Palmerston was not the least bit afraid. He agreed at once; he had never intended to let someone else do the work for him. After all, he trusted only himself.
To the Earl of Derby, this might have looked like snatching chestnuts from the fire. To Palmerston, it was right in his comfort zone.
Besides, in his view, how could he turn the situation around without taking risks? Without some earth-shattering achievement, how could he return to the pinnacle of power?
Prince Albert had claimed he would no longer interfere in government affairs, but it was still easy enough to push a diplomat out of the center of power.
Unless that person achieved something so great that no one could ignore it. Now the opportunity had come knocking.
However, when Palmerston arrived in Saint Petersburg by ship as the British ambassador, he was not granted an immediate audience.
Russian officials even took him to an inn and began arranging his accommodations. The British officials accompanying him were deeply dissatisfied. They looked at the old building and filthy floors with indignation.
After all, an ambassador was the highest-ranking kind of diplomat and deserved the highest level of treatment in any country. The Russians' conduct was clearly out of line.
Palmerston, however, was not angry in the slightest. He said with a grin,
"Is this the best inn in Russia? The design and furnishings are worse than those of the Irish countryside."
Then he deliberately ran a white-gloved fingertip over the dust on the banister.
"Is this what the passage of time looks like?"
At the time, the British saw Ireland as synonymous with backwater poverty, while "the countryside" was the city-dwellers' particular term of condescension for rural areas.
The British officials accompanying him burst into laughter. The Russian official beside them