The winter of 1837 was unusually bitter, the kind of cold that crept beneath heavy coats and lingered in the bones. Yet, despite the frost tightening its grip on London, the first Winter Salon of the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry was held in a lavish villa newly purchased by Arthur.
He had obtained the estate from a once–dignified count who had gambled away his fortune, and the mansion still radiated a single overwhelming impression: grandeur. Marble statues adorned the hallways, oil paintings lined the walls in gilded frames, and colossal crystal chandeliers hung overhead like suspended constellations, flashing with an opulence that made even seasoned aristocrats widen their eyes.
And tonight, this place was filled with the true elite of London.
There were the rotund bankers of the Rothschild family, who, as always, came with the singular purpose of sniffing out new financial opportunities.
There were powerful figures from Parliament—the Duke of Wellington himself among them—along with numerous aristocrats whom Arthur had "persuaded" through a variety of subtle influences.
And there were scholars here purely for science, among them Mr. Faraday, whose sharp gaze missed nothing.
From the moment the salon began, the atmosphere was lively and celebratory. Servants carried champagne as if it were water, endless and sparkling. The long dining tables were laden with delicate French pastries, each more intricate than the last. Gentlemen gathered in small clusters, debating politics and the stock exchange with flushed excitement, while the ladies whispered behind their fans about Parisian fashion and—inevitably—Arthur's striking looks.
As host and chairman, Arthur moved effortlessly among them. He spoke warmly, laughed at the appropriate moments, and offered thoughtful remarks on every topic. His quick wit and deep knowledge made him the unmistakable center of the evening.
After several rounds of wine and several emptied plates, Arthur finally clapped his hands.
A ripple of silence spread through the hall.
He stepped onto a small improvised podium, his smile playful yet mysterious.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "thank you for gracing us with your presence on such a cold winter evening. I imagine many of you are curious about what our Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry truly is."
A few chuckles echoed through the crowd.
"Some say we are a club for ambitious industrialists. Others insist we are a gathering of mad scientists. And some," he added with a theatrical sigh, "claim that the Society is merely my private toy—a way for me to pretend sophistication."
Laughter broke out. Even the Duke allowed himself a small smile.
"But tonight," Arthur continued, "I will not bore you with grand theories. Instead, I would like to show you two—shall we call them small practical demonstrations—that may make this winter a great deal warmer."
He snapped his fingers.
Servants immediately entered and began extinguishing every candle and gas lamp in the hall.
One by one, the shimmering lights vanished.
Within moments, the grand salon was plunged into utter blackness. A few ladies gasped softly.
Arthur's voice, calm and confident, echoed in the darkness.
"Ladies and gentlemen… look."
Behind him, heavy curtains were drawn back.
There stood a somewhat bulky hand-cranked generator, personally overseen by Faraday and built by skilled craftsmen from Arthur's own manufactories. A sturdy worker turned the crank steadily. Nearby, mounted on a slim wooden pole, was a glass sphere—simple, unassuming—inside which a thin black filament rested.
"Now," Arthur said, "witness a small miracle."
An assistant connected the generator's wires to the base of the glass sphere.
A heartbeat later—
BZZZZT—
A warm orange-yellow glow burst to life inside the globe.
It didn't flicker like candlelight.
It didn't hiss or sting the nose like burning gas.
It was steady. Pure.
Brilliant.
And under that single glowing sphere, the entire hall blazed with light as bright as midday.
For a moment, no one made a sound.
Then—
"Good heavens!"
The hall erupted in alarmed, awe-struck cries—louder than shouts at a coronation.
Every person stood frozen, staring at the "little sun" suspended before them, utterly speechless.
"What—what is that?!" stammered the plump Rothschild banker, dropping his wine glass with a crash.
Arthur spoke with serene authority.
"I call it the incandescent lamp. A clean, safe source of light, powered by electricity. Capable of turning night into day."
Murmurs rose, breathless.
"It will illuminate our streets at midnight as clearly as at noon, leaving no corner for thieves to hide.
It will allow factories to operate without pause, increasing efficiency beyond anything we have yet imagined.
And it will free your homes from smoke and soot, giving you a light purer than anything in Buckingham Palace."
Every sentence struck like a hammer.
The bankers' eyes blazed—not with reflected light, but with the unmistakable gleam of greed.
They were not seeing a lamp.
They were seeing a mountain of gold.
But Arthur wasn't done.
He snapped his fingers again.
The assistant rolled forward a second device: a compact metal box connected to wires.
The switch was flipped.
The resistance coils inside glowed bright red. Waves of warm heat spilled outward like gentle sunlight.
Arthur addressed the shivering ladies with a charming smile.
"My dear ladies, this is an electric heater—a small device that brings the warmth of spring into your home at the touch of a switch. Imagine winter nights without the smoke and filth of coal-fired hearths. No ash to stain your gowns. Only clean, gentle warmth—when you wish it."
The effect was immediate.
Ladies leaned forward, enthralled, their eyes sparkling with unrestrained desire. Several whispered excitedly among themselves.
It was a decisive blow.
Then the first banker broke.
"Silence! Everyone quiet!" the Rothschild man shouted, pushing through the crowd with trembling hands. He seized Arthur's arm with frantic urgency.
"Your Royal Highness—no—my good sir—my God of Wealth!" he sputtered. "Name your price! Whatever you need—my family will invest in this electricity project! Any amount! Any conditions!"
"We want in as well!" shouted a representative from Barclays.
"And us!"
Within seconds, the dignified salon became a marketplace in complete chaos.
Bankers waved cheque books. Merchants shouted over one another, desperate not to miss their chance at the future.
Arthur looked upon the frenzy, his expression quietly triumphant.
Exactly as planned.
He raised his hands. The room gradually fell silent.
"Gentlemen," Arthur said softly, "please. Do not be hasty. Electricity is not a small endeavor. It requires power stations, the laying of wires, and coordinated national effort."
He paused—long enough for every ear to lean in.
"Therefore, all investments and development concerning electricity shall be unified under the guidance of our Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry. You are all welcome to become distinguished members."
They understood immediately.
To board this train, they first needed a ticket.
And that ticket was held by Arthur.
After tonight, the Society would no longer be a loosely organized curiosity.
It would become a new titan of the British Empire—commanding capital, technology, and political influence beyond any ordinary institution.
And for Arthur, it would be a powerful new instrument to place the Empire more firmly… in his hands.