The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1523: Chapter 256: “Hemorrhoids” — Eld Carter’s Debut Work in Tsarist Russia’s Literary World _3

Starting today, His Majesty the Tsar’s Imperial Office grants Ivan Kalbovich the honorary position of Eighth-Class Civil Servant and also appoints him as the Chief Minister of the Petersburg Hemorrhoid Inspection Department.

Accompanying the decree is a close-up of Ivan’s posterior framed in rosewood, with a golden inscription shining brightly: Here lies the grace of His Majesty.

…

Gogol’s wig slipped half an inch with the trembling of his shoulders, the oily strands dangling over the manuscript of “Hemorrhoids”.

His expression was quite peculiar, the corners of his mouth twitching like the winding spring of a malfunctioning pocket watch; each time they irreversibly curled up, they were forcefully pressed back into place.

The Red Devil squatted down from the crystal chandelier, its tail lifting the draft papers fluttered by the wind towards the firelight: “I bet the Holy Oil oozing from the Kazan Mother of God is more legitimate than this piece. If it gets published, the editor’s hemorrhoids might just burst into a rose garden in the Winter Palace!”

“So you see…” Arthur sprinkled some sugar into his nose snuff bottle: “The ‘Moscow Observer’ rejecting ‘The Nose’ is simply a travesty. When it comes to being lewd, you’re still far behind, aren’t you?”

Gogol couldn’t hold back and burst into laughter, burying his head with his hooked nose touching the tabletop: “If this letter wasn’t presented by you, I’d never believe that this article was written by Carter. Luckily, he’s English; if he were Russian, he’d be a full-blown Decembrist of the literary world.”

“So what of it? Do you believe that Carter’s article will soon be published in London?” Arthur poured some orange peel into the snuff bottle: “Just because the ‘Moscow Observer’ doesn’t appreciate talent doesn’t mean we don’t. If you despise Moscow’s literary maggots so much, why not consider crossing the Baltic Sea? London publishers are offering high prices for Slavic fables, and if you allow it, I can send the translated ‘The Nose’ to the ‘British’ by tomorrow, ensuring you’ll earn enough British Pounds to line every toilet in Kiev with silk cushions.”

Gogol’s wig quivered noisily: “Are you trying to make me a literary prostitute?”

“Mind your language,” Arthur said blandly, taking a sniff of snuff: “If this were London, you might have already been fined and sentenced to hard labor for just that statement. St. Petersburg and Moscow might have prostitutes, but in London, we have songbirds.”

“Songbirds? Alright, songbirds it is.” Gogol suddenly lowered his voice, his hooked nose almost poking Arthur’s face: “But can they really offer two guineas per page?”

“In ‘The British,’ which has serialized too many realist subjects of late…” Arthur tapped the teacup saucer with a rhythm like the sound of gold coins falling into a pocket: “A brilliant absurd novel is worth that price. But first, we need to give Major Kovaliov’s nose a touch of exotic adventure—like, perhaps, making it escape to Paris by balloon and opening a snuff shop in Montmartre.”

Gogol hesitated, wanting to refuse, but the Red Devil disdainfully leaped onto his shoulder, its tail wrapping around an ink-dipped quill pen and tossing it beside his hand.

“Come on! You little Russian! You couldn’t even afford the carriage fare to the post office without Pushkin lending you money. Who was it that hid in the bedroom for three hours last week counting copper copecks just to scrape together enough to buy the latest Parisian fashion?”

Gogol gazed at the manuscript in his hand, recalling recent experiences, and couldn’t help but slump back into his chair, muttering to the ceiling’s holy image: “Rukovski always says literature is a holy fire, but my flame seems close to extinguishing in Moscow’s blizzard…”

Arthur pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the ink on his sleeve, the sound resembling the flipping of account books: “Speaking of the holy fire, I almost forgot to tell you, this collaboration with London is a collective publication. It’s not just you; I also plan to publish many names you’re familiar with. To be honest, I’m planning to light a cross-Strait torch and establish the British-Slavic Literature Association. By then, your works will stand alongside Dante and Boccaccio on the oak bookshelves of London’s clubs.”