London, Somerset House.
"Hmm."
Rudyard Kipling, invited as an advisor to the Royal Literary Society, propped his stocky legs up on the table.
With the chairman absent, no member was there to stop him. Thus, he began to wield near-absolute authority in the chairman's seat, reviewing all the documents.
And his conclusion?
"It's a mess."
"Th-that's a bit harsh."
"Harsh?"
Kipling scoffed and shook his head.
Though his attitude was nothing short of arrogant, no one, not even the Royal Literary Society member who spoke, dared to oppose him.
And with good reason.
"Then shouldn't you have achieved something before calling me in? What does the Royal Literary Society do? Backing Arthur Conan Doyle? Using third-rate magazines to eliminate serialized novels?"
It was an utterly vulgar scheme, but it wouldn't have mattered if it had succeeded. If it had.
However,
"It failed! All of it! So, what exactly do you have to say for yourselves!?"
History is always proven by results, and a defeated general has no words.
A clever strategy only remains clever if it succeeds—if it fails, it becomes an incomprehensible, disgraceful tactic.
The Royal Literary Society members averted their gazes and quietly closed their mouths.
They could only wonder how such a loud voice could come from such a small body.
Yet, every word he uttered struck at their very core, proving why Kipling was a popular author and journalist.
If they were bureaucrats, they would have no excuse for the glaring mistakes laid bare.
But they were writers, after all. Artists, even. Their pride as artists often outweighed that of mere popular authors.
And artists, at times, rely more on emotions than achievements.
"… Then what do you suggest we do?"
"Yes, our Royal Literary Society must maintain dignity with every step we take."
"We're curious to see what someone fresh from America can offer."
As discontented voices slowly rose, Kipling scoffed once more. In essence, what were they saying?
'Honestly, what makes you think you're better than us?'
No matter his reputation, Kipling was still seen as an outsider.
And Kipling's response to this was simple.
Of course, nothing.
Rudyard Kipling knew this all too well.
He wasn't of noble birth, and his time as a Londoner was fleeting. His birthplace was, after all, Mumbai, India.
Had the Royal Literary Society not been so cornered, they would never have invited him. The previous chairman, after all, must have had his reasons for inviting Kipling.
So now, he had to show them.
"Of course, I do."
The kind of 'skill' that surpassed theirs.
"You lot completely misunderstand the purpose of the Royal Literary Society. What do the public—no, what do the voters and readers want from us?"
"Well… isn't it to research and promote British literature?"
"What nonsense! That's what universities are for."
Tsk tsk, how naive.
The sound of Kipling clicking his tongue escaped his lips and the face of the confident member who had answered flushed red.
Without giving him time to respond, Kipling declared:
"It's very simple! The Royal Literary Society exists solely to demonstrate that the British Empire is superior to others! That's the only purpose it serves!"
To elevate the literary and cultural prestige of the British Empire—that was the sole reason for the Royal Literary Society's existence.
As Kipling spoke, he pulled out a newspaper and waved it.
It was none other than a paper from George Newnes's publishing company, which advertised the upcoming competition.
"Now, think about it! Why would this so-called 'Writers' League,' a vulgar gathering of rabble, hold something like a 'contest'? It's simple! They're saying, 'We have money. So join us.'"
It wasn't a bad method.
And it did seem effective.
But Kipling, a rising journalist in India, could easily see the flaws in such a contest.
The inherent flaw of competitions, regardless of genre or field, was that they were a waste of manpower, resources, and energy.
The grand scale of advertising, the expensive prizes, and the painstaking task of screening each entry for fraud—just for a handful of ideas—was too taxing.
Yet, the reason for holding such events was clear. Like an expo.
"It's to promote, 'We're so rich and affluent that we can afford to hold such a competition.'"
In other words, the point of an award is to elevate the status of the giver, not the recipient.
That was how Rudyard Kipling explained it.
So, it was indeed... quite a brazen act.
Sure, they might have some money. But that doesn't change the fact that it's just pocket change earned by pandering to the masses.
The Royal Literary Society's financial resources are different.
Their wealth comes from ancient noble families, and it is so vast that it cannot be spent in their lifetimes.
In other words:
"We need to establish a literary award of our own. But! Instead of handing it out to the masses like some pointless competition, we should award it to a true literary genius of this era! Someone who has opened new horizons in the humanities!"
And the organization with the ability to recognize such talent—that's what the Royal Literary Society should be promoting.
"Sounds good in theory, but who do you plan to give it to?"
"I've already decided."
"What? You've already chosen a recipient?"
"Of course. Since we're the ones making the decision, what's the problem?"
We just need to have a few decoys in place.
Kipling smirked as he spoke.
As I said, this award is to elevate the prestige of the British Empire.
In that case, it's best to make it as international as possible.
The more political undertones it has, the better. But instead of awarding it to someone pro-government, it should go to someone persecuted for being anti-government. That way, it gives off the perfect rebellious vibe that is often admired in literature.
And if giving the award benefits the British Empire, all the better.
In short:
"A Russian."
"Exactly."
Kipling nodded in agreement.
As demonstrated by the Crimean War, even though the British Empire and Imperial Russia were the first and second victors of the Napoleonic Wars, they had been in a state of constant tension, just short of actual warfare.
The British feared that someday, Russia would cross the Central Asian gate and snatch away the crown jewel of the British Empire—the Indian subcontinent.
And rightly so.
On the other hand, the Russian domestic economy was in shambles, yet curiously, the more their economy crumbled, the more frequently literary prodigies emerged from Russia's absurdly unique landscape.
And as it happened, there was one such literary giant in Russia who even the British couldn't help but acknowledge—a natural-born dissenter, perfectly suited to their needs.
"Let's make Lev Tolstoy the recipient of our newly established literary award—the Victoria Literary Prize, named after Her Majesty the Queen."
Of course, they hadn't received the Queen's permission.
If Queen Victoria ever heard of such a thing, she'd be furious at the thought of her name being used for an award given to such an anarchist.
***
Christmas.
Even in 21st-century Korea, it's one of the busiest times of the year.
People, who would otherwise be careful with their spending, find their wallets loosening up. Those on a diet get a good excuse for a cheat day, and game companies host massive Christmas and New Year's events.
TV networks rerun the biggest movies of the year.
In a way, it's a peak season that culminates a year's worth of cultural events.
And as always, in culture, the big money is made when others are taking a break.
So:
"Come to Royal Haymarket! The greatest gothic novel of the golden age! The play Trilby is now showing!"
"Drury Lane! Come see the pantomime at Drury Lane! A hilarious comedy featuring the Invincible Armada! It's the perfect way to create lasting family memories!"
"At the Savoy Theatre, Peter Perry and the Fairy Forest! Come watch the play adaptation of Peter Perry!"
While most people were taking it easy this Christmas, the theater promoters were working hard, distributing pamphlets and placing ads in the newspapers.
And the winner among them was:
"Hehehe! Look at this, sir! Sold out! Completely sold out!"
"Congratulations, Mr. Carte."
Naturally, it was our play, Peter Perry and the Fairy Forest.
I just went to check it out myself, and the theater was packed—so much so that they had to put up 'Sold Out' signs. Yet there were still people outside trying to get tickets, with scalpers openly peddling them.
It's a good thing that, as the original author, I had a box seat reserved for me.
Not that I'm getting too cocky—it's not like I'm taking all the credit for its success.
The competition was fierce.
For instance, Trilby was a noteworthy work by George du Maurier, a French-British writer and illustrator. It was the world's first novel about hypnotism.
The depiction of controlling someone's mind was quite impressive.
Under normal circumstances, it would have been neck and neck with Peter Perry, but... perhaps Peter Perry had the advantage because it was Christmas.
It's hard to imagine families wanting to watch a sordid love triangle where a popular singer gets hypnotized by a creepy guy, right?
In short, the timing just wasn't right.
Plus, I had a little cheat code up my sleeve.
I glanced over at Oscar Wilde and Richard Strauss, who were sitting beside me, looking utterly drained.
I could hear their faint groans of "How could they treat a genius like this..." or "Pauline... Pauline... I miss you...", signs of the immense exhaustion they had been through.
Feeling a bit sorry for them, I made the sign of the cross over their tired souls, victims of too much canning.
May they find rest.
And as Richard D'Oyly Carte, pleased with the scene, smiled like the first-rate theater owner he was, he spoke.
"Hehehe, after all, we have the most famous writer in London and an equally renowned German composer, don't we? It would be a waste not to introduce them, given those names."
"Haha, yes, that's true."
I shrugged and nodded in agreement.
Even in modern Korea, when a director or playwright gains fame, they're often invited onto entertainment shows for publicity.
In other words, this is just us using our assets wisely. Hey, if you're upset, bring your celebrities.
Everything else was running smoothly, too.
Although the schedule was a bit tight with the constant crowds, the actors were given appropriate rest periods, and they were well-fed, too.
From a 21st-century perspective, it still felt a bit like overwork. But seeing them flying around happily, it seemed that people of this era were tough.
That's probably why they had things like the Dead Ball Era back then.
Anyway,
"Alright, then. I'll head back without worry."
"Haha, do come again soon with Mr. Miller. Whenever you wish, we'll always keep a box seat ready for you."
"Oh no, that's a bit too much."
A box seat is the most expensive, premium seat in the theater.
Even as the original author, I couldn't just take that every time.
I was content enough, so it was better to leave the joy for more people to enjoy.
As I laughed off Carte's playful banter and was stepping out of the theater—
"Oh, Hanslow! What a coincidence, running into you."
"Huh, what?"
I found myself face to face with a young couple coming out-of-the-box seats, holding a baby no older than a year.
The man, in particular, seemed familiar.
And for good reason.
"Wow, Your Royal Highness, the Crown Prince?"
"Yes, it's been quite a while since we last met."
He flashed a handsome, charming smile. Naturally, my gaze shifted to the woman holding the Crown Prince's hand.
Could it be?
"Allow me to introduce you. This is my wife."
"I'm Mary. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hanslow Jin."