Chapter 106 – What Men Live By (1)

"Ha! Ha-ha-ha! Of course! Is there a writer alive who can refuse honor?"

After the unwelcome visitors had left Somerset House, supposedly to investigate the situation, Kipling burst into laughter.

"Of course, even Tolstoy, after all, is only human."

Fame. Honor. Power. 

In the end, everyone wants these things. No matter how eccentric or radically Christian anarchist Tolstoy claimed to be, surely that wasn't his true nature.

"Must be a bad back acting up. The sad old man."

Was there anyone in literary circles unaware of his reputation in Russian high society as a legendary rogue and womanizer? Kipling certainly didn't believe Tolstoy's claims that he'd repented and regretted those days.

Most likely, he'd simply lost the stamina for it—or maybe he'd overdone it to the point of boredom.

In any case, his memoirs had only added to his literary fame, hadn't they?

"Fine. Childish as it is... I'll play along with his game."

Thinking this, Kipling smirked.

The only issue now was what to do with the writer he had lined up, assuming Tolstoy wouldn't come... but what was that writer to him anyway? He'd just have to step aside.

With that, Kipling called the members of the Royal Literary Society to discuss how best to capitalize on Tolstoy's influence.

Of course.

Things in life often don't go as planned, and this was proving to be one of those times.

"What? What did you just say? Say it again!"

"W-well..."

The Royal Literary Society member swallowed nervously.

Unable to wait, Kipling snatched the newspaper with the breaking news from his hands.

The headline read:

Breaking News! Tolstoy Arrives in Dover! His First Words: "Is this Hanslow Jin's country? I wish to meet him first."

"W-what?!"

"Tolstoy, uh, as soon as he arrived in London, he's been asking for Hanslow Jin at the Writer's League..."

"Why that little...!"

But why?! Rudyard Kipling was utterly perplexed.

---

The Writer's League was in an uproar as if someone had struck a hornet's nest.

However, their reason was a little different.

"To-Tol... Tol-Tolstoy?! Is it really the Tolstoy coming here?!"

"Good heavens, an autograph! I need an autograph! Where's my fountain pen?!"

"Calm down; you can borrow mine! Wait, can he even speak English? Damn it, I should have learned some Russian!"

"Oh, relax, we've got Conrad for that. What's the worry?"

"Right! So where is he?"

It was only natural.

Though today's arts scene is divided between the elitist Royal Literary Society and the populist Writer's League, that split is merely one branch leaning eastward and another westward.

For the true giants of literature, divisions like these mean nothing, and Tolstoy held enough stature to transcend them.

—The writer's writer.

—The only living author whom some would dare place a tier above even Shakespeare.

—A writer whose words make you want to cry out, "I want to write with Lev's power!"

Tolstoy had arrived in London.

Regardless of the rivalry with the Royal Literary Society, the League's writers, critics, and publishers were ignited with anticipation and enthusiasm.

"If you come away empty-handed, you're no writer!"

"I may not get any direct feedback, but I will at least get his autograph!"

"If possible, his hair, his fingernail clippings—even a speck of dust from his fingers!"

...Though perhaps their passion was a bit excessive, it was not entirely unreasonable.

When they actually met him, many would probably be too awestruck to say a word, leaving like statues—or else calm themselves down, adapting to his presence like true writers.

George MacDonald, the Writer's League representative, thought this as he attempted to bring some order to the current chaos.

"It's confirmed that Bernard won't be with him?"

"Yes, that's correct."

Edith Nesbit, who managed the connection with the Fabian Society on behalf of George Bernard Shaw, nodded as she shared the story she'd heard from the dockworkers in Dover.

"There's no doubt about it. They said there was no one else around that tall, Slavic old man."

"True. Timewise, it'd be nearly impossible for him to have come back from Moscow that quickly..."

Then how—or rather, why—had he come to England?

"Could he really be here to accept an award from the Royal Literary Society?"

That would make the most sense, timing-wise.

But for Tolstoy? To receive an award? From the Royal Literary Society? The Victoria Literature Prize?

It was absolutely absurd.

He'd sooner believe Tolstoy had been thrown out of his home in despair from a divorce.

"Conrad, could you head to Dover?"

"Ugh, so it's me in the end?"

Joseph Conrad, a member of the Writer's League, spoke up in his distinctive English, tinged with French and Polish accents.

George MacDonald gave a regretful smile as he replied, "Sorry. If Tolstoy were Italian, we wouldn't need you, but he's not, so..."

"Hmph. Guess there's no choice."

Joseph Conrad let out a deep sigh.

The Writer's League was filled with people of all sorts of unique backgrounds, but Conrad's life story was as unusual as that of Hanslow Jin.

He hailed from Ukraine, part of the Russian Empire, and his father was a Polish independence activist.

Naturally, Conrad had grown up fluent in Russian, Polish, French, and German, making him an invaluable multilingual interpreter.

"I'll see to it that you're well-paid for your translating services."

"Not a penny less than I'm owed, mind you."

Fortunately, Conrad agreed without much fuss.

And it was clear that he, too, was looking forward to meeting Tolstoy himself.

With a nod, George MacDonald glanced back and forth between the two men as he gave his instructions.

"Good. Then head to Dover immediately, both of you. Meet with Tolstoy, convey our invitation, and, as Hanslow Jin suggested, ask him to play along in a little theater."

"Feels like a bit of a stretch, if you ask me."

"I second that."

"Yes, I'd agree, but... there's no other way."

They simply had no other options.

It was just then, as George MacDonald was giving a weary smile, that the door to the representative's office swung open, and the youngest member of the Writer's League burst in.

"S-sir! We have an emergency!"

"What is it, Gilbert?"

"It's Tolstoy! Tolstoy himself!!"

"Yes, I know. That's why these two are heading to Dover…"

"No, not that!!"

Interrupting MacDonald, the youngest, Gilbert Chesterton, shouted.

Though the Writer's League had a much more relaxed relationship between senior and junior members than the Royal Literary Society, it was unheard of for a junior member to cut off a senior's words. The three authors all raised their eyebrows at the audacity.

Yet, in the next instant, they had no choice but to forgive him.

"He's here! Here at the Writer's League!"

"... What?!"

"W-what do you mean...!"

"Is this the place?"

At that moment, a deep, resonant voice speaking Russian reached their ears.

The authors in the Writer's League looked to the doorway, where a tall, white-haired old man was standing.

"A... white..."

"A white bear?"

For a fleeting second, that thought crossed all their minds. Snapping back to his senses first, George MacDonald spoke up.

"Are you... Lev Tolstoy?" (T/N: Tolstoy is usually referred to as Leo Tolstoy in English-speaking world)

"Hanslow Jin."

"E-excuse me?"

"Hanslow Jin! I've come to find that traitorous dog!!"

"Co-Conrad?! Conrad!! What is he saying…!"

"Th-this is…!"

"Give it back!"

"Ahhh!!"

In the next instant, the representative's office of the Writer's League was thrown into chaos, as if attacked by a polar bear.

Outside, the only thing the other authors could make sense of was the name—Hanslow Jin.

***

"What in the world is going on?"

"How should I know?"

To be honest, I've been swamped since the beginning of the year.

Between play sequels, lead regulations, art auctions, and keeping the kids entertained during their school break—there were just too many things going on!

Busy as a bee, I ran all over, and soon enough, my reserves were completely depleted.

Of what? My energy reserves.

Of course, it was my own fault. I'd already used up a lot of it while traveling through France, and instead of writing, I'd been spending my time cracking down on illegal magazines and organizing contests, so I couldn't replenish it.

So there I was, unable to return to Torquay, staying in London to recharge, when suddenly, I was summoned to the Writer's League.

Arthur Conan Doyle, who'd been keeping me updated on his chat with Kipling, was there too.

Honestly, it was surprising enough that Kipling had joined the Royal Literary Society and become our adversary, but now—the Tolstoy had come to England.

And what's more, he'd come to the Writer's League.

"But why?"

"Beats me. How would I know?"

"I mean, this is the same Sherlock Holmes creator who predicted Kipling's every move… ow, ow!"

"I told you to watch your mouth, didn't I?"

Good grief. How does he swing that cane so precisely even while walking quickly? Is this a mark of an English gentleman's refinement? Some kind of fencing technique?

Anyway, Tolstoy… and now he's calling me a traitor.

I have no idea what he means. There's not even a hint to go on.

Isn't betrayal something that only happens when there's an expectation?

Has anything I've written so far been something Tolstoy could have any expectations about?

Nothing that I know of.

The books I write are strictly popular fiction, works that reflect and cater to the public's desires.

But the current Russian Empire… has no real public.

To be specific, Russia has a feudal autocracy of developing serfs and aristocrats, which is the extent of their social structure as far as I know.

The term "public" implies a middle class that enjoys culture, but serfs are not the middle class.

They cannot partake in culture, nor would I have any reason or means to reflect their desires.

So, how could Tolstoy, who represents Russian society and writes for the serfs, possibly have expectations of me?

Well, I suppose I'll just have to meet him and see. Thinking this, I walked into the Writer's League building.

And there, sitting at the center, calmly smoking a cigar, was Lev Tolstoy, with an interpreter at his side, hard at work—the Writer's League's… um, who was it? I'd seen his face in passing a few times.

"Joseph Conrad. Born and raised in Russia."

"Ah, someone I know."

Isn't he the author of that famous war movie, Apocalypse Now?

Anyway, this literary scene really is like a war of stars. But how could such a brilliant star… uh… end up sitting beside Tolstoy like a comfort doll?

At any rate, I approached him. Arthur Conan Doyle shot me a concerned look, but I shook my head.

I didn't know what this was about, but he was still an old man. Surely, I could handle him, fit as I am in my late twenties.

"I hear you were looking for me."

"Who are you? Are you Asian?"

Uh… excuse me. No matter how much I study, Russian isn't one of my languages.

I instinctively looked at Joseph Conrad, who said something to Tolstoy.

At that moment, Tolstoy abruptly stood and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"So, it's you!!"

"Um, I don't speak Russian…"

"You traitor!"

Oh, this was frustrating. I looked at Joseph Conrad again.

He glanced from Tolstoy to me, seemingly confused, then said, "He… wants to know how you could write Vincent Villiers and then go on to write something like DawnBringer..."

"... What?"

It was that?