Chapter 95 – End-of-Year Season (2)

George Bernard Shaw, as a Labor Party official, was also a politician with ties to the Liberal Party.

Therefore, he pushed forward a plan to completely shut down the Royal Literary Society and make the Writers' Union the center for writers... although it ultimately failed.

"I'm not exactly disappointed by the failure itself."

He knew from the start that it wouldn't be an easy feat.

After all, it was an association created by the former king, George IV. Just as creating something new is difficult, dismantling an established institution involves conflicting interests.

He had thought they would be lucky to get even half the votes, and the real goal was to secure support for the Writers' Union and pass a special law to aid the aspiring writers who had been affected this time.

That much was a success. But

"There were more opposition votes in Parliament than expected against the dissolution proposal."

Bernard Shaw spoke bitterly.

More than two-thirds of the votes had opposed the dissolution, meaning the Royal Literary Society's influence remained strong.

"It can't be helped. It's like trying to move an ancient stone. Of course, it's going to take a lot of effort to remove it."

George MacDonald said coldly.

Though he, too, was angry, he also knew how much that emotion could cloud one's judgment.

Thus, he did his best to remain calm. It was an act to help him maintain his composure.

"Those people are cunning and can hide whenever they want. They have enough money and political capital to do so."

The assets of the Royal Literary Society didn't come from the general public.

It came from the bourgeoisie, aristocrats, and members of the House of Lords.

They were falling behind the times, but their power, which had ruled over London's establishment for generations, was not to be underestimated.

If they couldn't turn those people around, they wouldn't be able to dismantle the Royal Literary Society.

—No matter how entertaining popular literature is, dissolving the Royal Literary Society seems a bit much.

—Besides, what's left of it if you take away Arthur Conan Doyle and Hanslow Jin?

—We're supporting it because the kids like it. Honestly, I still can't get used to this so-called popular literature. Back in my day, books weren't so frivolous.

Though she had been distancing herself from them recently, Queen Victoria, who had always been the head of the establishment and conservatism, was originally one of them.

Even if the name of the Royal Literary Society had fallen, it would be hard to send it into complete oblivion.

"Honestly, I'm a little envious."

George Bernard Shaw said sarcastically.

From the perspective of the Labor Party, which was still outside Parliament, it was indeed something to envy.

It made him want to 'grab a spear.'

He tried to brush it off with a smirk, but in the end, Bernard Shaw couldn't suppress his feelings and revealed his frustration.

George MacDonald, who nodded once in his direction, responded calmly.

"Fortunately, for now, we hold the advantage. The wind of victory is still blowing in our favor."

Popular literature naturally wins the affection of the public.

And as long as there isn't a war, the optimistic economic growth of this Victorian era will continue, helping the public grow even more.

The day when everyone receives equal opportunity, when each person has one vote, and when economic freedom is achieved, will be the day the Writers' Union fully triumphs over the Royal Literary Society.

Of course, conversely, it also meant that if the public weakens, popular literature would inevitably falter as well.

George MacDonald, gazing out the window as the snow slowly began to fall, said,

"Always be prepared for winter."

***

—That kind of discussion had come up.

"Hmm. Everyone seems to be going through a lot."

—What of it? It's the kind of work we have to do.

And it was work that needed to be done.

Arthur Conan Doyle's weary voice echoed through the telephone line. Hmm, I, too, had been pondering over that issue for a while.

When has popular literature not been under siege?

Of course, culture develops as the flow of the river pushes old waters out with the new.

Even in the Joseon era, novels, once persecuted as trivial stories, became mainstream, which led to the rejection of participatory literature. Then, participatory literature became the norm, and internet novels were disregarded. Later, even some internet novels embraced science fiction...

It's always been a cycle throughout history.

Watching these processes unfold, one often thinks, "The frog forgets it was once a tadpole."

So, I spoke confidently.

"Well, it should be fine. I think it's better not to rush into things."

—Hmm. You sound confident. Like you're certain about the future.

"Well, I mean... The Three Musketeers is highly regarded now, isn't it?"

I didn't say, "Because I've seen it in the future."

I simply mentioned that's how mainstream things develop.

Of course, just like classical music, many things progress by becoming more refined and formalized over time.

But the development of novels is a bit different.

As I mentioned earlier, the history of modern literature is a continuous cycle of frogs forgetting they were once tadpoles.

Which means that the tadpoles being disregarded today will eventually become frogs.

Isn't that the case with Arthur Conan Doyle, the person I'm talking to right now?

He may be looked down on now for writing popular literature like fantasy, but by the 21st century, his works will be praised as classics and masterpieces, with not a single critic denying their literary value.

"In the end, time will solve everything. Until then, we just need to keep writing well."

—Hmm... I hope that's the case.

"Well, alright then," Arthur Conan Doyle sighed weakly.

With that settled, I changed the subject, pretending to shift the mood.

"It's the New Year's holiday. Aren't you doing anything? Going on a trip or something?"

—I'm planning to head to Berkshire soon. My brother is graduating from Sandhurst.

"... Sandhurst? He's not in the cavalry, is he?"

Suddenly, unpleasant memories of Mr. Gallipoli and Churchill came to mind.

Come to think of it, that guy was in the cavalry, wasn't he? But how did he end up as the First Lord of the Admiralty later? I have no idea since I'm not familiar with the details.

Did things suddenly turn in his favor?

Regardless of my thoughts, I heard Arthur Conan Doyle's voice on the other end of the line, sounding as if he were frowning.

—The cavalry? That's a nest of parasites for rich aristocrats, isn't it? My brother is in the artillery.

"Artillery... well, that's a good choice."

—Is it? I'm not so sure...

Well, I'm not too familiar with how things work in pirate nations like England, but I served in the army of the Fire-Hell Peninsula, a nation of firepower enthusiasts who've been obsessed with artillery since ancient times.

Artillery, artillery, the bigger and more magnificent the bombardment, the better. That's the true essence of the battlefield. Ah, my country has always been one that chases away ghosts with fire.

Of course, launching artillery and the labor required to do so are completely different matters, but still.

Aside from that, artillery is safer, being stationed at the rear, rather than dealing with the chaos at the front lines, right?

—Is that so? Hmm. Your country's stories are always... refreshing.

"Well, even if it's not that, there's little chance of war breaking out anytime soon. If he's an officer, that's a good start."

World War I is still 20 years away, right? If he's graduating now, in 20 years he'll probably be a field-grade officer, directing strategy from behind the scenes.

It was the same in Korea. Continuing as an officer isn't easy, but the best life is retiring and living leisurely as part of the social elite.

In this era, being a former officer still counts as a qualification.

—Hmm, thanks for saying that. You should come to my house sometime. There's someone I'd like to introduce you to.

"Introduce me? Are they a writer, too?"

—Some are, some aren't... But seriously, are you a workaholic or what? Do you only meet people from the same industry?

"No, I just find making money fun..."

I mean, don't people in this era ever think like that? Seeing the money pile up in your bank account! It's satisfying just to look at it! That kind of thing.

Besides, meeting other writers isn't much different. It's just like indulging in a hobby.

These are people who draw more than just a single line in the literary world, so of course I'm motivated.

It feels like... well, like immersing yourself in a game you've dedicated your life to, enjoying watching the protagonists flirt with each other. How can you resist?

And depending on how it goes, it can even hit the jackpot, quietly filling my pockets. How could I not enjoy that?

Signed books and letters alone can fetch a fortune.

King Jeongjo's letters sold for 1.2 billion won, and there was a story about some letter on eBay fetching 3 billion won.

I even have some unpublished manuscripts from Jules Verne.

Moreover, I get to meet people, exchange stories, and gain new inspiration.

Writers are like sharks—if they stop swimming, they die.

The various inspirations I get from meeting people will undoubtedly be a big help in my future work, even if I don't realize it right away.

But despite my musings, Arthur Conan Doyle's voice remained flat.

—You really are... sigh. Anyway, alright. Let's meet before the holiday ends.

"Sure. Anytime."

With that, the oddly exasperated conversation with Arthur Conan Doyle came to an end.

Then, almost as if they had been waiting, Magi and Mr. Miller peeked from behind a pillar and approached me.

"Hanslow!"

"Hanslow, are you done with your call?"

"Ah, yes. Mr. Miller."

"Perfect timing. Everything is ready. Come on down."

"Haha, yes, understood."

Well, for the time being, neither the Miller family nor I were planning to head down to Ashfield. We'd be staying in London.

And for good reason.

"Wonderful! Excellent!!"

Clap, clap, clap, clap-!!

On stage, amidst the applause and cheers, Sidney Chaplin's eyes sparkled as he caught his breath.

But even those bright eyes were no match for the applause coming from Oscar Wilde and Richard Strauss seated below the stage.

And—

"This Christmas performance is flawless! Well done, everyone!"

Richard D'Oyly Carte, owner of the Savoy Theatre, beamed, his eyes undoubtedly shining even brighter than anyone else's.

The tears streaming from his eyes reflected the relief of finally staging a successful show after a long slump and the inner strength born from enduring hardship and humiliation.

"Haha, I'm delighted as well."

"Hmph, well, as expected, the original is superb, but the adaptation is also magnificent... Uh!"

"Haha, Mr. Carte, you've worked hard."

Strauss, Oscar Wilde, and I comforted Mr. Carte with a few words.

Although it had been a while since we'd seen each other at this preview, both Strauss and Wilde looked utterly exhausted.

Hmm, it seems they've been through quite an ordeal.

"Alright then, one more week!"

From Christmas to New Year's Day, the year-end season.

At the Savoy Theatre, the play Peter Perry and the Fairy Forest opens!

***

"Ha, these arrogant fools."

On a ship bound for London from the United States, a particularly short, bald gentleman snorted as he muttered to himself while reading through a pile of several months' worth of newspapers.

"The 'Charles Dickens Literary Contest'? Ha! Good grief."

After selling their souls and scribbling out tawdry phrases, were they now intent on exhuming his body and embalming it too?

'Such a thing could only be done by those vulgar popular writers.'

Of course, the gentleman acknowledged the power of popular literature to some extent. That's why he had written a piece of it once.

But that was merely an act of guidance!

No matter how lowly an Indian might be, since he is human, "Mowgli" will always be superior to the tiger Shere Khan. And however inferior they may be, a white man is inherently more superior than any person of color. This was a divine truth decreed by God.

In the same way, no matter what, pure literature would always be superior to popular literature.

No matter how much money a vulgar maid earned, she could never be as graceful as an aristocrat's daughter by birth.

He truly believed this.

And so—

"Mr. Kipling, please come this way."

"I'll say this in advance. Provide what the Earl of Halsbury promised me. Otherwise, I will not engage in any business with you."

"That goes without saying."

"Good."

Rudyard Kipling.

Advisor to the Royal Society of Literature, making his grand arrival in London!

<End-of-Year Season (2)> End