Hello World
The world is changing.
Some might argue that it has always been changing, but the 19th century was fundamentally different from any era that came before it. It was a paradigm shift as profound as humanity’s transition from a hunter-gatherer society to an agrarian one.
Capitalism in its truest sense was moving past its embryonic stage and maturing, fundamentally altering the ideologies of the entire world.
“Engels! Engels!”
“Good heavens, man. What on earth is the matter? Weren’t you supposed to be in London?”
Engels, who had been diligently writing the ghostwritten articles that Marx would eventually publish, could not hide his bewilderment at his friend’s sudden visit. While Marx was technically a correspondent for the New York Tribune, he rarely ever set foot in the field. His method of journalism involved digging through archives in the British Museum reading room and sending off the research Engels had compiled, claiming it as his own work.
Of course, Engels generously tolerated this laziness, believing that true geniuses were beings who lived by their wits rather than their feet.
But for Marx to come all the way to Manchester himself? This was no ordinary matter, and Engels couldn't help but feel a flicker of anxiety.
“Did you... get into some kind of trouble? Just how much money do you need to have come all the way here yourself?”
“No, of course not. What kind of person do you take me for?”
“What kind, you ask...”
He was a genius possessing the greatest insight, intuition, and knowledge in Europe, yet a parasite so lazy that he never thought to earn money with his own hands, always reaching out to his friend instead. He was a brazen man who slapped his own name on the articles Engels wrote for him without showing much gratitude. He was a fool who squandered money, claiming he had to live like a gentleman despite being unable to earn a single penny. Even this year, he had been whining about having zero pennies to his name while smoking only the finest tobacco. And yet, the sudden, piercing insights he would occasionally toss out were enough to send shivers down one's spine.
That was how Engels saw Marx.
“Then why on earth did you come here in person? You could have just sent a letter.”
“Ah, the truth is, I’ve caught a scoop. I wanted to tell you about it myself.”
“A scoop? You?”
Engels’ eyes widened. The man who usually holed himself up in his room, gnawing on dusty books from the British Museum, had caught a scoop?
“Did you discover an alien somewhere?”
“Haha, you joker. I met with James Seuret, who recently arrived in London.”
“...What?”
Who did he meet?
“J-James Seuret? The Cotton Prince, the hero of the South?”
“Yes. That man.”
“You? Personally? You didn’t send someone else in your place, you actually went out to cover the story yourself?”
That was absurd. Was the man standing before him not Marx, but a capitalist lackey disguised as him? For Marx to go out into the field on his own? That was more ridiculous than the Flat Earth theory.
At Engels’ shocked reaction, Marx clicked his tongue shamelessly.
“My friend, I am a journalist, too. Isn’t it natural for a journalist to chase a scoop by running around on their own feet?”
“...It is certain that you have the talent suited for a journalist.”
“Ahem. Anyway, that man is no ordinary fellow. He is the first existence to make my academic passion burn this brightly.”
Marx’s eyes shone intensely, as if he had just gained an insight that pierced through the vast structure of society.
“Look at that massive experiment he is conducting, Engels.”
“An experiment? You mean the introduction of a wage system after the abolition of slavery?”
“It’s not just a simple wage system. He is piercing through the limitations of current capitalism, whether instinctively or theoretically!”
Marx pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his coat pocket.
“Look at the way he treats the Black laborers. He provides wages far exceeding the minimum cost of living, medical support, and even education.”
“Certainly... when I only heard the rumors, I thought some utopian socialist had appeared. He’s operating in a way that’s just asking to be called a ‘Red,’ yet they say the profits are enormous.”
“Exactly. That is the point. Yet he is making money.”
“Then does that mean he could become a transitional model that overcomes the contradictions of capitalism and moves toward an ideal socialism?”
It was proof that the socialist paradise, so mocked by the countless capitalists of Europe, could actually arrive in reality. However, at Engels’ hopeful question, Marx shook his head firmly.
“No, it is the exact opposite.”
“The opposite?”
“He is binding the workers more cleverly and viciously than typical capitalists.”
“...”
“Slavery enforced by the whip is a relic of the past. He has learned how to enslave workers more perfectly with the invisible chains of wages and welfare. Would a well-fed, warm slave ever try to bite their master?”
Now that he mentioned it, that seemed plausible. If they were satisfied and remained content within the current system, they would have no reason to desire the arrival of a new society, be it socialism or communism.
Marx slammed his desk in excitement.
“Perhaps... I might have to rewrite the contents of Das Kapital, which I am currently compiling. Capitalism might be evolving much more flexibly and cunningly than we think.”
“But won’t other capitalists loathe such methods and brand him a ‘Red’?”
“That, too, will be a part of the development process of capitalism. A clash between the old generation and the new. In any case, James Seuret—isn’t that man a truly interesting subject of study? I must keep watching him.”
It had been a long time since he had seen his friend this excited. To think there was a person who could stir that genius so deeply. Engels made up his mind to investigate the materials regarding James Seuret intensively.
“Then, Marx. If you have time later, perhaps we could go to Mississippi for a field survey...”
“Ah, before that, Engels. I don’t have the money to buy a ticket back to London. I would appreciate it if you could handle that.”
“...”
I wondered why he was so quiet this time.
“And could you give me 10 pounds so I can smoke some tobacco and clear my thoughts on the way?”
“...”
...Well, at least he showed the sincerity of coming here himself to ask for money. He let out a deep sigh and opened his wallet. Still, if James Seuret were to recognize his friend’s genius, perhaps he could share the burden of feeding this money-eating hippo. His desire to visit Mississippi was growing stronger by the moment.
Hanover Square, St. George’s Church, was a landmark where the British upper crust clamored to hold their weddings. Normally, one had to go through a process of at least three weeks to marry in such a place, but James Seuret, for the sake of his father-in-law’s prestige, paid the money and received a special license from the Archbishop. It was, in effect, a "free pass" that allowed one to skip all procedures and hold the wedding immediately, and it was one of the church’s sweet sources of income.
Leo, James Seuret’s Chief of Staff, naturally handled all sorts of matters on Seuret’s behalf, ensuring the Chairman was prepared to focus on meeting the VIPs who matched his status. And finally, the day of the wedding dawned.
Leo, dressed in a suit made of the finest British fabric, directed the groom’s movements and guided the guests as Seuret’s closest aide.
“The Prime Minister and the Ministers will arrive in about eight minutes. If you encounter figures from the Conservative Party, the atmosphere might dampen, so please guide them naturally so their paths do not cross.”
“Understood.”
“And as for business-related matters, I will handle them first so that the Chairman’s attention is not diverted...”
Leo was perfect. From the dark navy suit tailored by the best tailor in England to his unwavering posture and his agility in understanding the tricky accents of the nobility.
The high-ranking officials of the Liberal Party could not hide their satisfied smiles as they watched Leo.
“Look at that fellow. Isn’t he excellent?”
“Indeed. The idea of putting a Black secretary at the forefront was truly brilliant.”
In this wedding, Leo was more than just a Chief of Staff. He was a living trophy proving that the free trade and enlightenment they supported were correct, and a symbol guaranteeing the morality of the Seuret family and the Liberal Party, showing that a freed slave was successfully performing his duties as the right-hand man of the South’s greatest tycoon.
Soon, the ceremony was held, and after the groom and bride finished their procession amidst grand celebratory cannon fire, the reception followed. Leo, trying to calm his trembling hands, bowed his head to the old gentleman before him.
“It is an honor to meet you, Prime Minister.”
“Oh, are you Seuret’s Chief of Staff? I’ve heard the stories. They say you are a very capable fellow.”
My goodness... just who am I standing in front of? Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount Palmerston. The current Prime Minister of the British Empire and the man with the most powerful authority in the world was shaking his hand. Leo found it difficult to steady his mind in the face of this reality. Even if he had met the President of the United States, he probably wouldn’t have been this shocked.
Just a few years ago, he was a slave in Mississippi who bowed his head in fear of the whip, but now, in the heart of London, he was looking the Prime Minister of the Empire in the eye. A thrill ran through his entire body, and his eyes grew hot with tears. If only he could show this overwhelming sight to Ben, Henry, and his wife Sarah back home. If they had come here, they could have shared this emotion together. Next time, he would definitely ask the Chairman to let him bring them along.
It was when he was catching his breath in a corner of the banquet hall, soaked in such emotion, that a sound hit his ears. Tap, tap. A frivolous friction sound.
“Hey, you there.”
Leo, seeing the human who approached reeking of alcohol, quickly racked his brain to recall who it was. It must have been John, the second son of a baronet family affiliated with the Liberal Party. His face was flushed red from how many glasses of champagne he had downed, and he arrogantly shook his empty glass.
“The glass is empty. What are you standing there for without any sense? Go fill it with ice and bring it back. Be quick about it.”
The eyes of those around them turned to the two men in unison. Whether it was a misunderstanding or an intentional provocation, there was no doubt that it was a clear insult. However, Leo was not flustered. Instead, with a relaxed smile on his lips, he lightly brushed off the ‘Seuret Cotton’ badge pinned to his lapel.
“I apologize, sir, but the waiters here are wearing red vests. My suit is a dark navy color made by a master tailor in London.”
“...What?”
“I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or if you had vision problems to begin with, but it would be best to get an eye exam. Color blindness is nothing to be ashamed of.”
He had returned the insult with an insult, but since it was clear who had provoked it first, the man couldn’t really protest. As giggles erupted from the surroundings, John’s face turned beet red. How dare a Black man, and a former servant at that, talk back to him, a nobleman?
“You... insolent! I don’t know who your master is, but they taught you very poorly!”
“The word ‘master’ is no longer used, even in the South.”
“Ha! Even so, if you’re from the American South, weren’t you a slave, too? To think you’d be acting so high and mighty when it hasn’t even been that long since your shackles were removed. It’s ridiculous to see a savage dressed up like that! The fabric must be weeping.”
The atmosphere turned icy at the remark that had crossed the line by quite a bit. But surprisingly, Leo, the person concerned, felt no emotion at all.
‘Is this all?’
Perhaps because he was a noble, his skill in insulting others felt significantly lacking. To at least make someone feel bad, he should have at least asked after his parents. Was that even an insult?
Just as he was about to let out a dry laugh, a middle-aged man in a flashy vest walked out with a pleasant voice.
“My, I didn’t know the dignity of the Liberal Party was at this level.”
Benjamin Disraeli. One of the top-priority figures James Seuret had placed on his watch list. He walked past the coldly stiffened John, approached Leo, and politely took off his hat.
“Mr. Leo. Someone of our England—no, someone of the Liberal Party—has committed a discourtesy to a precious guest. I shall apologize on his behalf.”
“Ah, no, sir. It’s just that he was drunk and his words slipped out for a moment.”
“Just because one is drunk does not excuse rudeness. Isn’t that right, Prime Minister?”
Where Disraeli’s gaze turned, Prime Minister Palmerston, who had just witnessed this scene, stood with his face thoroughly twisted. He had been nervous about giving the Conservative Party any excuse to attack him, and the fact that a single loach had muddied the water was clearly displeasing to him.
“You, what is your name?”
“P-Prime Minister... that’s not it, I am...”
“Whose invitation did you come on? I shall personally write a letter to your father tomorrow. To tell him he raised his child very excellently!”
John, who had turned pale, couldn’t even make an excuse and fled the banquet hall as if running away. Disraeli, seemingly very satisfied with this situation, chuckled and patted Leo on the shoulder.
“You’ve had a hard time. Still, seeing you handle it so wisely, it seems Seuret has a good eye for people.”
“You are too kind. I am just grateful that you looked upon me favorably.”
It was certain that he had intervened because he wanted to screw over the Liberal Party, but in any case, it was a fact that he had received help. Leo bowed politely, and as soon as the commotion settled, he saw James Seuret and Cecilia approaching from afar with bright smiles.
“Leo? Did something happen? The atmosphere is a bit strange.”
He knew, didn’t he? At Seuret’s question, the Liberal Party figures flinched, but Leo bowed deeply as if nothing had happened.
“It is nothing, Chairman. There was just a light discussion about the color of the champagne.”
“Is that so? Then that is fortunate.”
As expected, the Chairman knew everything, and he had asked the question specifically so that Leo could save face in front of the Liberal Party figures. Even if they were nothing more than small fry... no. It was correct to see that he had now reached a level where he could treat the second son of a baronet family as small fry.
Leo watched the back of his master—no, his Chairman—returning to Cecilia, and felt his eyes grow hot once again. A new era was coming. He would always be by his side, facing the waves of that change with his whole body. Forever.
