"In the past, 'husbands and wives' shared their lives closely."
"But look how different things are now. Today, husbands live apart. Wives go about their work. When they meet on the street, they greet each other like strangers. Occasionally, the husband visits his wife. Sometimes, the wife invites the husband over for dinner, and on rare occasions, they spend the evening together. In short, couples these days hardly meet, see each other, talk, or share their hearts. They need each other only to have children!"
"Huh, how remarkable."
I marveled as I set down the manuscript of Paris in the 20th Century.
This book, which Jules Verne supposedly wrote in 1863, features a young man majoring in classical literature at a university.
In other words, a liberal arts student.
And the Paris of the 20th century depicted in the story is an excessively technologically advanced city.
A world filled with business and engineering, leaving no place for a liberal arts major. The protagonist loses his job at the company he works for, and the military, now consisting only of drones, rejects his enlistment.
He had someone he loved, but marriage as an institution had become so hollow that he couldn't even confess his feelings.
Eventually, after the death of her father, a professor of rhetoric, she too disappears, leaving the protagonist to die in poverty...
A story that's radical and relentlessly bleak—a dystopia through and through.
It was clear why people might have dismissed him as a 'man who tells outlandish tales.'
"What a character he was..."
But I couldn't bring myself to dismiss him.
After all, this...
This is a story that, while perhaps differing in details, closely resembles the future that actually unfolded.
Employment crises. A society that has become desolate. Gender conflicts. A vision of the future in which the population halves in fifty years.
The idea that drones would replace soldiers was a bit much. Even in the 21st century, labor costs were still much cheaper than hardware, so they just conscripted 'biological machines' and used them.
In reality, the nation that could afford those prices was conducting numerous operations using drones and gadgets.
If Verne had perfectly predicted even that, I might have thought of him as not just a 'genius of the century,' but a time traveler like me—a reincarnator, perhaps.
Apple-Cy Congrès.
"Anyway, it's no wonder the editor rejected it."
The current era is, on the surface, the most peaceful time in history.
To convey a message through writing, no matter how certain one is about the future, it has to resonate with the audience.
The Belle Époque was, how should I put it... optimistic if you're being kind, and delusional if you're not.
In this case, it was just way too ahead of its time. In such an era, a work like this would have seemed unmarketable to publishers.
Moreover, Jules Verne was a highly esteemed author. He had to manage his image, so he couldn't afford to publish a book that was bound to fail.
In other words, even the great writer experienced a slump. And, embarrassingly, it seems our conversation somehow broke through that.
Though, I wasn't too worried in the first place.
After all, Verne was known for never putting down his pen until the day he died. Whatever it was, I believed he would certainly produce something new.
And on top of that...
"Ha-ha, no matter how much it was just a promise made over drinks, once signatures are exchanged, it's game over."
Truly, wasn't this the greatest achievement of my trip to France?
Even as I gazed at the gloomy British skies, I felt like I could fly.
"A novel for the education of children, you say?"
"Yes, your imagination alone is a treasure. Many have dreamed while reading the stories you created, and even more will continue to do so. As people read Around the World in Eighty Days, they will be filled with the spirit of adventure and set out to explore. As they read Five Weeks in a Balloon, they will dream of humanity reaching the skies. And as children read From the Earth to the Moon, they will be inspired to create the device that will take us there."
"Hmm, you're gilding the lily here..."
"No, it will happen within a hundred years. I would stake everything I have on it!"
... I might have gone a bit overboard after a few drinks.
But fortunately, he responded positively.
"Good, I had been unable to bring myself to write, burdened by worries about the distant future. But knowing that I might play a positive role in it... well, I couldn't ask for more."
With that motivated attitude, he seemed to revert to the face of a man in his twenties, saying he had found new joy in his once tedious life as a city councilor.
"Alright, I can't fall behind now."
Even at an age that's far from young, the sight of my esteemed senior burning with passionate creativity ignited my motivation as well.
Having just taken a restful break in France, and with the public uproar in London over the conclusion of Peter Perry having finally quieted down, I figured it was about time to launch the new project I'd been planning. That way, I could make the most of 1895.
... At least, that's what I was thinking.
"You're finally back, dear authorrrrrr!"
"B-Bentley?"
As I arrived at the entrance of the publishing house for the first time in a while, I was greeted by a sight resembling a retriever joyfully leaping at its master after years of absence.
Literally charging at me as if his hair were about to fall out, Bentley panted heavily as he gripped my shoulders tightly.
"What on earth is going on?"
"It's not 'what on earth is going on,' it's 'what are you doing?!'"
His unusually excited demeanor struck me as odd.
What is this? There shouldn't have been any issues while I was away... Could it be that the readers' reactions haven't calmed down as much as I thought?
No, that can't be it. Everything seemed perfectly peaceful on my way here.
Hmm... Could it be?
"Oh, is this about Vincent Villiers and that matter from America?"
"No, no! That's been handled quite well. No big issues there."
Huh? Not that? Then what is it?
Bentley still couldn't calm down, his excitement reaching fever pitch.
"It's an emergency! A major emergency!!"
Well, even if you say that, I'm still completely in the dark...
As I stood there, bewildered and struggling to grasp the situation, someone appeared and gave my shoulder a reassuring pat.
"Hey there, just got back?"
"Oh, sir?"
I witnessed a familiar face in a familiar place, but it was still an unfamiliar sight.
Arthur Conan Doyle at Bentley Publishers? What on earth is happening? As I tilted my head in confusion, Conan Doyle shrugged his shoulders and said,
"A lot has happened. It's a good thing you're back."
"But, sir, why are you here?"
"Well, because of what's happened, Bentley here asked me to serialize my work in The Weekly Temple."
"What?! Your work in The Weekly Temple?"
This was something I hadn't even imagined. I looked back and forth between them with astonished eyes.
Of course, if it's Arthur Conan Doyle's weekly serial, it'd be more than welcome.
"We can discuss that later... For now, take this."
"Huh?"
Still bewildered, I accepted the card that Conan Doyle handed me. What's this?
Alliance... of Authors?
"It's nothing much. Just a little salon we've been talking about, where authors can come together when they need help with something difficult to handle alone, or just when they want some company during a lonely tea time."
"Ah."
So, it's like a writers' union with a more social aspect?
Come to think of it, even before I left, there had been a major strike by writers in the English-speaking world over the AI issue. I had to admit, I was a bit envious of that.
"Of course. Of course, I'll join."
"Oh, by the way, does that mean the serialization in The Weekly Temple as well?"
I asked, the thought crossing my mind, and Arthur Conan Doyle nodded.
"Bentley asked me for help. As your friend, and as a member of the Alliance of Authors, it wasn't something I could ignore—"
But given the current situation, Arthur Conan Doyle glanced at the frantically pacing Bentley with a wry smile.
It seems Sir Arthur Conan Doyle might have some idea of what's going on, hmm.
"It'd probably be faster to hear it from Bentley. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure myself. But seeing him like this, well..."
"Why don't you enjoy a little souvenir I brought back from France while you wait?"
"Hmm? What is this?"
"An unpublished short story by Jules Verne."
"What?!"
Arthur Conan Doyle exclaimed as he eagerly snatched the manuscript of Paris in the 20th Century from my hands. Now that I think about it, he is quite an avid reader and bibliophile.
Arthur Conan Doyle is the kind of person who seems to have read every novel ever published in this era.
So, naturally, his eyes lit up at the mention of an unpublished Jules Verne short story.
Like an eagle swooping down on its prey, Arthur Conan Doyle snatched the manuscript from my hand.
Meanwhile, I calmly addressed Bentley.
"Bentley, please, take a deep breath and tell me exactly what happened while I was away."
"Uhhh... Alright. Phew... Maria, could you bring those over?"
"Yes, sir."
Finally coming to a halt, he called for a staff member.
An editor, who had been observing the situation from outside, came in carrying several unfamiliar magazines in both hands.
Punch, The Tatler, Black Typhoon... A real hodgepodge.
But still.
"What is all this?"
What does any of this have to do with me?
I asked Bentley with genuine curiosity. He sighed deeply, as if in disbelief, and replied with a strained voice.
"They're weekly magazines that have been publishing... plagiarized versions of your work."
"... Excuse me?"
"To be precise, it's not exactly plagiarism, but...! Ugh, it's hard to say it's not plagiarism either..."
What in the world is this supposed to mean?
Feeling utterly confused, I opened a few of the magazines.
What I found inside was roughly like this...
—Young Sally ventured into the forest where witches dwell. In the forest lived familiars who had escaped from their witches. The familiars crowned Sally as the new witch, leading a rebellion against the old witches...
—Roberto, an Italian merchant, traded around the Mediterranean but was beheaded by a treacherous Ottoman prince for refusing to pay a bribe. Swearing vengeance on the Ottomans, he possesses the body of the youngest prince with the help of an angel after his death...
—After a typhoon hit Florida, a Chinese sorcerer named Ping Pam Fung, who had stolen the power of the storm, endowed a righteous sailor named Nils with that power. But Nils, instead, used the power to crush the evil Chinese sorcerer's clan...
Good heavens.
What on earth are these horrifying hybrids?