Chapter 109 – What Men Live By (4)

What keeps people going?

I could answer confidently:

A hangover cure.

"Blaaaargh."

I need dawn… Dawn! Or whatever, 808 or 909 or something!

My stomach is turning.

"Ha! Youngsters these days! Are you passed out after just some beer? Get up!"

"Hey, your English is pretty go—ugh, bleeech."

"Not perfectly. But if you want to talk about literature with true sincerity, you need to speak in the language that feels right for you. So, another drink! Now it's your turn to learn Russian!"

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes!"

Who knew the old-man attitude would persist over drinks? So this is why they say not to drink with the elders!

Russians are known to love their liquor, and many of the great writers are known for it, too.

So, what about Leo Tolstoy, who embodies both?

"Here, have another!"

He could drink like a champ. Then again, considering his past as a notorious life-of-the-party, I suppose it's no surprise.

True to their reputation as a people who call vodka "water."

At least, there was a bit of relief in sight.

"Excuse me, sir."

"Oh, and who might you be?"

"My name is Arthur Conan Doyle."

It seemed I wasn't alone here after all.

Sir Conan Doyle took off his hat and stepped into my place.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes, right? Not quite my taste, but a well-written story!"

"Thank you. I was greatly inspired by your work as well."

"Oh? Which one did you like most?"

"Sevastopol Sketches."

"Ah, just thinking about those times still makes my stomach turn! Damn, The Crimean Peninsula was hell itself! Only two hours ago, all those people, whether noble or vile, were filled with their dreams and desires… and hundreds of them ended up as blood-soaked corpses, their stiff hands and feet discarded on the ground! And it was all because of that idiot Nicholas's petty ambitions! What's so important about a seaport!"

"… Uh, Mr. Conrad?"

"Can't I get a break, too?!"

Not only Arthur Conan Doyle, but other writers began to gather, slowly but surely, in a cautious huddle.

While I'm not one for drinking, I do recognize how alcohol can break down walls between people.

And it was no different for the towering wall of experience that separated Tolstoy from the writers of our literary guild.

"Excuse me, could I… could I join you?"

"And who might you be? You speak Russian well."

"I-I'm William Somerset Maugham. I haven't officially debuted yet, but…"

"Speak up! How can you be a writer if you can't even be heard?"

"WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM! I'm working on something right now, would you be willing to take a look at it?"

"Good! That's the spirit! Bring it over!"

There was young William Somerset Maugham, the aspiring writer who'd once boldly questioned Arthur Conan Doyle and me.

And then—

"Since you're here, I suppose I'm not needed anymore. Want to take over as representative?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm George MacDonald."

"Mr. MacDonald…?! You're still alive!"

"By the grace of God. Ah, if only Dickens were still around to see this."

"Dickens… A cherished name. I deeply respected him."

"God moves in mysterious ways, indeed. Why take away those who had so much more to give, while letting an old man like me remain…?"

Our guild leader, George MacDonald, was there as well.

And soon others gathered to welcome the living legend they so respected in our field.

Right. I remember feeling the same way when I first arrived in the 19th century and met Arthur Conan Doyle and Jules Verne.

And Tolstoy, embodying the consummate party host, soon bridged any gap between him and the writers of the guild.

It was almost unbelievable to think this jovial person was the same stern Tolstoy from before.

From signing books, giving advice, and editing works, to discussing weighty issues of politics, economics, and literature.

Watching him accomplish all this with such ease, it struck me—this man truly must have been extraordinary back in his prime.

Anyway.

"I… I'm heading to bed now… Ugh."

Thud.

In the end, no one was there to catch me as I fell, utterly drunk.

***

From the next day onward, Tolstoy appeared at the Writer's League dressed immaculately, as if yesterday had been nothing but a lie. When I asked him about it, his response was surprisingly simple.

"Just for one night. I merely did that yesterday to drive out my inner temptations. Usually, alcohol is nothing more than a poison that dulls one's senses."

Well, if that was his goal, he certainly seemed immune to the "dulling" effect…

True to his word, though, from then on, he never touched a drop of alcohol and even began encouraging others to abstain. After all, one of his stories involved a demon corrupting people through drink, so perhaps it wasn't so strange that he reacted this way.

Tolstoy spent several months at the Writer's League, engaging in daily debates. And what did this mean? It meant that merely by breathing, he was generating enough material to fill every Englishman's national pride.

"Tolstoy in heated debates at the Writer's League for days on end!!"

"Literary Giants Lewis Carroll and Tolstoy Gather in One Place!!"

"Tolstoy: 'Charles Dickens is a truly virtuous artist on par with Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805) and Victor Hugo (1802-1885).'"

"Tolstoy: 'The future of literature rests in the hands of Russia's Anton Chekhov and Maxim Gorky, and England's Hanslow Jin.'"

"Ahhh!"

"Yes! Right on!"

"Sign here! England is indeed the true heartland of literature…"

"Give me every book Tolstoy mentioned here!"

The 1896 edition of War and Peace and Anna Karenina sold out in no time. Schiller's plays and Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, which Tolstoy had praised, were reprinted, and publishers scrambled to buy the rights and translate the works of Dostoevsky, Anton Chekhov, and Maxim Gorky.

The writers in the League hailed Tolstoy, Tolstoy praised Dickens, and this elevated Hanslow Jin and the Writer's League as Dickens' heirs… A self-sustaining cycle of popularity spun round and round, one recognition feeding into another.

This, however, meant that the Royal Society of Literature—the origin of this whole affair—was being left in the dust.

"What on earth are we supposed to do about this?!"

"… The tide is already moving in their direction. For now, we'll have to bear it."

"We're on the verge of being swept away!"

"…."

Rudyard Kipling, the Royal Society's advisor, gritted his teeth. How did things come to this? Tolstoy respecting Dickens and admiring Hanslow Jin's writing? That hadn't been part of the plan!

"It's not over yet."

Kipling's teeth ground audibly as he spoke.

"Not just yet."

"What do you mean?!"

"Think about it. Our issue is with the Writer's League, not Tolstoy himself."

Kipling took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to steady himself, then said, "Let's proceed with giving Tolstoy the award as planned. We'll use that prestige to establish the Victoria Literary Prize as the pre-eminent award in its own right."

"In that case…"

"Even if it doesn't elevate us to the League's level, we'll at least bask in a bit of its afterglow."

Of course, this was an empty move.

Kipling knew. The world remembers only the first, not the second. Just like the Olympics going on in Athens around this same time—it's only the gold medal people will remember.

This, then, was merely to boost morale within.

"We just need to hold out till next year."

This year saw quite the uproar.

So next year, let's select an author who truly aligns with the tastes of the Royal Literary Society. If we can find such a writer who will say things that please the Society, then we might finally receive the recognition we deserve.

If we can hold out until then, Tolstoy's influence can easily be brushed aside… or so I thought.

But then:

BREAKING! Tolstoy Declines the Victoria Literary Prize!

"A prize too lavish for the nobility, yet too burdensome for an author…"

EXCLUSIVE! Tolstoy Agrees to Chair the Charles Dickens Literary Award Judging Panel!

"Ahhh! Why on earth?!"

I wondered if I should just give up.

Kipling found himself thinking so without even realizing it.

***

June 9, 1896.

"Congratulations, young man."

"Th-thank you very much…"

"Come on, smile! Say cheese!"

Click.

Goodness, he looks about ready to faint. Watching the young cadet who had just received the award from Tolstoy himself in front of the Writer's League building, I couldn't help but chuckle.

This was Edward Plunkett, the winner of the first Charles Dickens Literary Award for his work Spring in the Wasteland.

A military cadet, huh… Come to think of it, I wonder what Churchill's up to these days. He should've graduated two years ago by now, considering his age. Imagine my surprise to see his name among those who passed the first round of this competition.

Could it be… he repeated a year? I suppose it's possible, given his lackluster academic performance.

Just as I was musing over this, Arthur Conan Doyle approached and spoke to me.

"Did you hear? That boy only just graduated from Eton and is in his first year at Sandhurst."

"I did hear. My Monty mentioned he was a senior in the theater club who helped him out a lot."

"Ha, really?"

It's a small world. Or perhaps the aristocratic circle is simply that tight-knit?

After all, it's always been easier for the well-off to dabble in literature. Eton College followed by Sandhurst is the usual route for the nobles of this era.

"Speaking of which, didn't you say your younger brother graduated from Sandhurst as well?"

"Ah, yes. He went through a rough time with it, so he's taking a break before his assignment. I'm hoping to find him a good match and get him settled."

Doyle paused mid-sentence, turning to look at me. What? Why is he looking at me when we were just talking about his brother?

"When do you intend to settle down yourself?"

"Well, how could an Asian like me possibly marry here in England…"

"Rubbish. Miller and I would be more than happy to arrange something if you'd just ask. How about my youngest daughter, for instance? You've met her; she's a lovely, kind-hearted girl."

"Uh, she's nearly ten years younger than me."

And still a minor, too. Well, she's just turned 19, so I suppose she's technically at the age of majority? Not that there's anything like a national ID in England at this time.

"Nonsense! A man must marry to fulfill the mission God has given him!"

And just then, Tolstoy, who had somehow slipped into the conversation, approached us with a chuckle.

'Wait, the congratulatory speech?' I looked over to see George MacDonald already giving a full address to the press.

"If you'd like, I could even introduce you to one of my daughters. Let's see, Maria is married, but Alexandra is still single."

"Just out of curiosity, what year was she born?"

"Eighty-four."

That's elementary school age!

Not just me, but Arthur Conan Doyle, too, looked aghast at the idea of introducing someone younger than even my Maisie.

And when exactly did this man father his children? He's remarkably vigorous for his age, truly.

"Well, I jest. Marriage is, of course, your choice, but don't forget that it's essential. Only in marriage can one find life's meaning and… God's grace."

Unexpected. Knowing Tolstoy's troubled family life, I found this attitude surprising.

Come to think of it, marriage was one of the reasons the prodigal son chose to reform, so it wasn't all that strange to hear him speaking like this.

"Well… I would like to, but I've been so busy with everything. Right now, I'd still like to focus on my writing."

"Hmm. That's a commendable attitude for a writer."

Then, as he patted my shoulder, Tolstoy added, "But don't make writing your only purpose."

"… Sorry?"

"Do you breathe for the sake of breathing?"

Ah, I get it.

He's saying there's no need to make something so natural into a purpose in itself.

What Men Live By. But that—what a man lives by—and What Men Live For, those are different matters.

Tolstoy looked me straight in the eyes.

"What you once told me wasn't wrong. There may be writers who are better than you, those who could express what's 'right' more eloquently than you, but even they would have a hard time gaining 'more' agreement than you."

Well, that's because it's… popular.

But Tolstoy shrugged.

"Yet, trying to earn everyone's approval is impossible—and it shouldn't be your goal. The more you try, the more your purpose will fade away."

With both humor and sincerity, this literary giant, a man who had weathered all of life's ups and downs, gave me his advice.

"Look within yourself and find your life's purpose, Hanslow Jin. That, as I see it, is what you need."