1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

"Mr. Michel, it seems your financial situation isn't very good."

At the window of the London Express editorial office, Michael stared thoughtfully at Michelle's departing figure.

Michelle was wearing a wool coat and leather shoes, which was the most presentable outfit he had ever worn, but Michael could still tell at a glance that he was in a sorry state.

After a moment of contemplation, he took out a money pouch from his pocket and carefully counted out thirty shillings.

"Robert, do me a favor. I have a meeting in a bit and I can't get away."

"Of course, no problem, Michael," the young editor readily agreed.

"That Mr. Michel just now doesn't seem to be in particularly good financial condition. Send him these thirty shillings later and say it's an advance payment for his writing."

"Huh? Advance payment?"

The young editor stood there, stunned: "This has never happened before at our newspaper. The boss will definitely not agree to it."

"I'll personally pay for it out of my own pocket first, without going through the newspaper's accounts."

"oh oh."

The young editor scratched the back of his head: "Then it's alright. But Michael, why did you suddenly become so kind? Not only are you generous with the payment, but you're even paying in advance out of your own pocket. It doesn't matter whether you pay it sooner or later."

"It's not out of kindness, it's called investment."

"Robert, what do you think is most important in our newspaper business right now?"

Michael instead posed a question.

"Fame?"

Michael nodded slightly, then shook his head: "Fame is indeed important, but in my opinion, good writers are the most important thing right now. This year alone, dozens of new newspapers have appeared in London. What will we rely on to stand out? It must be good content, and good content requires good writers."

"In my opinion, Mr. Michel has the potential to become the next 'Dickens.' Accepting the manuscript is just a matter of friendship, but offering help in times of need is a great favor. Even if Mr. Michel is only one-tenth as good as Mr. Dickens, my investment will still be profitable."

"I understand, Michael."

Young editor Robert said thoughtfully, "You mean, this Michel has the potential to become the next Dickens, which is why you're willing to invest in him?"

Michael nodded, and as they talked, he walked to his desk and whispered, "I've been in this business for over ten years, and I'm pretty good at judging people, so I'm making this connection. For me, a few dozen shillings isn't a problem."

"It's not a big deal to lose this little bit of money."

"But gaining the friendship of a writer with great potential is a huge win."

"Even without any reward, it doesn't matter. In our editing line of work, connections are very important. Making more friends and fewer enemies is never a bad thing. Otherwise, why would an author choose you if the payment is the same?"

"Moreover, while not gambling means you won't lose, you also absolutely won't win. Sometimes, going all in is a form of wisdom."

Seeing Robert's thoughtful expression, clearly having taken it to heart, Michael smiled with relief. Robert was a distant relative, which was why he was willing to be frank and offer his advice.

"Oh, right—"

"When you go to deliver the payment later, watch your tone. Don't give the impression that you're doing me a favor, otherwise it won't be a favor but an enmity..."

"Don't worry, Michael, leave it to me!" Robert assured him, nodded, and then turned and left the newspaper office.

-----------------

As Robert stood beneath the three-story apartment building on Cohen Street, he finally understood why Michael had said that Mr. Michelle's financial situation wasn't very good.

He came from a fairly well-off family and lived in the West End of London. So for him, this journey was like entering another world.

The streets were filthy, reeking of horse manure and urine; the crowds were ragged and numb; and the air was thick with the pungent smell of chemical plant emissions…

Downstairs at the apartment building, Robert encountered a middle-aged man dressed as a factory worker, preparing to go to work.

"Excuse me, does Mr. Michel LeBlanc live here?"

"Mr. Michel, he lives on the third floor of this apartment building. Let me show you there."

After saying that, he led Robert into the apartment building.

Robert climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor. The apartment building was quite old, and each step made a creaking sound.

"Mr. Michel, someone is looking for you."

Not long after, Robert finally met Mr. Michel.

When Michelle was woken up, she opened the door and saw two young men standing in front of her, one of whom was smiling and greeting her.

He knew both of them.

One was Mr. William, a neighbor in the apartment, who lived in a small cubicle on the second floor. He was a few years younger than Michelle. He was a senior technician in a textile factory, with a decent income, but because of his long years working there, he looked very old. He was only a teenager, but looked almost thirty.

William is usually quite helpful, always willing to lend a hand to anyone in need, and he also enjoys literature and poetry. Since Michelle is the only college student in the apartment building, he's come to ask her for advice a few times.

The other young man seemed to be the young editor who had been with Michael that morning. What was his purpose in coming? But since he was a guest, let's go inside first.

William seemed to be unwell, coughing badly. Seeing that the gifts had arrived, he said goodbye and left. He had to catch up on the textile factory's deadline.

"Please come in," Michelle said, ushering Robert in.

"Be careful!"

Robert nearly bumped his head against the wall as soon as he entered the house. Michelle's attic had a very low sloping roof, forcing him to walk with his back hunched.

The room was sparsely furnished; apart from a bed and a rickety table, there were almost no other items. The only window was sealed shut, and the room was illuminated only by the dim light of a tallow lamp on the table.

How could an author capable of writing a masterpiece like "The Last Leaf" live in such a place?

Robert felt a surge of emotion. He had originally thought that even if the author wasn't wealthy, he should at least have a decent study.

"Sorry, the place is a bit basic." Michelle casually moved a few books piled on the bed to make room for herself to sit down.

Robert opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.

He grew up in London's West End, and although his family wasn't wealthy, this kind of life was clearly something he had never experienced before. It's almost unimaginable that such a warm and touching story could have been born in such a cold and oppressive attic.

"Don't you find it strange that someone would write a story like that in a place like the East End?" Michelle seemed to see through his thoughts and said with a smile.

Robert blushed slightly and nodded somewhat awkwardly in acknowledgment.

"It's not surprising at all," Michelle explained. "For example, when you came here, you should have seen those street vendors, right?"

"I see, they look very tired and worn out."

"It's very hard work," Michelle said, "but what you don't know is that the baker would leave the burnt bits of bread for the little girl next door. The shoemaker would also fix loose heels for coachmen for free."

"Everyone here is struggling to survive, but it is precisely because life is difficult that everyone understands the importance of sticking together for warmth."

"Isn't it because of the cold that warmth is so precious?"

Michelle spoke calmly, as if she were recounting something perfectly ordinary.

Robert listened intently. Suddenly, it occurred to him that, from another perspective, the thirty shillings Michael delivered were nothing less than a "leaf" painted on the wall.

Mr. Michel was able to write such a story, full of pure goodwill and spirit of sacrifice, precisely because he was in such an environment and had witnessed countless such people and events.

His talent blossomed like roses in this barren land.

"I see."

Robert stood up and bowed deeply to Michel: "Mr. Michel, thank you for telling me all this today."

He felt that he had learned more today than he had in a year in the editorial department.

"Oh right, I got so engrossed in talking to you that I almost forgot about the important matter."

Robert patted his head in annoyance, took out a cloth bag from his pocket, and handed it over with both hands.

"This is?"

Michelle took the bag; it was heavy, and there was a faint clanging sound of metal.

Before he could ask for details, Robert spoke first, explaining, "Mr. Michel, this is the payment for your article."

"Mr. Michael has secured an advance payment for you and has sent me over immediately."

"It's been very interesting talking to you, but I can't stay any longer; I have things to do at the newspaper."

After Robert left, Michel opened the bag, and a blinding white light immediately entered his eyes.

A full thirty shillings.

This money can no longer be described as "help"; it's life-saving money.

Michael's ordinary face now seemed more approachable to him than God.

Holding the thirty shillings in his hand, Michel felt a surge of unprecedented security. It meant he no longer had to hide from his landlady, and it meant he could buy himself a chance to breathe in this cold era.

"For me, this was truly a godsend."

Michelle took out a few silver coins from her bag, weighed them in her hand, and suddenly laughed.

The newspaper would not pay the author's fee in advance, so it was clear that the thirty shillings were paid out of the editor Michael's own pocket.

He remembered this kindness.

Thank goodness, with this advance payment of royalties, he can finally pay off part of his rent.