George Bernard Shaw believed there had been two major turning points in his nearly 40-year life.
The first was when he was twenty. He had gone to London to find his runaway mother and attend his younger sister Agnes's funeral.
Honestly, he hadn't wanted to go.
He didn't want to live with George Vandeleur Lee, his mother's vocal coach, and possibly, as his father suspected, her lover.
Though Lee treated Shaw well and was a decent man... no matter what, Shaw didn't want to think of him as a father.
Perhaps that's why Shaw stopped using the name George.
The thought that his mother might have named him after Lee, rather than his actual father, George Carr Shaw, made his skin crawl at the thought of that sordid affair.
That whole situation had been deeply unsettling for him.
But London—London had been different.
The British Museum. And countless libraries.
Once he moved to London, his life stabilized, and he could finally read all the books he had missed out on since dropping out of school at fourteen.
He would occasionally sneak into university lectures, participate in debates, and fill the gaps in his knowledge. It was immensely fulfilling.
Yet, there remained an emptiness in his heart, something that grew more unsettling with time.
He only understood what it was during his second turning point.
─Yes! Why are so many people poor? It's the result of the initial accumulation by those who own the means of production, an accumulation that continues to this day!
Das Kapital.
It explained what had long troubled him: Why was Dublin so impoverished when London was so wealthy and comfortable?
The English said it was because Londoners were more industrious, while Dubliners were lazy.
Even economists claimed the same. They argued that in a world where all men were equal, hard work was the source of wealth and that white people/city dwellers/Londoners were inherently diligent, while people of color/farmers/Dubliners were fundamentally lazy. That's why things were the way they were.
But Marx explained that it had nothing to do with personal industriousness. It was merely the result of a violent process of capital accumulation at a particular time in history.
And so, George Bernard Shaw became an Irish independence activist and a socialist.
Why had all this suddenly come to mind?
"… Damn. This is worse than Dublin."
Moscow, Russia.
It had been a long journey, travelling from London through France, Germany, and Poland before arriving in Russia.
The cities he had passed through were all centers of civilization, each basking in the ambiance of the Belle Époque.
But Moscow, in 1896, was different.
If London was symbolized by fog or yellow pea soup, Moscow's symbols were shadows, chaos, and gray clouds.
Crowds of disheveled people wandered the streets in disarray, their twisted, weary faces visible.
Arbat Street, supposedly the cultural heart of Russia, was shrouded in shadows. The distant Bolshoi Theatre, at least made of stone, fared better, but the surrounding buildings seemed to be crumbling as if their former glory had long been lost.
"Hoo…"
It was grim. He couldn't decide whether to take solace in the fact that it was easier to breathe here than in London or Berlin, or to feel sad about it.
Just then—
"Excuse me, comrade George Bernard Shaw, from England?"
A voice called out in heavily accented English from behind. Shaw turned to the speaker and blinked in surprise at the figure's massive frame.
"A bear?"
No, on second glance, it was a person. Swallowing hard, Shaw nodded.
"Leave out the George. So, you're a comrade from Russia?"
"That's correct. I'm from the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party. The name's Aleksey Maksimovich Peshkov."
Peshkov…? Shaw rolled the unfamiliar name around in his mouth, and suddenly, recognition flashed across his face as he recalled the man's pen name.
"Maksimovich? Could it be… you're Maxim Gorky?"
"Haha! You've caught me."
"Well, I'll be! Playing tricks on me like that!"
Shaw burst into laughter and shook hands again with Aleksey, who went by the pen name Maxim Gorky.
If Tolstoy was the giant of contemporary Russian literature, then Gorky, still in his late twenties, was the rising star of Russian literature.
As a fellow leftist, Shaw had been deeply impressed by Gorky's novels.
Though, Shaw did find Gorky's extreme militancy a bit hard to stomach, given his own more moderate socialist views…
'Looking at things here, I can't blame the Russian comrades for becoming radicalized.'
Shaw glanced around as he thought. Despite their lively conversation in English, the crowds passing by paid them no attention.
In France, Germany, or Poland, there would have been reactions—whether contempt or curiosity—but in Moscow, people were too worn out to care about foreign strangers.
"Let's get moving. I hear you've come to see Comrade Tolstoy."
"Ah, yes, that's right."
Gorky began walking slowly.
Shaw briefly wondered why they weren't taking a carriage, but seeing the state of Russia, he figured it was better not to.
"I heard Russia was in bad shape, but I didn't realize it was this bad."
"It's all because of that reactionary Tsar," Gorky replied.
"I've heard."
Bernard Shaw nodded.
Nicholas II.
The young emperor who ascended to the throne in 1894 after his father, Alexander III, suddenly passed away.
During his coronation, many liberals and republicans had hoped for at least some reforms. But in just two short years, he had earned the nickname "Bloody Nicholas," driving Russia further into a dreadful hell.
"Thanks to him, the Russian people are all suffering. You can even hear rumors about a fraudulent monk."
"A monk?"
"Yes, there's talk of someone named Rasputin, or was it Rasputica…?"
Really? All sorts of bizarre rumors fly around, Bernard Shaw thought, shaking his head in disbelief.
Gorky spoke grimly in response to his reaction.
"Right now, it's just idle gossip among the bored provincial nobles."
"Charlatans are all the same. Just swindlers trying to deceive the masses."
"Quite so."
Surely, such a fraud wouldn't infiltrate the very core of the government, Bernard Shaw thought.
But even without that, the current state of Moscow's streets was abysmal.
The relentless noise from factories and workshops drowned out the workers' songs, and the faces of the Muscovites they passed were etched with fatigue and despair, casting an ashen hue in the shadows.
Looking at them, Bernard Shaw couldn't help but wonder if they had been waging their struggle far too comfortably.
Their adversaries were capitalists, a product of somewhat more developed systems, but the brutal force oppressing these people was none other than the feudal aristocracy and their emperor.
Identifying them wasn't hard. They paraded down the streets in carriages laden with luxurious goods, smiling smugly.
In stark contrast, the impoverished who walked the streets couldn't straighten their bent backs, burdened by hunger and hardship.
Bernard Shaw understood.
The more people are oppressed like this, the more fiercely they will erupt, like a spring coiled too tightly.
It might be in ten years, maybe in twenty, but when they believe there is no hope left, they will fuel the flames of revolution for someone who will listen to their cries.
He didn't yet know who that someone would be. But he hoped that person would be the superhuman the Russians were waiting for—a true revolutionary for the world's cause.
Shaw shook off those thoughts and asked, "So, where exactly can I find Tolstoy?"
"About 200 kilometers south of Moscow, there's a city called Tula. Tolstoy lives on his estate in Yasnaya Polyana near there. You can take a train to Tula, then a carriage from there."
"Hmm, I see."
It would take a while, Bernard Shaw mused, though not with much concern.
He had no particular interest in Tula itself, with its armory and factories. To him, it was just another town.
But he didn't doubt Gorky's suggestion.
Because—
"You're late."
"What? Comrade Sophia, what do you mean, late?"
"Alexey, I've told you to drop the whole 'comrade' thing."
"Gorky, what did your wife just say?" Shaw asked.
Gorky awkwardly shook his head.
"Well, this is awkward. Tolstoy's not home."
"What? Why?"
"Apparently—he's gone to England."
Gorky shrugged. The words left Bernard Shaw, who had traveled thousands of miles to meet Tolstoy, utterly speechless.
***
London, Somerset House.
"Kipling!! You bastard!!"
"Ugh, urgh!"
"Please, spare me!!"
Like a raging bull.
Arthur Conan Doyle thought as he watched George Newnes toss the members of the Royal Society of Literature around like they were paper dolls.
No matter how cool and rational he was as a businessman, George Newnes was also a journalist with a burning passion.
Whether they were royal members or mere scribblers locked away in their rooms, they were no match for his overpowering energy.
To stop him, you'd need—
"Hmm, you're here? Took you long enough."
"Kipling!! You bastard! How dare you betray me!!"
—someone from the same world of journalism, someone who wouldn't be intimidated by that fierce presence.
Kipling smirked at the sight of his former employer storming toward him.
"Betrayal? That's a strange way to put it."
"What!?"
"We were merely in a business relationship, nothing more. I sold you my writing, and you paid me. That was the extent of it."
"You…!"
George Newnes' already red face turned an even deeper shade of crimson.
Ah, this won't end well.
Sighing, Arthur Conan Doyle stepped forward, placing a hand on Newnes' shoulder.
"This is our first time meeting, Mr. Kipling."
"Yes, and you must be the famous Arthur Conan Doyle."
"Indeed."
Kipling chuckled and locked eyes with Conan Doyle.
"I've heard. You were my predecessor, weren't you?"
"I didn't expect you to take over."
"Come on, you must have had some idea. I thought that's why I wasn't invited when you formed the writers' union."
"I won't make excuses, but it was a different issue."
Conan Doyle evaded the topic, but Kipling just smirked.
"Well, I don't care. Thanks to that, I've taken control of the Royal Society of Literature."
"Congratulations on that. In that case, wouldn't it be best for both of us to strive from our respective positions to promote British literature…?"
After a brief pause, Conan Doyle asked, "Is that possible?"
"Of course not."
Kipling's reply was resolute.
"You already know, don't you? We and your group are sworn enemies."
"Our perspectives are just too different."
A difference in literary ideals.
That alone made them rivals, enemies who could never reconcile.
Maybe if the market were larger, but the literary world—and the island of Britain—was already too small.
For both to coexist… the British Empire itself was too cramped.
"Do you think Tolstoy will accept the award you're offering him?"
"Whether he accepts it or not doesn't matter. Either way, it'll be a great piece of gossip."
"Ha, you're bold."
"And effective."
With a sense of superiority, Kipling spoke.
"Do you understand now? This is what authority and power look like. Arthur Conan Doyle, it's not too late. Return to our fold."
"I can't."
He already knew.
He knew where his talent lay, and where he found his joy.
Looking at a writer who had taken a path he might have chosen, but didn't, Arthur Conan Doyle said, "We will willingly descend to the lowest places in the world, and roll in the mud with those who are there. It's too lonely now to stand tall and isolated in that solitary position."
"You clearly don't understand that such solitude is the very power of the great."
Both men fell silent at the same time.
They had confirmed they were on parallel lines, but they never met.
As the two continued to stare each other down—
"Kip-Kipling! Kipling!! Something terrible has happened!!"
"What's going on?"
The Royal Society member rushed in, looking around the room. His eyes darted between Kipling, Arthur Conan Doyle, and George Newnes, who stood behind them, gasping for air like a starving boar.
Kipling waved his hand impatiently.
"Just tell me. What happened?"
"T-Tolstoy has arrived in the country! He's coming into Dover right now!!"
"… What?"
What on earth is he talking about?
Neither Arthur Conan Doyle, Kipling, nor George Newnes anticipated this, leaving them all speechless.