1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Fortunately, luck is on his side. This year, Dickens' serialized novel "The Pickwick Papers" became a huge hit. At only 24 years old, he instantly became a household name in London.

How popular was "The Pickwick Papers"? To give a few examples, in London at the time, a dying man, unable to find solace in his pastor, said, "Oh, thank God, anyway, 'The Pickwick Papers' will be published in 10 days." Many London merchants used the household name "Pickwick" as a trademark. There was even a joke circulating on the streets of London at the time: "A newsboy shouting 'A new Pickwick Papers is out' is more sensational than shouting 'The King has died.'"

It was the large sum of money brought in by "The Pickwick Biographies" that enabled Dickens, who had just gotten married and spent a lot of money, to move into the house at 48 Dowdy Street.

"Michael, are you very familiar with Mr. Dickens?" Michelle couldn't help but ask.

"Familiar? More than familiar!" Michael grinned, revealing a set of white teeth. "Charles and I used to share an office at the Morning Post. Back then, he was a stenographer covering parliamentary news. Who would have thought that in just a few years, he would become one of the most sought-after writers in all of Britain?"

Michael spoke of the past with great enthusiasm, as if the great writer wasn't Dickens, but himself.

"That guy, he was born for this. While others come home exhausted after a day of reporting, he's still full of energy writing his 'Boz Notebooks.' You know, he was working at the newspaper while writing 'The Pickwick Papers,' his energy was like that of an animal!"

Listening to Michael's ramblings, Michelle's image of Dickens became more real.

Regarding this work experience, Dickens himself wrote: "Often in the dead of night, I would ride in a stagecoach speeding across the wilderness, and by the dim light of a lantern, I would stay up all night organizing shorthand notes, important public speeches that required strict accuracy... and transcribe the shorthand notes written on my palm into text for printing..."

It turns out that even the great writer was once a beast of burden.

Indeed, this world is full of either chickens and ducks or cows and horses...

The café was not far from Rue de la Détière, and the carriage soon stopped in front of No. 48 Rue de la Détière.

This is a row of four-story buildings made of red bricks. They look exquisite and elegant, full of middle-class atmosphere.

(48 Dowdy Street, Dickens' residence, 1837-1839; the timeline of this book is slightly earlier.)

This is so much better than my current apartment attic; at least it has large windows that let in plenty of light and ventilation.

Michelle looked at the house with envy: she wondered when she would be able to earn enough money to move.

Michael walked up the steps of 48 Dowdy Street with practiced ease and knocked on the door knocker.

The person who opened the door was a young and beautiful woman. She was plump and round with delicate features, big blue eyes, thick eyelashes, a slightly upturned nose, and curly hair.

(Image of Catherine, Dickens' wife)

"Oh, it's Michael! Please come in." The woman greeted Michael with a friendly smile.

"Catherine, long time no see, you're still as beautiful as ever." Michael gave her a warm hug, then turned to introduce her, "This is my friend, Michelle, a very talented young writer."

"Michelle, this is Charles's wife, Mrs. Catherine."

"Hello, Mrs. Catherine," Michelle said, bowing somewhat awkwardly.

Lady Catherine's background was also quite remarkable; she was the eldest daughter of Scottish journalist and writer Hoggs, and had recently married Dickens.

"Don't be so polite, just call me Catherine." Catherine's smile was infectious, like a warm breeze. "Come in, it's cold outside."

The two were ushered into the living room. Dickens' new home was furnished warmly and comfortably, with a roaring fire in the fireplace. Several oil paintings hung on the walls, and the bookshelves were crammed with all sorts of books. A faint scent of ink and old books filled the air.

"Where's Charles? Is he in seclusion in his study again?" Michael asked familiarly as he sat down on the sofa.

Catherine shrugged helplessly: "You bet he said he still needed an ending for today's chapter, and he's locked himself in there for over an hour. You know his temper; he won't come out until he finishes writing."

"Please have a seat, I'll go see if I can call him down," Catherine said, preparing to go upstairs to call Dickens.

"Please don't do that," Michael quickly stopped her. "Let's just wait here. Interrupting his train of thought is a serious crime. We don't want to be portrayed as two obnoxious jerks in his novel."

Catherine chuckled at his words, nodded, and went about her own business.

Only Michelle and Michael remained in the living room, and time slowly passed with the crackling of the burning firewood in the fireplace.

Michael, on the other hand, was relaxed and at ease, sipping his red tea and chatting with Michelle about various gossips from the London newspaper industry.

Michelle, on the other hand, was inevitably a little nervous.

Finally, the door to the study upstairs, which had been tightly closed, suddenly clicked open.

Michelle's heart skipped a beat, and she sat up straight instantly, as if all her sounds and thoughts had been paused at that moment.

Immediately afterwards, a figure came down the stairs.

He had thick brown hair and a slender build. Although he looked somewhat tired, his clear blue eyes were exceptionally bright. His eyebrows were strikingly arched, and he had a large, prominent, and rather loose mouth. His clothing was somewhat flamboyant, and he wore sparkling jewelry rings on his fingers. Overall, he appeared to be a vibrant and handsome young man.

He was Charles Dickens.

"Oh, Charles, you're finally out!" Michael immediately stood up, laughing as he rushed over and gave him a big hug. "I thought you were planning to stay inside until Christmas!"

"Michael, it's you." Dickens laughed along, his laughter gentle and joyful. "What brings you here?"

Michel noticed that when he spoke, his eyebrows, eyes, mouth—everything about him—moved strangely. His facial expressions were so rich, varied, and even hyperactive.

"And who is this?"

His gaze then shifted to Michelle on the sofa.

(Only a portrait of Dickens in his 30s was found, but the description of his appearance is based on biographical descriptions.)