December 24, 1869. Christmas Eve.
Heavy snow fell from the sky like goose feathers, covering New York City in a thick, white velvet blanket.
But the cold could not dampen the people's enthusiasm.
Fifth Avenue was packed so tightly it was impassable.
Thousands of citizens gathered outside Mrs. Astor's mansion; even though they were kept across the street by the police, they stood on their tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the legendary miracle.
"Have you heard? It's lightning brought down from the heavens," a newsboy excitedly told a gentleman nearby.
"They say it's contained in a bottle."
"Nonsense," the gentleman said, tightening his scarf.
"That is science. It's electric current."
Inside the mansion.
Mrs. Astor's annual Christmas ball was underway. This was the pinnacle event of the New York social circle.
Only the elite on the 'Four Hundred' list were qualified to enter this hall.
Vanderbilt was there, the agents of the Rothschild family were there, and even Drexel, who had rushed over from Philadelphia, was mingled in the crowd.
Candles were still lit in the hall.
Hundreds of candles flickered, emitting a dim yellow light and a faint smell of smoke.
Felix stood at the top of the stairs, holding a glass of champagne and looking at his pocket watch.
Seven fifty-nine.
Heinrich White stood by the distribution cabinet in the corner, his palms drenched in sweat.
His eyes were fixed intently on Felix's fingers.
Felix snapped the lid of his pocket watch shut.
"Click."
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
White took a deep breath and suddenly pushed up the heavy, pure silver knife switch.
In an instant.
In just the blink of an eye.
All the candles paled in comparison.
At that moment, it was as if a sun had exploded on the ceiling of the hall.
One hundred Carbon-filament light bulbs lit up simultaneously.
The light was not the orange-red of a flame, but a pure, steady golden-white. It pierced through the prisms of the crystal chandeliers, refracting into a rainbow-colored halo.
The hall instantly fell silent.
Even the orchestra stopped playing. The cellist's mouth hung open, and his bow dropped to the floor.
Mrs. Astor was standing in the center of the hall, preparing to receive the guests' tributes. The intense light suddenly illuminated her. Every pearl on her dress and every diamond around her neck sparkled with unprecedented brilliance under this light.
Even the foundation on her face appeared whiter.
"Oh, my God..."
Someone in the crowd let out the first gasp of wonder.
It came from someone who had not attended the Argyle banquet.
Immediately following was a tsunami of applause and exclamations.
"It's so bright, it's just like daytime!"
"Look at that mural! I could never see how many feathers the angels had before, but now I can!"
Drexel stood in the crowd, his face pale. He looked at the dazzling light and felt a wave of dizziness.
This wasn't just a lamp; it was a deterrent.
While Philadelphia was still using gas lamps, New York already possessed this miracle.
This meant that the center of gravity for capital, technology, and the future had indisputably shifted here.
It had shifted into the hands of the man standing at the top of the stairs, smiling.
Felix raised his glass, gesturing to the entire room.
"Merry Christmas, New York."
Mrs. Astor snapped back to her senses.
Looking at the envious and jealous looks of the noblewomen around her, the slight dissatisfaction she had felt about the drilling instantly vanished into thin air.
She was the second queen to possess electric lights; that was enough.
"This is the future."
Mrs. Astor said loudly, her voice trembling.
"Mr. Argyle, you have plucked the stars from the sky."
...At the same moment. Washington, the White House.
The East Room.
President Grant was not holding a ball.
He had gathered cabinet members, foreign ministers, and congressional leaders.
It was a solemn occasion.
"Gentlemen."
Grant stood before the switch, which still looked somewhat rudimentary.
"Some say America is a nation of nouveau riche. That we have no history, no culture—only crude cowboys and greedy businessmen."
He glanced at the British minister.
"But today, I want to tell the world: we have light."
Grant reached out with his rough, large hand—the same hand that had signed countless war orders—and pressed the switch.
Zzz—
The slight sound of electric current hummed.
The four massive chandeliers in the East Room lit up simultaneously.
The intense light illuminated the portrait of Washington on the wall, the eagle emblem on the carpet, and the astonishment on the face of every politician.
Those accustomed to plotting in the dim candlelight suddenly felt as if they had nowhere to hide.
"Is this magic?" the Turkish minister murmured to himself.
"No, no, no. This is industry," Grant corrected.
"This is the power of American science."
He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Outside, the citizens gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue erupted in cheers.
From the outside, the windows of the White House seemed to be glowing, like a lighthouse.
"This is truly beautiful."
First Lady Julia walked to Grant's side and took his arm.
"Ulysses, this light reminds me of the fireworks on Victory Day."
"Perhaps it will be more lasting than fireworks."
Grant patted his wife's hand.
"As long as that fellow Felix doesn't cut our power."
...Maryland, on a night train of the B&O Railroad.
Andrew Carnegie was sitting in the carriage.
He had just come from Pittsburgh, preparing to head to Washington for final lobbying.
The train passed a high ground on the outskirts of Washington.
Carnegie looked out the window.
In the distance, in the direction of the White House, a bright halo of light stood out remarkably in the night sky.
The light was so intense that the surrounding gas streetlights seemed as weak as fireflies.
"Is that an electric light?"
Carnegie asked the conductor; he had seen them at a banquet before, but hadn't expected the White House to adopt and apply them so quickly.
"That's right, sir," the conductor said enviously.
"I heard the White House got electricity tonight, a masterpiece from the Argyle Laboratory."
Carnegie's hand gripped the window frame tightly, his knuckles turning white.
Looking at that ball of light, the radiance made him feel a stinging pain.
To think that he was still building railroads in the mud and refining steel in the coal smoke.
While that man had already begun to play with lightning in the clouds.
The gap.
A desperate gap.
"It doesn't matter; I'll have steel soon too."
Carnegie gritted his teeth and spoke to his reflection in the glass window.
"I will not admit defeat."
The train thundered toward that city of light.
But Carnegie's heart sank into a deeper darkness.
On this Christmas Eve, some saw a miracle, while others saw an abyss.
And at the Pearl Street Station in New York.
Heinrich White looked at the still-steady voltmeter and finally collapsed into his chair.
"We've done it," he said to his assistant.
"No."
Felix's secretary, Frost, appeared at the door at some unknown moment.
"You haven't just done well. You have just lit the first jewel on the crown of the Argyle Empire."
Frost took out a document and placed it on the oil-stained table.
"This is the Boss's reward. Every one of you will have your salary doubled. In addition, Mr. White, this is a 1% stake in the soon-to-be-established electric company."
White picked up the document, his hands shaking slightly.
This 1% stake would mean millions in wealth in the future.
"Thank you," White said.
"Don't be so quick to thank me," Frost said, turning to leave.
"The Boss said this is just the beginning. Next, this copper spiderweb will be spread across all of America."
December 26th.
On this day, Manhattan did not wake up in the morning mist as usual, but rather boiled in the scent of ink.
Park Row, the News Building.
This was the heart of the New York newspaper industry.
Dozens of massive steam rotary presses were roaring in the basement, and the ground seemed to tremble with the impact of the pistons.
Fowler, the manager of the News Media Company, was standing in the typesetting workshop of The New York Daily Truth.
He held a freshly printed sample copy in his hand; the ink was not yet dry, staining his thumb like a black medal.
"Guys, print more."
Fowler roared at the printing plant foreman, his voice sounding somewhat strained amidst the roar of the machines.
"Use up all the paper left over from yesterday, then go to the paper mill to get more! Today's newspaper isn't just a newspaper; it's the Bible!"
The foreman wiped the sweat and grease from his face and shouted back.
"Mr. Manager, we've already printed a hundred and fifty thousand copies. That's more than the print run on the day President Lincoln was assassinated! Will they really all sell?"
"Oh boy, will they sell?"
Fowler sneered and pointed out the window.
Outside the window, dawn was just breaking on the streets, but the newsboys were already like a flock of pigeons waiting to be fed, crowding the iron gates of the delivery area.
It wasn't just newsboys; there were also gentlemen in decent coats, bank clerks in top hats, and even carriage drivers who had rushed over from Brooklyn.
They were all waiting for the same thing: the detailed report on that "Night of Miracles."
Fowler unfolded the newspaper in his hand.
The headline on the front page used the largest, boldest black font, which Felix had personally decided on:
"God Said Let There Be Light, Argyle Flipped the Switch"
The sub-headline was: "Farewell to the Stench of Gas and Whale Oil—A Record of the 'Nightless Night' at the Astor Mansion and the White House."
The article described in detail the scene that occurred on Christmas Eve at Fifth Avenue and the East Room of the White House.
The writer used extremely flowery language, describing that "electric light" as a divine artifact that had stolen heavenly fire.
"This is no ordinary light bulb," the article stated.
"It is a small sun sealed within a glass globe. It has no smoke, no fire, requires no wick trimming, and certainly won't suffocate you in the middle of the night. It is as pure as a gemstone and as eternal as the truth."
In addition to the praise, the second page of the newspaper featured a massive illustration.
It was a map of New York City, with the location of the Pearl Street Station marked in thick lines, along with the underground cables extending in all directions like blood vessels.
This looked like more than just news... At nine o'clock in the morning, Wall Street.
It had turned into a madhouse.
It wasn't because of a stock market crash, but because of sector rotation.
In the hall of the stock exchange, brokers waved their orders, their roars nearly blowing the roof off.
"Sell! Sell everything!"
A red-faced, fat broker screamed at his trader.
"Dump all the stock in the 'Manhattan Gas Company.' And 'New York Consolidated Lighting' too. No matter the price, just get rid of it."
"What? Why?" the trader asked in terror.
"It was twenty dollars a share just yesterday!"
"Shit, because gas lamps are finished, of course."
The fat man slammed that copy of The Daily Truth into the trader's face.
"Look at this, buddy. Argyle's electric light is ten times brighter than gas, and it's not toxic. Who would still buy those damned stinking gas canisters?"
In sharp contrast, stocks related to copper, rubber (used for insulation), and the Argyle system were skyrocketing.
Although the companies producing electricity and light bulbs were not publicly listed, as they were Felix's private property,
speculators turned their attention to anything that could even remotely be connected... At the same time, the Union Club of Manhattan.
This was a refuge for old money, but at this moment, it was filled with an air of anxiety.
There were no electric lights here.
Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the sunlight from outside, and the gas wall lamps on the walls made a hissing burning sound, their light dim and flickering.
Previously, this kind of lighting was seen as elegant and private.
Now, in contrast to the dazzling white light of the Astor Mansion, this light seemed so old, decayed, and even carried a sense of shabbiness.
Several directors sat around the fireplace; they were the major shareholders of the Manhattan Gas Company.
"This is a declaration of war."
An old gentleman with white sideburns shook the newspaper in his hand.
"Argyle is trying to dig up our roots. We've laid hundreds of miles of gas pipes underground! That's tens of millions of dollars in assets! Is it all just going to turn into scrap metal? You have to remember, he is also one of our shareholders!"
"It's not just the pipes."
Another banker, dressed in a deep blue formal suit, looked grim.
"There are also the streetlight contracts. If the City Hall replaces all the streetlights with those... those electric lights, we're finished."
"Can we... can we sue him?" someone suggested.
"Sue him for a monopoly? Or sue him for his high-voltage cables being a public safety hazard?"
"It's useless."
A lawyer sitting in the corner shook his head.
"President Grant personally stood by him at the White House. Even the British Minister was full of praise. Now, the electric light represents the technological glory of America. Whoever opposes it is opposing progress."
"Then what do we do? Just sit here and wait for death?"
"Of course not." The lawyer put down his wine glass.
"If you can't beat them, join them. Or... let him buy us out. After all, wasn't he wanting to become a major shareholder before?"
The hall fell into silence.
This was the terrifying thing about Argyle.
He created a new demand, a kind of demand that once experienced, there was no going back from... On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, London.
In a cafe on Fleet Street, several British reporters were gathered around a newly arrived telegram draft.
It was an urgent dispatch sent back by Reuters.
"'Artificial Daylight' Appears in New York. Argyle Family Displays Brand New Lighting System, White House Illuminated."
This news was like a stone thrown into the calm River Thames.
At the Reform Club, Junius Morgan was sitting in his exclusive leather chair, holding that thin piece of telegram paper.
His expression was even gloomier than the London smog outside.
"Electricity," Junius whispered to himself.
Opposite him, Hermann, an agent for the Rothschild family, also had his brow furrowed.
"It seems we underestimated him." Hermann put down his teacup.
"We thought he was just an upstart reselling arms, food, and medicine. But this... this is the monetization of fundamental science. Faraday discovered electromagnetic induction, but this damned American turned it into a money-printing machine."
"If this technology spreads in Europe..."
Junius's fingers lightly tapped the tabletop.
"Think about it, Hermann. Factories could operate through the night. Shops could stay open until midnight. The boost this would give the economy is on a massive scale."
"Should we try to get the patents?" Hermann asked.
"Too late." Junius shook his head.
"Since Argyle dared to display it publicly, it means he's already built a wall around the Patent Office. He must have already controlled the filament recipe and the core design of the generators."
"Then what? Our steel plan is still struggling in the Pittsburgh mud."
Junius stood up and walked to the window.
Looking at the dim streets outside, where only weak gas lamps flickered.
"Then notify Carnegie."
Junius's voice became cold.
"Since we've lost a step when it comes to light, we'll get it back through steel."
"Also, go check on Siemens's current progress. If Argyle wants to hog this entire cake, I don't think European scientists will agree to it."
"This war has just extended from the land into the sky."
...New York, the Argyle Empire State Building.
Felix stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city.
Behind him, his secretary, Frost, was giving a report.
"Boss, Mrs. Astor has sent an invitation, inviting you to a salon. She says all the socialites in New York are asking where they can buy that 'glowing glass pear.'"
"Additionally, the City Council has sent a letter of intent; they want to trial-install fifty Arc Streetlights on Broadway."
Felix turned around, his face showing not much ecstasy, but rather a kind of calm from having everything under control.
"Tell them the light bulbs aren't for individual sale."
"If they want to use the lights, they must connect to our electricity. If they want to connect to our electricity, they must sign a ten-year power supply contract."
"And..." Felix pointed to Philadelphia on the map.
"Send Drexel a 'gift.' Opposite his bank building, install two of the brightest streetlights for free."
"Why?" Frost was puzzled.
"To let him see clearly, of course."
Felix smiled, a smile that hid a sharp blade.
"Let him see clearly that when night falls, who is the master who sets the rules."
"Also, prepare the car; I'm going back to Long Island."
Felix glanced at his pocket watch.
"Catherine is about to give birth. Compared to lighting up the world, I'm more concerned right now with adding another light to my home."