Is it possible for someone to completely reverse their opinion of another person in an instant?
I can say with certainty: yes, it is.
Of course, there's a prerequisite — that the opinion isn't based on a direct personal stake, the vaguer, the better.
Any impression formed without a personal connection, whether positive or negative, tends to be shallow and ambiguous.
So, with that in mind:
"Just get him to say something like 'I love England,' and public opinion on Tolstoy will flip."
He could praise London's mild climate, call fish and chips the "true food of the people," or compliment the British parliamentary system... something along those lines.
I know, I know. It sounds absurd. But let's just treat it as an example and move on.
The important thing is to have him exclaim, "England is amazing!" or something like that.
After all, the only reason the British public dislikes Tolstoy right now is that they don't know him. They just think of him as some Russian Slav.
And we'll broadcast that all over the place.
It's easy enough to spread the news — George Newnes' publishing house has the magazines and newspapers to do it.
"Hm... and then?"
George MacDonald still looked unconvinced.
"And then... we'll sprinkle plenty of flattery over the contest winners' recommendations. As Mr. Bentley said, it's hard to find anyone on Tolstoy's level, but we can say something like, 'This writer has been influenced by the great Tolstoy,' or 'There's potential for them to reach that level.'"
The best-case scenario would be if Tolstoy himself showed up at our contest as an award presenter or wrote a recommendation letter... but that's probably too much to hope for.
Anyway, the goal is to shift public perception of Tolstoy in a positive direction, and we'll ride that wave.
"... Do you think the public will change their minds so easily?"
"People generally like those who like them."
I glanced at Arthur Conan Doyle again.
He had once been sick of the Sherlockians, but here he was, writing Sherlock Holmes again for their sake.
Arthur Conan Doyle seemed to catch the nuance of my remark, giving a sheepish cough and a nod.
Yes, yes. I'll continue.
"Of course, this all depends on whether Tolstoy will go along with us. But... we all know how much of a rebel that man is."
Let's take a look at how many of Tolstoy's famous quotes talk about "how to become rich" or portray wealth in a positive light.
The man was... well, he didn't become a communist only because he was too committed to Christianity, but economically speaking, he was no different. He was a true Christian anarchist.
He believed that to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, the rich had to give up all their power and wealth and use it for the public good. He even had quotes that outright despised the wealthy.
It's pretty amazing, really, when you think about how he said all that sincerely, despite being incredibly rich and a nobleman by birth.
And we're all aware of it.
"So in the end, it's the question of who'll put the bell on the cat — no, the clock on the tiger's neck."
At that, Arthur Conan Doyle, George MacDonald, and the two publishing house heads fell silent.
Only George Bernard Shaw smiled broadly.
"Hm, very well, I'll take care of it."
"Bernard, are you sure?"
"If there's anyone here who can communicate with him, it's us at the Fabian Society, isn't it?"
Ah, of course. The old socialist.
Though he's a rebel of a different kind, I guess kindred spirits like him and Tolstoy would understand each other on some level.
"Well, you're not wrong."
Even the fiery George Newnes couldn't argue, though he grumbled. After all, Shaw was the wealthiest person here.
"Frankly, we can't be certain he'll listen to us. But we indeed have the best position to approach him in Russia."
"That's true."
Let's see... Is this the time when the Russian populist movements, like the Narodniks, were failing, and revolutionaries were rising? You know, like that guy who ends up embalmed, Lenin, the 'Communist Pharaoh.'
Hmm... just saying the name makes me uneasy.
It's not that Bernard Shaw or Mrs. Nesbit are radicals; they're just moderate socialists. They're some of the few popular writers at this time who don't discriminate, so we've been able to keep a good relationship with them.
But Lenin, and that future Iron Man of communism, they're just dictators, aren't they?
They indirectly ruined my early twenties, so with my Korean body, it's hard not to feel deeply uncomfortable around people like them.
But what choice do I have?
At this point, Shaw is one of our few reliable links to convey our message to Tolstoy.
Sure, we could try to reach him through Prince George. After all, the prince is cousins with the current Russian Tsar, Nicholas II. Yes, the same Nicholas II, father of Anastasia and Russia's last tsar.
... Which means even that connection is basically useless.
Tolstoy once heavily criticized Catherine the Great, so there's no way he'd respond well to Nicholas II's influence.
Anyway, Bernard Shaw will head to Russia to contact Tolstoy, and Newnes will take charge of discovering the Royal Literary Society's rising star.
For now, I guess all we can do is wait. Better than heading to Russia myself, at least.
"By the way, Hanslow."
"Yes, sir."
As the meeting came to a close and the atmosphere shifted towards wrapping up, Arthur Conan Doyle approached me with an unusually awkward expression. What could it be?
"Is this about the invitation we discussed before? If so, I can arrange it anytime..."
"Oh, that's part of it, but not the main reason. Actually, there's someone who wants to seek your advice."
"Advice?"
I couldn't hide my discomfort at the mention of advice. Even if it was Arthur Conan Doyle asking, I couldn't help but feel uneasy.
After all, since the discovery of X-rays, I had been inundated with requests.
It wasn't just Bentley Publishing; Newnes Publishing had also been sending me inquiries. I was worn out.
I could almost imagine how many troubles Arthur Conan Doyle must have faced with Scotland Yard.
"I'm sorry. But I couldn't refuse. It's a matter brought to me by my mentor."
"Your mentor?"
If we're talking about Arthur Conan Doyle's mentor, it must be him.
Joseph Bell, a pioneer in forensic science and a specialist surgeon at Edinburgh Medical School.
Why do I know a doctor and not a novelist? Well, that's...
"Is he the one who inspired Sherlock Holmes?"
"Hmm? How did you know that... Well, you're not far off. Sherlock's investigative techniques were heavily influenced by his medical views."
As expected. I nodded in admiration. It would be difficult to refuse such a person.
"He's a member of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and someone from there wants to consult you. Of course, if it's too much, you can decline."
"Hmm... No, he's your mentor. I'll at least hear them out."
"Thank you for agreeing."
With that, Conan Doyle smiled faintly, relieved.
"So, what's the consultation about?"
"Lead."
"... Excuse me?"
"It's a consultation regarding lead poisoning."
No.
Why is this coming up now?
***
"Ugh, ugh—!!"
A child who looked barely seven or eight years old was writhing on the floor.
The face that had once been as pale as marble was now completely blue.
"My God, Steve! Steve!"
The child's mother, Petunia Villiers, shouted in horror.
In just a few days, the child's condition, which had been stable, suddenly worsened!
At that moment:
"Aunt, please step outside for a moment."
"Vincent..."
"We need to make him vomit more."
What is he saying, when the child is already struggling?
But Vincent ignored her concerns, picking up the seven-year-old Steve Villiers and rubbing his belly, even inserting his gloved hand and patting his back to induce vomiting.
Isn't he going to kill the child? Petunia couldn't even protest and was on the verge of tears when, suddenly, something rubbery came out of little Steve's mouth. And then.
"Ugh, ugh... Mom...!"
"Steve...! Steve!"
The child cautiously opened his mouth. Petunia Villiers hugged him tightly and sobbed uncontrollably.
As Vincent watched the scene somberly, the butler of Petunia Villiers carefully picked up the rubbery object and asked:
"Master Vincent, do you know what this is?"
"Yes."
Vincent swallowed the words "perfectly disgusting" silently.
From his childhood in the slums, he remembered the madness and eventual death after consuming such things—his old comrades from the slums flashed before his eyes.
"It's a piece of paint containing lead. It has a gum-like texture and a distinct sweet taste of lead, so children from the slums used to chew it as a treat."
"Lead!?"
Lead—the toxic heavy metal that brought down the Roman Empire from within.
Why on earth would a noble's descendant like Steve Villiers have swallowed something like that, which would be more common among slum children?
Moreover,
"How did Master Vincent know about this?"
Before the butler could ask such a question, Vincent Villiers was the first to speak.
"By the way, butler, I've noticed that there are some new dishes and candle holder decorations in the house."
"Oh, yes."
"Who sent those?"
"What do you mean, Vincent?"
Petunia, who had been soothing the child, interrupted Vincent Villiers. Vincent shrugged and looked at Petunia—or, more precisely, at the child in her arms.
And
"Steve."
Vincent addressed his cousin, Steve Villiers, who was crying in his mother's arms.
"Y-yes. Brother."
"Who gave you this gum?"
"Well, um..."
Steve trembled, struggling to find an answer.
But eventually, the child gave Vincent the answer he wanted.
"Um... Uncle Gregory."
Gregory Villiers.
Vincent, with a twisted smile, nodded and looked at the butler.
"The person who sent the decorations is the same, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Throw them all away. They were gold-plated, but the inside was lead."
Gasp.
The butler inhaled sharply.
Petunia Villiers's eyes flashed with a chilling light upon hearing this.
"Butler."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Take Steve away. Feed him properly, and get rid of all the decorations as Vincent said."
"Understood!"
The exhausted butler, carrying Steve, departed. In the now empty room, Petunia Villiers—formerly Petunia Drake, daughter of the famous naval family and current First Naval Lord of the British Empire—glared at Vincent Villiers.
"Vincent."
"Yes, Aunt."
"You saved my son. Now tell me what you want."
"A familiar story."
A life for a life.
Vincent Villiers extended his hand and spoke.
"I wish to take Gregory Villiers's life. Will you help me?"
At that moment.
The avengers of the two had clasped hands.
End of Victoria Literary Prize (2)