Her Majesty the Supreme Queen, Supreme Literature, Supreme Honor!!>
"Heh, this is it."
Rudyard Kipling smirked as he spread the news about the Royal Literary Society, the Victoria Literature Prize, and Leo Tolstoy.
The power of the Royal Literary Society isn't just tangible.
It's the invisible, tightly-knit web of connections—unspoken but deeply rooted—among the political, economic, industrial, and academic circles. The kind of network aristocrats possess that never fades easily.
So it was simple. Exert influence on the newspapers not associated with George Newnes and subtly promote the Victoria Literature Prize.
In fact, even a hint was enough to make the papers eager to publish the story.
How could they not? A literary award named after the great Queen.
An award bestowed on the greatest work of literature in the world.
But that award is going to a Russian, not a Brit?!
There's no reason why the literature-loving (laughable) public of London wouldn't be outraged.
In other words, there's no reason the papers wouldn't sell.
This was Kipling's strategy.
"Outrage makes for good publicity."
At his core, he was a journalist, and he knew just how well "infuriating stories" spread among the masses.
Of course, the downside was that they could be easily forgotten, but for now, the priority for him and the Royal Literary Society was raising awareness.
And for that goal, the combination of the "Victoria Literature Prize" and "Leo Tolstoy" was the perfect bait.
"The public doesn't love literature. What they love is the national glory that literature can bring."
Kipling spoke coldly.
He knew well.
How the public was like cockroaches.
"Selfish, wicked, and shameless."
They throw away the future for a fleeting pleasure, and if you tell them a good-sounding story, they rush toward it like moths to a flame, believing it to be the truth.
Even now, those who truly love literature, like the members of the Royal Literary Society, understand how great a writer Tolstoy is, and how renowned he is worldwide.
He's more than qualified to receive the highest literary honour—perhaps even beyond it.
And they also know he deeply dislikes the Kaiser—and by extension, all the existing aristocratic powers.
Even though he is a Russian noble.
"He'll probably refuse."
A revolutionary anarchist accepting an award named after a queen—there couldn't be a bigger insult, could there? So Kipling thought that, despite his suggestion, Tolstoy would refuse the award.
And that would be just fine.
After all, that's why Tolstoy was chosen in the first place.
Then, the Royal Literary Society would frame it as "We tried to award this to a great writer beyond national boundaries, but alas, Tolstoy refused. Oh, woe," and give it to someone else.
In the process, the prestige of the Victoria Literature Prize and the Royal Literary Society would rise to new heights.
The person set to receive the award after Tolstoy had already been lined up, so that wouldn't be an issue.
"Heh. Fools."
And above all.
During this entire process, all the attention and issues surrounding the literary world would be buried under the Royal Literary Society.
Kipling twisted his lips as he looked at the June 20th date scheduled for the Victoria Literature Prize.
"Let's see you struggle."
***
"We've been played."
I bit my lip as I spoke.
The Victoria Literature Prize ceremony was set for June 20th.
It was supposedly scheduled to commemorate Queen Victoria's coronation day, but... we all know the real reason behind that choice.
Representing 'us,' George Newnes fumed in frustration.
"If this continues, our competition will be completely overshadowed! What on earth should we do?"
The competition, the Charles Dickens Literary Award, was set to be presented on June 9th, the anniversary of Charles Dickens' death.
And now this issue would slowly heat-up starting with this 'breaking news,' and right around the time of the official announcement, it would ignite into a blazing controversy.
Sure, you might think, "Isn't eleven days a decent buffer?"
But that's only in 21st-century Korea, where issues change by the hour.
In late 19th century England, where the fastest information relay was through salons and newspapers, eleven days are more than enough time for the fire to spread at a superconductor level.
In other words, our competition would be completely buried.
"Perhaps if we pick a work on Tolstoy's level... Is that impossible?"
We all shot a sharp glance at Mr. Bentley for his naive remark.
"On Tolstoy's level"—is that even possible?
"We'd have an easier time pulling down the moon."
Arthur Conan Doyle's comment:
"I'm not the one to say, but it seems like Ireland's independence will come sooner than expected."
This was Bernard Shaw's self-deprecating remark:
"Unfortunately, unless Charles himself returns from the grave… it will be difficult."
Lastly, the words of George MacDonald, the representative of the Writers' Association, were laced with bitterness:
"Hm, resurrection, huh… well, considering I'm a drifter in time, resurrection doesn't seem so far-fetched, does it?"
No, that's something from a multiverse. It's not something for this universe.
"Setting aside the impossibilities, let's think of a realistic way to respond."
"Do you have a solution?"
Representative MacDonald looked at me with eyes full of hope.
Hmm, that gaze reminds me of our first meeting.
—"You're Hanslow Jin, right?"
—"Yes, that's correct."
—"So young…!"
The representative seemed more impressed by my age than by the fact that I was Asian. In fact, when he grasped my hand, that's what he said.
—"Take good care of your health."
—"Oh, yes…"
—"Eat three meals a day, sleep by eight o'clock, and exercise regularly! Never overwork yourself!!"
Somehow… he seemed to have a deeply ingrained trauma.
Well, considering he lost Charles Dickens in such a way, I understand his desire to care for the well-being of his juniors.
But now, as for whether I have any ideas...
"I don't."
"... Really nothing?"
"There's really nothing."
I spoke as if I was wronged. The reason this is becoming such a hot topic isn't anything else.
It's nationalism.
As I mentioned before in France, white nationalism during this period had a certain hierarchy.
That infamous mustached figure's "terrifying ideology" was nothing more than a concrete and visual representation of the racial discrimination levels white people held at that time.
At the top were the Western Europeans from mainland Europe, specifically the blond-haired, blue-eyed whites. Below them, other whites like the Irish, Slavs, and Jews were treated like garbage.
How bad was it? Just look at gingerphobia, which even today is said to be as bad as modern discrimination against Black people or Asians. If they treated fellow whites like that, imagine how they viewed others.
As for the Chinese, Indians, and Arabs, they were at least acknowledged for their historical civilizations, and Japan was gaining recognition due to its rising status, but they were still seen as below whites and above Blacks.
The worst off, of course, were Blacks and Native Americans.
The latter didn't face as much attack because there weren't many in Europe, but the treatment of Blacks was… horrendous.
Among all these, Russians were Slavs. And with the political tensions between nations, Russia was as much of a threat to Britain as France was.
"In the end, Tolstoy is just an excuse. Whether he accepts or declines the award doesn't matter."
I pointed to the so-called "editorial column" in the newspaper. Though they call it a column, it reeks of the devil's advocacy.
"They're aiming to stir up controversy and fan the flames from both sides—supporters and detractors alike."
"Exactly."
"Hah, if they put this much effort into writing, they could've created a masterpiece of the century."
George Bernard Shaw snorted, mocking the Royal Literary Society.
Such a typical Shaw remark.
Then.
"Something's off."
Arthur Conan Doyle furrowed his brow as he held a pipe between his lips.
"This kind of sophisticated public manipulation doesn't fit the Royal Literary Society's style. Hardinge Giffard became its head because he was a well-respected jurist and politician, not because he had the most literary prowess."
"You mean… someone else is pulling the strings?"
"That's right, Mr. Newnes."
Arthur Conan Doyle lit his pipe as he searched for a lighter. Watching him, I couldn't help but mutter.
"Oh, as expected of Sherlock Holmes' creator…"
"Hanslow, do you want to get hit?"
"No, you've moved past that now, haven't you?!"
A pipe, a pipe! No matter how much the lighter isn't working, there's no need to scatter tobacco leaves everywhere. You're an adult, after all.
"What I've moved past is the issue of writing detective stories, not whether I acknowledge Sherlock. I may have written him, but that fellow still gives me the creeps."
"Got it, got it. Let's focus on coming up with a plan first."
Even with all the back-and-forth, I had to respect how he could speak so openly even in front of the company president. Watching George Newnes try to calm down Arthur Conan Doyle, MacDonald, the representative, spoke gravely.
"So, Arthur, are you saying the helm of the Royal Literary Society is now in the hands of someone adept at manipulating the press and public?"
"There's no other way to see it."
"Hm... if that's the case, then we can use our magazine's reporters. Let's have them thoroughly investigate Somerset House, where the Royal Literary Society is located."
George Newnes spoke casually, but I couldn't help but think of Dispatch. Though it's an online news outlet, its investigative prowess was nothing short of impressive.
Anyway, the real issue now is how to deal with the situation... is there no solution?
I had said there was no way, but I needed to give this some thought.
Surely, there must be a way this could work to our advantage, right?
"The best scenario I can think of right now is... for the award itself to be canceled. For example, if Her Majesty Queen Victoria were to find the literary award in her name distasteful and decided to abolish the Royal Literary Society's awards altogether, that would solve everything."
"But isn't that a bit too optimistic?"
"Well, it is."
I shrugged as I replied.
Even though I had a connection with Prince George, I couldn't just go, "Your Highness, could you ask your grandmother to cancel that thing?" It's not like the Queen is a kindergarten teacher.
"And even if Queen Victoria did cancel it, there would still be a problem. Whose name was used to establish the Royal Literary Society again?"
"George IV, Her Majesty's great-great-grandfather."
"Yes, they could simply rename the award after George IV."
Of course, George IV is often considered an incompetent king, so they probably wouldn't do that immediately.
But the important point remains: even if Queen Victoria wanted to, it would be difficult to stop the Royal Literary Society from giving out awards.
After all, with the Queen's busy schedule, could she pay attention to such trivial matters?
In that case, we need to steer public perception in a completely different direction... Perception?
"What if... Tolstoy was pro-British?"