Chapter 110 – Side Story: The Rose and the Wolf

At the time when Lev Tolstoy was freely expressing the sociable instincts he had kept hidden in Britain,

George Bernard Shaw, who had traveled to Russia and crossed paths with him, was doing the opposite.

"Apologies, sir. I should offer you a drink, but I'm not in the best of health."

"Don't worry about it. I've already had plenty of vodka, so this..."

"It's called kvass."

"Ah, well, trying something different isn't so bad!"

Even in their own way, they were breaking down the barriers of borders to meet the people they longed to encounter.

—If I've come all the way to Russia, is there really any need to head back right away? Russia, after all, isn't the kind of place one can visit as easily as the neighboring village.

Moreover, all writers were once readers, and those who had dug deeply enough to become critics surely shared that same passion.

George Bernard Shaw, in particular, wasn't just an ordinary writer or critic. He was a connoisseur of culture, a gourmand, and an omnivore in the arts. Among his many interests, music rivaled literature, and Russia, along with Germany, was a birthplace of classical music.

He visited the grave of Pyotr Tchaikovsky (1840–1893), collected autographs from three surviving members of the Mighty Handful, and watched a ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg.

This was enough to say that George Bernard Shaw was indulging his personal desires to the fullest.

And, of course, just because Tolstoy wasn't around didn't mean Russia lacked literary greats.

One such figure, who filled Shaw's glass with kvass while sipping gently warmed milk himself, was the pale-faced Anton Chekhov. Chekhov forced a faint smile and spoke in French:

"Ahem, I'm sorry. It's unfortunate that you've come from so far away, but our dear Tolstoy has always been like that."

"Haha, great masters are all a bit eccentric by nature. Think nothing of it," Shaw replied, nodding and responding in French.

Chekhov didn't speak English, and Shaw didn't speak Russian, but French, the international lingua franca, sufficed.

"Still, it's surprising. Did Tolstoy really praise Vincent Villiers that highly?"

"Of course. Haha, though this is a secret, he said he liked it precisely because it was the opposite of how he was in his youth. Oh! And I must say, I quite enjoyed it too. I bought the French translation—it's concise, and I liked that about it."

"Indeed, when I saw his style, I often thought of you, Chekhov. Speaking of which, that fellow—he sometimes quotes your famous words about guns in his stories."

"Guns? You mean the one about foreshadowing?"

"Exactly. If a gun appears in the first act, it must go off by the third."

"Huh, how strange..."

Chekhov tilted his head in confusion. It was true that he'd mused on such narrative principles privately, but it had only ever been mentioned in a letter to a younger colleague.

"Well, perhaps he only borrowed the name and figured it out on his own?"

"Hmm, that might be the case."

Despite the grand terminology, it all boiled down to a simple rule: "If you plant a clue, you must use it."

It wasn't just Chekhov—writers like Arthur Conan Doyle often said similar things.

Still, Shaw couldn't help but wonder about something unrelated to Chekhov.

"But then, where did the term MacGuffin come from?"

The prefix "Mac-" suggested Scottish origins, but it wasn't a word he'd ever heard in Scotland. None of the Scottish writers he knew had mentioned it either.

According to Conan Doyle, this is how the term had supposedly been explained:

—It's something used to catch lions in the Scottish Highlands.

—But there are no lions in Scotland...

—Ah, so a MacGuffin is nothing, then?

—??

—And also everything.

—????

... In the end, Shaw dismissed it as likely being a mistranslation of some mysterious Eastern phrase.

"Ah, forget it."

He decided he'd figure it out later when he returned home and had time to properly investigate.

Resolving to clear his mind, George Bernard Shaw poured himself another drink and continued his conversation with Chekhov.

There were still so many questions he wanted to ask the great Russian writers, so many stories to share, and so many more people to meet.

With Maxim Gorky serving as his interpreter, Shaw's semi-impromptu tour of Russia had just begun.

The poet Konstantin Balmont, the novelist Alexander Ertel, and Valery Bryusov all openly accompanied him, and Gorky considered it an honor.

Finally—

""

"Pleased to meet you. I am Bernard Shaw."

Ivan Bunin, a young man two years younger than Maxim Gorky but with a far longer literary career, was emerging as the next great writer of his generation.

As an English critic and playwright, George Bernard Shaw felt so fulfilled meeting all these figures that he could scarcely feel the need for food.

"Thank you, Comrade Gorky. Thanks to you, this trip has been truly meaningful."

In an unnamed, small hotel in St. Petersburg, Shaw reclined in a soft chair and spoke as he poured Gorky a glass of vodka.

Gorky, towering like a Russian bear, bowed his head solemnly as he accepted the drink.

"I should be the one thanking you, Comrade Shaw. Thanks to you, I have been enlightened."

Shaw, who had initially been startled by Gorky's every gesture, now regarded his loyal junior with a satisfied smile.

Noticing the warmth in Shaw's gaze, Gorky ventured a question.

"So, Comrade, have you given thought to your return home?"

"You already know, don't you? This year, the International Socialist Workers and Trade Union Congress will be held in London."

"Of course. And it's being hosted by your Fabian Society."

"That's right. I'll need to return soon to make preparations."

With the official opening set for July 26, there would be much to do upon his return.

As Shaw pondered this vaguely, Gorky fixed him with a curious, intense gaze before speaking again.

"In truth, Comrade..."

"What is it?"

"There is one more person I wish for you to meet."

"Me?"

Shaw tilted his head, puzzled.

Gorky nodded affirmatively, and Shaw, stroking his beard, rose from his chair.

"You've provided me with great hospitality in Russia, so it's the least I can do to honor your request. Very well, lead the way."

"It is a bit—no, quite dangerous."

"Comrade, if I feared danger, I wouldn't be a socialist."

Shaw's response was firm, though delivered with a smile.

Moved, Gorky glanced at Shaw with misty eyes before nodding decisively and standing up.

"Then, allow me to guide you."

"Very well."

And so, Gorky led Shaw into the back alleys of St. Petersburg. It was nighttime, and the unlit streets were shrouded in darkness. Even as the capital, the city had limited electricity, leaving its streets pitch black.

"Comrade, it is fortunate you didn't visit in winter."

"Is it that bad?"

"The streets are filled with people frozen to death."

Gorky's tone was heavy, and Shaw could only nod grimly in response.

St. Petersburg, alongside Moscow, was one of Russia's two great cities and the current capital.

With its position as Russia's largest port on the Baltic Sea and proximity to other nations, the city was a hub of international trade and cultural exchange.

But this did not translate to vibrancy or prosperity for all.

If anything, the city's slums were more pronounced, and its winters were merciless. The Baltic Sea, once a lake, froze solid every winter, unleashing bitter, icy winds.

"When the ships can't sail, there's no fuel, so people freeze to death. And when the fishermen can't fish, they starve."

"A dreadful situation."

The memory of his father's house in Dublin, where they had survived on nothing but potatoes, flashed through Shaw's mind, and he gritted his teeth.

The very thought that this suffering stemmed from the emperor's obstinance infuriated him.

Why, with all his wealth and power, did the man resist even the most minimal reforms of lawful governance?

─You were the one who started this fight, and the fight will not wait for you.

The words spoken by Russian liberals to Tsar Nicholas II echoed in his mind. Shaw earnestly wished for another revolution in Russia.

"This is the place."

"A prison?"

"Yes."

Gorky explained that he had already bribed the guards, and they entered through a back door opened for them.

As Shaw caught a glimpse of one of the guards' faces, he let out a dry chuckle and shook his head.

Even the jailer who opened the door was gaunt, his ribs showing through his uniform.

"Even the officials tasked with maintaining order are starving," Bernard Shaw thought grimly.

As they stepped deeper into the prison, the stench of unwashed bodies assaulted them—an oppressive odor that carried with it a mix of despair, exhaustion, and barely contained fury. Shaw wrinkled his nose but pressed forward without hesitation, while Gorky, observing him, couldn't help but admire his resolve.

Gorky led him through the dark, twisting corridors with the ease of someone well-acquainted with the place. Eventually, he stopped in front of a dimly lit cell.

"This is the place," Gorky said.

From inside the cell came a booming voice in Russian: ""

Shaw peered through the iron bars to see a young man chained, his gaze sharp and penetrating. The man studied him intently before speaking again.

"You must be Comrade Bernard Shaw. Do you speak German?"

"A little. What is your name?"

"Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov," the young man replied, his voice carrying a peculiar rhythm, almost like a song.

"Call me Lenin."

"You requested to see me?" Shaw asked.

"Indeed. As a comrade of the proletarian revolution, I wanted to meet the great Englishman. Though," Lenin chuckled darkly, gesturing to his chains, "as you can see, I am not quite in my best condition."

Shaw nodded solemnly. "You've endured much."

"Ha! This is nothing. Compared to the lead bullets that will one-day pierce Nicholas II and the aristocrats, this is child's play," Lenin said, flashing a defiant smile. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that silenced Shaw momentarily. Then, his tone turned cold.

"Comrade Shaw, I must ask you—what of the workers in Britain? Are they united? Are they ready to sever the heads of the monarchy and abolish private property to establish a dictatorship of the proletariat?"

"What are you saying?" Shaw's eyes widened in shock.

While the abolition of private property was a tenet of socialism, the idea of beheading monarchs and establishing a dictatorship was something else entirely.

"A dictatorship of the proletariat does not require such bloodshed. A philosopher-king, elected by the people, would suffice. Do you not realize how much innocent blood could alienate the masses?"

"Ha? What nonsense is that?" Lenin retorted, incredulous.

"You've seen what Nicholas II has done, haven't you? Monarchies and aristocrats do not see us as human beings! Even if the masses may pity them, we must annihilate their very existence, sever their heads like cutting the Gordian knot. Only then can we achieve true freedom!"

"I sympathize with your plight, but not all monarchs are like Nicholas II! Proletarian revolution, as Marx envisioned, is meant to occur naturally, as capitalism collapses. It must proceed gradually and lawfully, as it did when we sentenced Charles I to death in England—through consensus and proper legal procedures."

"Spoken like a man full of privilege," Lenin sneered. "You may have your laws, but here in Russia, the tsar is the law. If we wait for your so-called legal procedures, when will the proletarian revolution ever happen?"

"I don't deny the necessity of revolution," Shaw replied firmly. "But as Marx himself said, forcing history's wheel forward is no less reactionary than trying to turn it back. Both are beyond human control!"

"Ha!"

Suddenly, Lenin dragged his heavy chains across the floor, advancing until he was mere inches from Shaw. His eyes burned with a feral intensity, more like a wolf's than a man's.

"I see now. The comrades in Britain have already succumbed to revisionism. A shameful state of affairs."

"Wait—" Shaw began.

"Leave," Lenin snapped. ""

"…," Gorky said, his voice quiet but steady.

He gently tugged at Shaw's sleeve, and Shaw followed without resistance.

As they exited the prison and walked back toward their modest hotel, Shaw broke the silence with a bitter murmur.

"So… that man is the leader of the revolution in Russia?"

"… Among the younger comrades, he has the greatest support, Comrade," Gorky replied hesitantly.

"You still call me 'Comrade,' Gorky?" Shaw asked with a faint smile.

"I still believe in the necessity of the proletarian revolution," Gorky said quietly, shaking his head. "But I do not know. Comrade Lenin and some others—they are veering toward excessive violence. That path will only spill the blood of the very peasants they claim to fight for."

Shaw let out a long sigh, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. Lighting it, he turned to Gorky.

"Go ahead without me. I need to walk this street a bit longer."

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine. My eyes have adjusted to the dark," Shaw said, though his heart had yet to do the same.

As Gorky departed, Shaw wandered alone through the cold streets, his thoughts heavy.

"Perhaps Britain is lucky," he mused bitterly.

He knew. He knew that Nicholas II was no ordinary monarch and that to stop him, killing him might be inevitable. Yet even so, Shaw could not shake the feeling that revolution, if forced too violently, would bring only more ruin.

But even so, what guarantees are there that killing him outright wouldn't lead to something like the Paris Commune—a vehement rejection of foreign powers ending in failure? After all, the collapse of the Commune brought about an even stronger counterreaction: Napoleon's oppressive military regime.

Of course, that too eventually fell... but how easily do such things resolve?

It required the blood of citizens and the intrusion of foreign forces.

That is why he worried—worried about another Commune.

And that is why he felt relief—relief that England was not like that.

"Gradually, step by step."

England had the means of Parliament, and with it, such progress was possible.

"But... Russia?"

What of Russia, this empire steeped in such impenetrable darkness that even the existence of a Parliament was not permitted?

It was then, as Bernard Shaw thought himself walking through the gloomy streets, that he collided with a wall.

"Oh!"

""

No, it wasn't a wall. It was a man—so immense in stature that he blocked the lamplight. He was as large as Gorky, perhaps larger.

"Forgive me, I was momentarily distracted."

""

The man had a beard trimmed at a sharp right angle from his temples, draping down over his chest like a bear's fur. Yet his eyes gleamed with the cunning of a fox.

After a brief remark, he nodded and quickly walked away.

"Well, then."

If nothing else, Bernard Shaw now knew one thing for certain—Russians were astonishingly large.

He watched the towering man in monastic garb walk off, a thick book tucked under one arm.

"But why did that book seem... so familiar?"

Bernard Shaw would never know.

The book that man had tucked under his arm was none other than a Russian-translated compendium of DawnBringer.