Chapter 107 – What Men Live By(2)

Чем люди живы.

What Men Live By.

This wasn't just a short story Tolstoy published in 1885; it was the ultimate question of his life.

Of course, the answer had already been given, long ago—first by Moses, and then, 1800 years ago, by the Only Begotten Son in His presence.

The answer was love.

That most powerful of emotions, greater than faith or friendship, bestowed freely upon us by God.

One needs only to look at the Bible to see this clearly.

─John 13:34: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.

─Leviticus 19:18. Matthew 22. Love your neighbor as yourself.

But Tolstoy knew this himself.

'I may love my neighbor, but I am a man who cannot bear to love my own wretched self.'

In his youth, just how disgraceful, how shameful, how wretched a man he had been.

Yes, he had wandered and been orphaned, but he had brothers, sisters, and an aunt who truly loved him and were by his side.

Still, he drifted away, refusing to share life with them, ignoring the "happiness of loving others" and the "beauty of a simple, unpretentious life" that his aunt had tried to teach him.

Instead, he chose to wander.

He let his worries fester, indulging in a life of excess.

He indulged in women, indulged in drink, indulged in gambling.

He lived as if he didn't care if he died tomorrow, as if today he'd eat and drink himself to death, lamenting each morning that he'd opened his eyes once again.

If life's opposite is death, then he had been, in effect, a dead man during those years.

Dissatisfied with everything, not knowing what could ever satisfy him, living simply because he had yet to find a way to die.

That was the young Lev Tolstoy.

In time, though, he managed to mature somewhat, as he grew older and traveled more.

So he was able to marry and settle down.

And by weaving his life experiences together, he completed his masterpieces War and Peace and Anna Karenina.

Surely, this was enough.

At last, I am complete.

There was a time when even he had thought so.

But that, too, was his arrogance.

─Art is a mirror of life. When life has no meaning, the play of reflections in that mirror loses its appeal.

When he lost three children, his aunt, and his beloved aunt who had truly cared for him, he once again became the aimless child of his youth. The emptiness returned, without end.

The difference now, however, was that he had already experienced enough wandering and knew that, while it might provide temporary comfort, it ultimately did nothing to help him live.

And so he resisted falling into debauchery again.

But neither philosophy nor science could dispel his fears or overcome his self-loathing.

─What have I really accomplished?

My life's masterpieces? What meaning do they hold? They're utterly meaningless in the face of death.

Denying even those works that everyone hailed as masterpieces, the only comfort he found came from two types of books.

One, naturally, was the Bible.

The life of the Only Begotten Son, who dwelled in the lowest places and sacrificed everything, became an object of longing for Tolstoy.

There was another, quite the opposite of the Bible.

A protagonist who struggled and climbed, only to fall from a great height and receive a second chance from the holy God.

An ideal hero is one who, despite rising high, strives to go even higher, who never stops but cares for those in lowly places, embodying the self Tolstoy himself had aspired to be.

This was Vincent Villiers.

─"If I inherit Villiers' title, I will abandon it all and return to my natural self."

─"The opulence and power of the dukedom are merely borrowed from that exalted being in the heavens, the royal family, and those born and raised in this land. The steward has wielded the owner's wealth as his own, and it is only right to return it to its true master."

─"Once everything has been restored to its rightful place, then, well… what will I do then? Haha, who knows? Even my knowledge is something I have received, so perhaps I would like to live teaching children, tending a small garden behind a school…"

"Oh… Ohhh… Ohhhhh…!"

This was it.

This was the enlightened fighter for the peasants Tolstoy had once wanted to become.

Of course, even if this was a Russian translation, the narrative style and depth weren't particularly remarkable.

The Christian elements were minimal, and at times the overtly worldly tone felt off-putting.

Yet the content was compelling enough to make the book worth reading.

It exposed humanity's bare face unflinchingly, painting a vivid picture of the noble and bourgeois classes vying over wealth and power, while the common people suffered in between.

More than anything, Vincent Villiers' practical reforms to address these issues were convincing and praiseworthy.

Above all… stepping out of one's original life, living an entirely different existence, racing toward one's goal without regard for past history—this bold and unconventional plot was sensational.

Tolstoy himself found himself unavoidably invested in it.

'A promising writer is emerging.'

Rumor had it that this English writer, Hanslow Jin, was a newcomer who had only been active for three or four years, much like his distant successor Maxim Gorky, who occasionally visited him.

Judging by the sparse and somewhat rough style, the writer couldn't be very old.

He was likely not much older than Gorky.

Perhaps it was due to the nature of serialized novels, or perhaps because the writer hadn't yet fully developed; structural flaws and foreshadowing still appeared immature.

But with maturity, he would surely be able to write works infused with deeper philosophy and Christian thought.

With such expectations for Hanslow Jin's growth, Tolstoy looked for his other works…

And that hope shattered the moment he saw DawnBringer.

"What… what on earth is this?!"

Tolstoy cried out in his study at Yasnaya Polyana.

He could hardly help it.

A minor noble pretending to be debauched, defeating a hidden monster lurking behind the city, with no philosophy or ideology—just a flimsy, sweet-as-candy snack culture.

Even worse, it was as if the plot echoed his own younger self…

'No!'

This was not the kind of novel he had hoped Hanslow Jin would write. Tolstoy was furious.

This was betrayal and corruption!

To shamelessly parade around in flashy clothes, speaking earnestly of creatures and folklore, like this childish nonsense.

And the actions—motivated not by any higher cause, but purely out of personal revenge.

Where had the Christian compassion and concern for the people gone?

In the end, the common people were saved, but wasn't that a mere consequence, a side effect?

Even his disguise as a debauched noble? Absurd!

This, this…!

Just as Tolstoy felt he could bear it no longer, a strange rumor reached him from England.

"What? The Victoria Literary Award?"

Tolstoy was ready to scoff.

An award for the person who "wrote the greatest work"? Who, other than God, could dare to judge what the "greatest work" is? And they even named it after the English queen.

And this came at a time when he was already outraged, having just learned that her grandson-in-law, Nicholas II, was proving to be nothing but a hopeless fool, and now they were offering this to him. Even nonsense has its limits.

He was firmly set on refusing, but then—

"No, wait a moment."

Suddenly, it struck him: this might be a good opportunity.

The organization presenting this award was the Royal Society of Literature. Given Hanslow Jin's literary achievements, though not officially a member, he was undeniably a figure of pride for England.

Then why not seize this chance? He could travel to England, reprimand Hanslow Jin to dissuade him from writing such outlandish stories, reject the award outright, and return victorious.

"Hmm, yes. That's what I'll do."

He could certainly make that effort for the sake of a misguided young author. He'd even question why Dawnbringer's protagonist was crafted in such a way—and take a shot at those impudent islanders for daring to name an award after a tyrant. It would be a satisfying trip.

With those thoughts, he reminisced about his youthful travels and boarded a train bound for England.

Of course, he had no idea George Bernard Shaw was already on his way to meet him.

***

"So… what you're saying is…"

I set down my half-smoked cigar and alternated glances between Lev Tolstoy's trembling white beard and Joseph Conrad, who was translating Tolstoy's scattered words.

Had I heard this right?

Conrad, I know the man's accent is practically indecipherable, but could you just confirm that he's actually saying this?

"He came all the way here just to… knock some sense into me, and make sure I only write 'proper works' like Vincent Villiers?"

Conrad translated my muttered words into Russian. Tolstoy, upon hearing this, gave a vigorous nod and solemnly declared, "Exactly!!"

"He says that's correct…"

… What on earth is happening here?

Rubbing my face, I tried to process the situation.

So, he had latched onto one of my novels, managed to disappoint himself, and now he's here to berate me?

Tolstoy? The Tolstoy?

What am I supposed to call this? Surreal? Overwhelming? An honor?

Honestly, it's so bizarre that a single word doesn't quite cover it.

Maybe I should consult a German dictionary with all its hyper-specific words for every emotion; that might finally do justice to this feeling.

"Understand this!" Tolstoy proclaimed, leaning forward, "Writing, you see, must convey God's holy intentions to the reader in a clear and instructive way! That's what Vincent Villiers achieved! It was marvelous! But why on earth would you stoop to writing such a superficial sorcerer's tale?!"

"Sir… I hate to ask, but could you slow down a bit…?"

"Silence! Just translate! I'm not finished yet!"

"Right, of course…"

Though I couldn't understand the exact words, watching Tolstoy's spit fly as he passionately expounded, and Conrad sigh as he translated, I could guess. The pompous tone was unmistakable. After all, arrogance carries a unique atmosphere of its own.

Poor Conrad—he's a veteran of his craft, too. Isn't he about due to write Heart of Darkness by now?

In any case.

"Conrad."

"Oh, yes. Go ahead."

With the practiced impartiality of one who exposed the atrocities in the Belgian Congo, Joseph Conrad met my gaze without prejudice.

"If you wouldn't mind, could you convey something to him for me?"

"I was planning to anyway. Speak your mind."

… From the look on his face, I'd say Conrad's the one harboring some bottled-up feelings here, not me.

No matter.

"There's no need for a lengthy rebuttal," I said.

Because I happen to have a magical line that will tear apart all his arguments in one blow.

Calmly, I met Tolstoy's gaze and spoke.

So, what were his last words before he died…?

"How do the peasants die?"