I had acquired a slave, but to be honest, I couldn't continue managing this unpredictable time bomb forever.
Fortunately, though, I knew a specialist for this job.
"Now, please sign quickly."
"T-this is outrageous! Me, serialized in a magazine! Such unremarkable and mundane writing…"
"Shut up and do it!"
As George Newnes watched with a grin, Oscar Wilde had no choice but to sign the serialization contract while sobbing.
"Now, from this point on, you're at my disposal."
"Ha ha ha! Of course."
"Mr. Wilde, it would be best if you don't think of running away. If you make a mistake, these two will chase you to the ends of hell."
"T-this is… a violation of human rights!"
Why bother?
Sometimes, certain professions come with a set of inevitable attachments.
Just as journalists stick to celebrities or courtiers to kings, these peculiar relationships are inextricable.
A certain ominous feeling of being relentlessly pursued.
And sadly, this poor lamb named Oscar Wilde had been caught in a double bind.
"Heh heh heh…"
The editor attached to the writer.
No matter where you run or what you do, a relentless pursuer. No, a tracker who makes sure you fulfill your contract.
And the man before me, who now shone with a glint in his eyes, was none other than the devilish head of a newspaper who tormented even Arthur Conan Doyle until he was freed after killing Sherlock Holmes.
Oscar Wilde, with his body and mind both fragile, had no chance of escape.
And, to add one more thing:
"Should the designated amount not be deposited monthly, our Rothschild debt collectors will come after you."
"Ugh…"
This side is truly terrifying.
The relationship between debtor and collector is far stronger than usual.
It's like hunter and hunting dog.
Once you become a debtor, you're no longer a client, so while manners are observed, no means are spared.
They simply collect the money.
I felt a shiver as I looked at the sharp, menacing man with a long scar on one cheek, introduced to me by Lionel Rothschild.
If it was this bad for me, who had no guilt, how much worse must it be for Oscar Wilde? His eyes were darting around frantically.
If he hadn't gotten into debt in the first place…
Anyway.
"Now, Mr. Wilde, you'll be staying in the prop room of the Savoy Theatre from now on. Since you can't go home, isn't it just as well?"
"Uh… Ah… Ugh…"
"Yes, yes, I'll inform the troupe manager to ensure you're provided with three meals a day. And, being English, we can't skip tea time. I'll make sure you have coffee in the evenings as well."
"Eek! Eek!!"
I mean, who else would go to such lengths for someone with no home or money? Providing work, meals, and lodging.
Even attending to the quality of life for night shift workers… I might get labelled a red by the street folks.
Smiling, I watched George Newnes lock the door of the prop room and, with a moved Oscar Wilde in tow, we moved to our next location.
"Mr. Wilde, you've arrived."
"Sorry, sorry, Mr. Wilde! I really meant well…"
"I know, I know."
Why so jittery?
I patted Richard Strauss's shoulder as he was with Mr. Carte.
Of course, bringing in a cancerous presence was a grave mistake, but it's also true that I gained a diligent employee, so I am grateful.
Finally, in the dressing room where Oscar Wilde joined, all the main players of this play were gathered.
The original author, me, the scriptwriter, Oscar Wilde, the composer, Richard Strauss, and the producer, Richard Doyle Carte—four of us in total.
"What is this place? Huh? What more are you going to make me do!!"
"Stop whining."
When assigning work, I don't give people tasks they can't do. I give them challenging tasks they can manage.
After all, you're a genius, right? Just pull out what's in your head; it's a simple task.
"Mr. Wilde, your final task is to adapt this into a play and bring it to the stage."
"This is… Ah, 'Peter Perry and the Fairy Forest'. Hanslow Jin, it's your own writing. Aren't you going to do it yourself?"
"Unfortunately, I don't know much about opera. Such things are best left to professionals."
I shrugged. Even Arthur Conan Doyle failed at writing plays.
Let alone me, who only knows some opera pieces for work. Why bother?
Oscar Wilde's downfall was because he relied too much on his own eloquence. I won't make such a mistake.
"But Mr. Wilde, you should be more than capable."
"Ha, of course."
Oscar Wilde, who had just moments ago had a lifeless gaze, now raised his haughty nose again after a brief respite.
He quickly skimmed through my book, nodded, and said,
"It's indeed bizarre. The sentences are garbage, but the dialogues are simple yet stirring. Truly, it's a peculiar style of writing."
"Set aside my writing skills. So, is it possible?"
"It's probably easier than other novels. After all, this is essentially a script. Since the focus is on scenes and dialogues... hmm, if we condense the unnecessary scenes and maximize the direction of the important parts, it should work."
As he delved into his work, he became serious in an instant, scratching and rewriting on the book with his fountain pen, adding layers to it.
After scribbling for a while, he looked up at Strauss, saying, "The issue is with this fellow."
Strauss, who had been silent, met Wilde's gaze with a somewhat pained expression.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're Strauss, right? Richard Strauss, the son of 'that' Franz Strauss?"
"Yes. It seems even Mr. Wilde knows my name…"
"I've heard the story of how things went badly."
It felt as if a loud thud echoed.
Or did it really? That sound was probably Strauss banging the table.
Oscar Wilde, however, merely regarded the stern-faced Richard with a cold gaze and said indifferently,
"I've seen every play and opera in Europe while performing 'Salome'. I know what Germans think. They believe only a perfectly crafted, Wagnerian symphony is true music. Am I wrong?"
"Isn't that so?"
"No, no! That's what Germans are like! Who cares if it's meticulously crafted? Who even notices?"
I couldn't help but chuckle.
Oscar Wilde's exaggerated gestures might be somewhat annoying, but he was undoubtedly one of the greatest playwrights of the Victorian era.
"Of course, some races might have the capability! But do you think there are many? Especially in the musical wasteland of London?"
"Ahem! Mr. Wilde, criticizing one's homeland is a bit…"
"Am I wrong? Mr. Carte, I even know Gilbert and Sullivan! They whined about wanting to do serious drama, didn't they? Despite their limitations!"
I noticed Richard Doyle Carte turning his head in response to this remark, clearly left with no retort.
It seemed I had hit the mark.
"There was also a desire to maintain the Savoy Theatre's unique character. To differentiate from other theaters, we needed our own distinct flavour, which I captured with the easy-to-understand operetta for the masses."
"Now, young man. This is Mr. Carte's stance."
Oscar Wilde's comments were clearly directed at Strauss.
The German genius composer's expression was deeply furrowed, but he soon nodded and said,
"In short, we need music that's easy to play and listen to, yet suitable for the story."
"That's right! And to achieve that, the emotions! More emotional! We need a tone that can dominate, no, overwhelm and control the audience!"
"I understand. In that case, we'll emphasize a more melodious and mysterious tone by…"
"Ah, so you've learned something, haven't you!? Now, consider this. Since there are many young characters and women, let's increase the soprano parts…"
"You know it! To express intense emotions, sopranos are essential!"
At first, there seemed to be a bit of contention, but before long, the conversation was centered around Oscar Wilde and Strauss. Their eyes sparkled with a brilliant golden light, as if stars were resonating.
It was clear from the start that these two, though seemingly different, had a mysteriously aligned synergy.
I exchanged a glance with Mr. Carte and stepped outside, letting the two geniuses continue their discussion.
"How is it, Mr. Carte?"
"It's remarkable. If those two generate such good synergy, it's likely a great masterpiece will emerge."
"Indeed?"
It seems geniuses attract one another, as if there's some inherent pull among them.
"Well, now we only need to prepare the actors."
"Yes. The public audition schedule is already set. Honestly, even in the first round, there were so many applications that we had to filter out quite a few based on paperwork alone."
That's good.
I nodded with a smile.
The reason for the success of audition programs like You Are a Singer or The K-Star in Korea is clear.
Not only do they serve as excellent promotional tools, but they also help secure consistent talent.
While I may not know much about actors of this era, England is famously known as the birthplace of great actors.
Christopher Lee and Ian McKellen, who fought grandly over wearing white clothes, James Radcliffe and Emma Watson, who appeared every time OCN was on in their youth, and… who was Tom Holland? Andrew Garfield is the only Spider-Man from England, right?
Anyway, there was also the black-and-white film that the morality teacher used to show…
Thud.
At that moment, I felt someone bump into me from behind.
Turning around, I saw a young child in a fairy costume, having fallen backward, looking up at me with teary eyes.
"Sorry, sorry!"
"Oh dear, Charlie! What are you doing? Apologize to the writer right away!"
"Haha, it's alright."
I forced a smile and helped the child up.
"Are you okay, little one?"
"Yes, yes! Thank you!"
Hmm, it seems the child is playing the role of Reese.
It's not an easy part, but for such a young child to take it on… Is the talent really exceptional?
Curious, I asked the child's name.
"What's your name?"
"C-Charlie. Charlie—"
At that moment, my previous train of thought seemed to resume.
"Chaplin."