Chapter 84 – The Age of Romance (5)

Bordighera, Liguria, Italy.

"Giorgio! Mr. Giorgio!! A parcel has arrived!!"

"I told you to call me George. You cheeky rascal."

Despite living there for nearly 20 years, he still spoke Italian with an unmistakable British accent.

Yet, beneath those words was a warmth, and the tip given by the old man's aged hand was even more endearing.

"Let's see, what's this parcel... Lewis? That's a name I've missed."

For a moment, George wondered if his old friend had been captured in the meantime. Though he knew well that Lewis, younger by eight years, was not the type to get into trouble, he couldn't help but feel anxious, given how unpredictable the world could be.

"Let's see..."

He examined the label carefully.

Fortunately, Lewis was safe. In fact, the message he had sent was promising news.

"Ah! A fellow who has begun such a lengthy serialization in children's literature."

Even a prolific writer with a weekly serialization... George thought it was youthful bravado, but he couldn't deny it was an impressive challenge.

Certainly, if the young man had the stamina and ideas to support him, there would be no better way to satisfy readers.

But... was that all this long-awaited news amounted to—introducing a new protégé? George frowned at the continued contents of the letter.

Arthur Conan Doyle. George Bernard Shaw. And.

"The Royal Literary Society."

The old man reflected that the world had indeed changed a lot since his retreat. In the past, he would have simply ignored those vile parasites or lazy creatures and forged his path...

Like his late predecessor, Charles Dickens had done.

But.

"To think they're even trying to summon retired old-timers. Heh, how troublesome."

Was it really that important? Or was there a reason that this time, it had to be this way?

He couldn't fathom any reason. There was no necessity for him to participate in such a request.

But, at the same time.

"It might be interesting."

The old man's mouth twisted into a grimace.

Ah, it had been such a long time of humiliation and persecution.

Even if he closed his ears and shut his eyes, could the suffering inflicted by them ever disappear?

Their colleague, the playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton, had left behind the saying, "The pen is mightier than the sword."

It was a particularly memorable phrase.

And if that saying were true, why did they think that scars left by the pen were weaker than those made by the sword?

There was no trace of the gentleness he had just shown in his eyes. What remained was only the smoldering fire of ancient revenge and lingering bitterness.

His appearance was akin to that of a battle-hardened old soldier.

Thus, the grandfather of fantastic literature.

George MacDonald decided to return home after a long absence.

"Ah, truly. So quick on your feet."

The president of the Royal Literary Society, Earl Halsbury Hardinge Kippard, clicked his tongue and set down the newspapers.

"Shocking conditions at Popular Magazine A!"

"How 'Chimera Fiction' is made! Underground workshop exposed!"

"We were just cogs in the writing factory"... Tears of aspiring writers.

Since last week, seven places have already been exposed.

There were a few more places that had produced plagiarized works like Brownie Bevin, but the rest were not nearly as extreme.

They were merely factory-style workshops, not much different from others.

Yet, even such places were being relentlessly pursued and captured by Scotland Yard, and behind them, by Arthur Conan Doyle.

The reason was obvious.

"Trying to enforce discipline."

He would have likely done the same himself.

At that moment, Hardinge Kippard suddenly felt a surge of annoyance.

Even though he had been admitted as a member of the Royal Literary Society, Arthur Conan Doyle had, in the end, joined forces with heretics like George Bernard Shaw to establish something like the "Alliance of Authors."

And subtly, he had been releasing prequels like The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Valley of Fear, heralding the revival of Sherlock Holmes.

It was as if he were about to return to popular literature once again, which was all the more irritating.

To him, it felt like an act of betrayal akin to that of Judas.

"Eating up everything he wants and then wiping his mouth clean. Truly, joining hands with such base scum was never the right choice!"

What was even more frustrating was that this move was perfectly conventional.

By shifting the focus from the work itself to the exploitation of the author, he could certainly take down those third-rate magazines.

In short, it was checkmate.

"Tsk. If you're going to write nefarious works, at least your actions should be nefarious to make it easier to target."

Would it be better to withdraw quickly instead?

As he pondered this while slowly clicking his tongue, he suddenly heard a knock on the door.

He instinctively looked up.

"What's the matter?"

"Excuse me, sir. A letter has arrived from America."

"A letter?"

Could it be that? He instructed them to open the door and, upon receiving the letter, began to read it carefully.

After confirming that it ended with 'accepting it with pleasure.'

"Phew. That's a relief."

If he returned, there would be a card to turn the situation around.

"Ha ha ha, yes. No matter how much you all flail about."

For now, there was no need for concern. That was what he thought.

Then, unfamiliar noises began to filter through the open door.

—What are you... Ugh!

—Stop... No one...

—It's a fire...

What was this?

Earl Halsbury Hardinge Kippard could only frown in confusion.

Born with a silver spoon as the son of a wealthy merchant, rising to the head of the judiciary and receiving a noble title, he could not allow himself to be flustered by such trivial matters.

"What are you doing? Do you even know who I am?"

But even he could not help but spring to his feet and erupt in anger at the sight of Scotland Yard and Arthur Conan Doyle leading them.

The intruders, however, seemed indifferent to such reactions, merely encircling him.

"Earl Halsbury Hardinge Kippard, is it not?"

Inspector Jones from Scotland Yard said with an awkward smile.

He produced a white paper from his pocket.

Kippard, who had extensive experience as a judge, could not fail to recognize what it was.

"A warrant?! How dare you! Are you trying to arrest me?! On what charges!!"

"What charges, you ask? The embezzlement of Royal Literary Society funds to sponsor and distribute illegal magazines."

And the one stepping forward was none other than Arthur Conan Doyle.

Hardinge Kippard glared fiercely at him, but Doyle merely met his gaze with calm eyes.

"You've crossed the line. President of the Royal Literary Society."

"Evidence?! How dare you claim that I, the President of the Royal Literary Society, the knight safeguarding the sanctity of the nation's literature, supported such rubbish!!"

He shouted vehemently, but it was of no use. Those standing before him calmly relayed the details in a dry voice.

"I have already secured testimonies from the magazine publishers. They've been babbling about how they were instructed to 'bury Hanslow Jin' after receiving investment funds."

Moreover, it wasn't just the investment funds.

Arthur Conan Doyle said with a smirk.

"We've also verified the manuscripts written by members of the Royal Literary Society from the magazine offices."

Including yours.

"You write surprisingly well. You live up to your name as the President of the Royal Literary Society."

"How do you know that was my writing?"

"Handwriting. And habits."

Arthur Conan Doyle said calmly.

"Unless you used a typewriter, no matter how much someone distorts or imitates another's work, the handwriting and habits inevitably show through."

Was the Royal Literary Society renowned for nothing? Evidence of their handwriting was already abundant in the market.

Especially since Earl Halsbury Hardinge Kippard was someone who had received his title through his work in the judiciary.

His courtroom records could be easily verified with the proper procedures at the court library.

If the magazines had transcribed the manuscripts with a typewriter and then burned the originals, it would have been impossible to find evidence...

"You should have trusted the people you trusted."

It meant they too were preparing for the possibility of being discarded when no longer needed.

Arthur Conan Doyle said with a mix of bitterness and mockery.

Previously, it had been seen as the 'banner' of literature in the British Empire, a position of utmost honor for a writer, established by His Majesty the King himself.

But now, it was nothing more than a rotting, politicized, and corrupted realm of old connections.

"If you truly are a gentleman who respects honor in the British Empire, it would be best to submit to arrest willingly."

"What, a gentleman?"

His face turned red with anger. Even so, Scotland Yard firmly held his arms.

As the handcuffs were about to be placed on Hardinge Kippard, he bared his teeth and flailed his arms, pushing Scotland Yard away as he shouted.

"How dare... how dare such vulgar people speak so audaciously...! I should have eliminated them back in Charles Dickens' day!"

"Hmmm…"

Is he revealing his true colors and confessing his crimes now that he can no longer hide?

That would be useful for the court.

Thinking so, Arthur Conan Doyle slowly nodded and prepared to listen.

"So, you wanted to bury popular literature even if it meant committing such disgraceful acts?"

"Of course! Since the days of Charles Dickens, your so-called popular literature has been like that! Vulgar, trivial, and meaningless scribbles!!"

"Ah."

"'Popular literature'? Literature, and books, are sacred! How dare you lowly ones utter such sacred words!!"

Kippard thundered with rage.

"Literature has value in itself!! What kind of beauty or ideal do you think the struggles of prostitutes trying to please the public represent? If even that is considered a book, are you saying that the walls defiled by those damned street protesters and anti-social communists are also books?"

"An interesting opinion."

Arthur Conan Doyle closed his eyes for a moment.

"Well, I once thought like that too, so I won't say you're completely wrong."

"Then!!"

"But if you truly thought so—"

Arthur Conan Doyle opened his eyes and said.

"You should have condemned us with your literature."

"The public is not foolish. Once, the weekly serialized novels popular between Charles Dickens and Hanslow Jin were indeed popular, but they were so poor in quality that they were overshadowed by monthly serials."

You should have done the same. Arthur Conan Doyle said.

"You should have used your literature to persuade the era and us."

But he didn't.

Kippard, thinking of attacking Hanslow Jin with methods other than literature, was no longer a true literary figure.

"A mere swindler."

Arthur Conan Doyle said.

So, he too responded with police power rather than literature.

As Earl Halsbury Hardinge Kippard closed his eyes, the police shouted.

"We found it!"

"The Royal Literary Society's financial records."

"Good, take them away!"

"Don't think this is the end."

Hardinge Kippard, grinding his teeth, said.

"Literature is sacred. I may have failed, but those who seek to protect that sanctity will continue to do so!!"

"Indeed."

Arthur Conan Doyle, exhaling deeply from his pipe, said.

"There will come a day when popular literature will also be pushed aside. The future is unknown to anyone."

But.

"At least, as long as the era of kings and nobility does not return… the day when narrow-minded writers like you become the mainstream will not come again."

"Kuh…"

At those words, Hardinge Kippard finally lowered his head.

Watching him being quietly led away, Arthur Conan Doyle extinguished the flame from his pipe and sighed deeply.

"Well, that settles one matter."

< The Age of Romance (5) > End