves "real men," very few are actually real men.
That conclusion has already been proven by countless examples from history, media, and the vast "big data" gathered through firsthand observation.
And from what I had seen so far, Otto von Bismarck, who kept attaching "German this" and "German that" to the end of every sentence, looked exactly like the type of man who merely pretended to be a tough guy.
What kind of "real man" invites someone outside and starts throwing punches just because his words were challenged in an argument?
Still, I had been ready to step in if something went wrong.
Fortunately, no one had been seriously injured.
Imagine if Karl Marx and the future Iron Chancellor had walked out in the middle of a debate and given each other concussions in a bare-knuckle fight.
Not only would that be a great loss for humanity, but it would also mean those two might never achieve the fame they possessed in the original history.
Such a thing absolutely must not happen.
Just look at the masterpiece I commissioned this time—
"The Clash of Ideologies."
If that painting is to hang proudly in the National Gallery, then both Bismarck and Marx will need to achieve even greater success than they did in the original timeline.
Of course, that doesn't mean I want Marx to become some kind of demonic communist overlord.
Though… if in the future "communism" comes to mean something entirely different from what it meant in the original history, that might not be such a bad outcome either.
Still, since they had just beaten the hell out of each other, it might be best to keep Bismarck and Marx apart for a while.
Once was entertaining enough.
But if they fought again and someone was actually injured, that would be troublesome.
So I had arranged for Otto von Bismarck, Karl Marx, and Friedrich Engels to rest in separate rooms.
And yet, when I went to check the room where Bismarck was supposed to be resting—
He was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did the Prussian noble who was lying here go? Did he leave already?"
"No, Your Highness. He said he wished to speak with some other Prussian youths and stepped out immediately."
Surely he hadn't gone looking for a rematch because he couldn't accept defeat.
With that uneasy thought, I rushed toward the room where Marx and Friedrich Engels were resting.
But to my surprise, hearty laughter was already echoing from inside.
"Ha ha ha! I see. So that's why you came all the way to London. France really is hopeless."
"We were also impressed by your insight, Mr Bismarck. If Prussia wishes to resolve the various problems it currently faces, gaining experience here in London would certainly help."
Were these really the same men who only moments ago had been shouting about teaching Germany's honor a lesson and putting ignorant Junkers in their place?
When Bismarck saw me enter, he immediately rose and bowed politely.
"You've arrived, Your Highness. Thank you for witnessing the duel—and for even providing a place for us to rest."
"Mm, yes. But why did you come here instead of resting quietly in your own room?"
"I wished to speak with these spirited young men of Prussia who defeated me. They proved with their fists that they are not mere bookish scholars. Naturally, I must acknowledge them as such."
When someone speaks like that, it is only natural for the others to return the compliment.
Friedrich Engels nodded with a bruised, swollen face and smiled.
"We feel the same. Mr Bismarck is no ordinary Junker—he is a man of firm conviction. My jaw is still throbbing where his punch landed."
"Ha ha ha! Your fists were just as fierce. Truly, the youth of Germany are strong. Even scholars who pursue learning possess such sturdy bodies. As they say, a healthy mind resides in a healthy body. If you possess such strong physiques, then surely the convictions you hold must also be correct."
"Thank you for your understanding."
Was this the nineteenth-century version of sweaty macho conversation?
The sheer heat of it was almost suffocating.
"…In any case, I'm glad to see you've become friends."
"It is all thanks to you, Your Highness."
"I hardly did anything. You resolved it yourselves."
They say that the ground hardens after rain, and sometimes people grow closer after a fight.
But seeing men truly acknowledge one another after an actual fistfight—
When bearded middle-aged men display this sort of shōnen-manga sentiment, it feels less touching and more faintly nauseating.
Perhaps mistaking my reaction for admiration, Bismarck laughed loudly and thumped his chest.
"German men do not concern themselves with petty quarrels. We are not like those whining Frenchmen who cry like women."
Great Germans… mighty nation…
Ugh, my head hurts.
"Haha… I see. Well, it's good if everyone gets along. From what I can see, all of you here possess remarkable abilities."
"Is that truly so? But Your Highness has only just met me today…"
"Your name was Otto Bismarck, correct? As Karl Marx said earlier, the fact that you came all the way to London already proves your unusual character. You must have recognized the problems within Prussia and come here seeking answers. I would wager that among all the Junkers in Prussia, there are fewer than three who possess the same insight as you."
"Oh! Hearing that fills me with confidence."
If Bismarck were to become Prussia's chancellor just as he did in the original history, establishing a personal connection with him now would be an excellent asset for the British Empire's future diplomacy.
History's butterfly effect could change anything.
But if I deliberately helped him, that uncertain future could easily be steered back onto the path I wanted.
"From what I can see, you have the makings of a chancellor. You know who the Prime Minister of our British Empire is, don't you? When I first met him, I felt something very similar to what I feel from you now."
"You mean Prime Minister Charles Wellesley? That comparison is far too generous…"
"It's only a feeling. No need to take it too seriously. Still, if you continue to work hard, I'm sure good results will follow."
Contrary to his reputation as a warmonger, the real Bismarck always tried diplomacy first whenever possible.
For him, war was merely another tool of diplomacy—
The last resort.
After all, a man who rose to the position of chancellor through a diplomatic career would hardly run around shouting, "Gentlemen, I love war!"
And because of Germany's geography, Bismarck had always valued relations with Russia.
One of his most famous sayings in later generations was simple:
"Diplomacy means not fighting Russia."
That alone showed his priorities clearly enough.
Of course, even his policies had flaws.
If examined closely, many of his strategies were little more than clever tricks—giving nothing substantial while juggling limited resources.
Even so, one fact remained unchanged.
He elevated Germany's presence in the world to a level few nations could rival.
From my perspective, such a figure had practically rolled into my lap.
Naturally, building a good relationship with him was essential.
"Well, enough complicated talk. How long do you plan to stay in London?"
"I haven't really thought about it. To be honest, even coming here was a rather impulsive decision."
"Is that so? Then there's no need to rush. If you wish, stay here longer and experience the culture of the British Empire. Next week I plan to invite the Prussian ambassador for dinner. It would be good if you joined us."
"Me? Am I truly allowed to attend a dinner with the ambassador?"
"Building connections with people in high positions will make it easier for you to use the knowledge you gain here when you return home."
"I… I'm very grateful, Your Highness. I will never forget this kindness."
For a provincial noble without strong connections in the capital, meeting the Prussian ambassador like this must feel like a tremendous opportunity.
Of course, if I made a show of taking credit for it, that gratitude would quickly be halved.
So I simply nodded lightly and stood.
"Then I'll take my leave. Enjoy talking among yourselves."
"No, no! I should at least escort Your Highness outside. I also left some fine liquor in my room. I'll bring it back. Gentlemen, wait here—I'll let you taste a wonderful drink from our homeland."
"We would be delighted. Let's drink and debate tonight!"
"Excellent. Just wait here. This way, Your Highness."
After throwing punches and then planning to drink and debate all night…
Perhaps these men really did deserve to be called hearty German youths.
Maybe it was only my twenty-first-century sensibilities that made me view them with suspicion.
Perhaps this too was simply part of the romance of the nineteenth century.
I left the room as the three men exchanged warm farewells.
Bismarck followed me out, bowed politely, and turned toward his own room.
I walked away thinking what an interesting day it had been.
Then—
"Good heavens, sir! What happened to your face?!"
It sounded like Bismarck had encountered one of his servants.
I paused and listened.
"Ah, it's nothing. Two men came to see me earlier, and we had a bit of an argument. So we fought a duel."
"A duel? Two against one?"
"Well… something like that. Even for me, fighting two men at once isn't easy."
What nonsense was that?
It wasn't two-on-one at the same time—it was sequential!
Apparently thinking I was already far away, Bismarck continued boasting without hesitation.
"But you know who I am. I smashed both of them to pieces. After taking such a beating, those fools stopped talking nonsense about communism. Ha ha!"
"So that's why your face looks like that. But isn't this the corridor to their rooms? Why are you coming from here?"
"Even after defeating them, a nobleman should show magnanimity to the defeated. I came to bring them some liquor as praise for their fighting spirit. They were extremely grateful."
"As expected of you, sir. Truly magnanimous."
"Haha! It's nothing. You should have seen how far my punch sent them flying—"
Their laughter gradually faded away.
Should I tell Marx about this?
While I hesitated, another conversation drifted out from the room where Marx and Engels were resting.
"Friedrich, what are you doing?"
"Wouldn't it be wise to begin writing our memoirs before Mr Bismarck returns? I'm finishing it now."
"That's a good idea. Today was quite a remarkable experience. How should we describe it?"
"Something like: we delivered the iron fist of proletarian justice to a clueless Junker who knew nothing of the world."
"That's good. Though perhaps we should change this part. Saying the fight was difficult weakens the story. It would sound better if we wrote that one punch from me sent the Junker sprawling with a nosebleed."
"Excellent. Then I'll remove the part about me running around to exhaust him and simply write that he collapsed from your single blow. And after tasting such defeat, the Junker became surprisingly meek and began praising our ideology…"
Right.
Better to pretend I heard none of this.
So this was the broad-minded spirit of German men who understood one another through fists?
It was so impressive my chest felt tight.
To think these were the future Iron Chancellor of Prussia and a great thinker who would inspire countless intellectuals.
I almost felt apologetic.
Iron Chancellor?
Great philosopher of the age?
No.
These men were simply—
Pathetic little men.
Very well.
To ensure this astonishing incident is never forgotten—
I should write a memoir of today myself when I return.