Capítulo 4: First Lesson
[Third person POV]
Max stood before Herbert's study, the door half-open, revealing a room filled with books. The scent of old books and fresh ink filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of wood polish.
Herbert was already inside, leaning over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of parchment. He was still in his suit, though he had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The man looked up as Max entered, his face breaking into a welcoming smile.
'He may be a womanizer, but a really kind man. Hmm, Maybe kind guys are well liked by women?' thought Max looking at the genuine smile on Herbert's face.
"Ah, Max, right on time," Herbert said, gesturing to a chair across from him. "Come, sit. We have much to discuss."
Max moved forward, his small feet barely making a sound on the thick rug. He climbed onto the chair. Even though he was quite tall for his age, the chair was a little too tall for his height.
Herbert sat down opposite Max, his eyes studying the boy carefully. "Before we begin, I want to make one thing clear," he said, his voice firm but kind. "Writing is not just about putting words on paper. It's about understanding the world around you and expressing it in a way that resonates with others. It's about honesty, vulnerability, and most importantly, persistence."
He pointed his pen towards Max and continued, "Writing poems is more difficult. To express those emotions, one has to be truthful to oneself. I know some words will go over your head; I'm well aware of your age. But I want you to remember one thing when you write—always be aware of your feelings when you write. Got it?"
Max nodded, his mind fully engaged. He couldn't show any lackluster behaviour, he had known this will be a challenge, as he usually laze around the books, but here he needed to focus on lessons.
Honestly, he found this amusing. He wasn't some genius writer, just a boy who copied the works of amazing writers, and this self-awareness was keeping him grounded.
"To start," Herbert continued, "I want you to write a poem. It doesn't have to be long or elaborate—just something that comes from your own experiences. Write about something that matters to you. You are a natural, and I don't want to disrupt your writing process. Just let it come from inside."
'Natural? What does that even mean?' thought Max tiredly.
Max considered this, his thoughts swirling. What poem could he write about his experiences without revealing too much? His past life was a well-guarded secret, one that couldn't be exposed. After a moment, he decided on a simple topic—something from his current life that wouldn't raise any suspicion.
"I'll give you some time to think," Herbert said, standing up. "I have some matters to attend to, but I'll be back shortly. Take your time, and remember, there's no rush."
Max watched as Herbert left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. He picked up the pen that Herbert had left on the desk and thought about a poem that would be suitable to write here. The paper in front of him was crisp and clean, waiting to be filled.
He had just finished the last line of his poem when the door creaked open, and Amy entered the room carrying a tray of snacks. She wore a bright smile, her red hair framing her face in soft waves.
"Hello, Max," she greeted him warmly, setting the tray on a side table. "I thought you might need a little break. Writing can be hard work, especially for someone so young."
Max smiled politely; he didn't expect her to come here. "Thank you, Mrs. Wells," he said, watching as she arranged the snacks.
Amy glanced at the parchment in front of Max, her curiosity piqued. "Are you working on your poem?" she asked, leaning over slightly to get a better look.
"Yes, just finished it," Max replied, handing her the paper.
Amy took the parchment and read it, her eyes scanning the lines carefully. As she read, tears appeared in her eyes. She looked at the boy with admiration. "It's a beautiful piece," she whispered, unable to say anything more. She was speechless.
Max remained modest. "Thank you, Mrs. Wells. I still have a lot to learn."
"Nonsense," Amy said, waving her hand dismissively. "You're already miles ahead of where most people start. And please, call me Amy. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all."
"Alright, Amy," Max agreed, feeling a bit more comfortable now as her tears had stopped.
Amy quickly left, not wanting to disturb Max anymore and still quite shaken after reading the poem. He continued to read the books recommended by Herbert on European history.
After a few hours, the door opened again, and Herbert returned to his seat.
"So, did you write something?" Herbert asked, not expecting Max to have written anything during the first lesson.
Max handed the poem to Herbert, feeling a bit nervous now. He knew it was a decent piece, but he also knew that Herbert's opinion would carry more weight than Amy's. Herbert read the poem silently, his face revealing nothing as he absorbed the words.
Those Winter Sundays
(A/N - by Robert Hayden)
"Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?"
"I'm not teaching you anything from tomorrow," said Herbert seriously, wiping the tears from his face.
"What? Why?" stammered Max, not understanding Herbert's reasoning.
"You!" Herbert sighed. "I will make a small study for you in the next room. There, you will work on writing your first book for three to four hours daily. After that, you will help me with writing mine while I teach you the nuances of the writing business. You don't need to learn anything from me as I am worse than you," he said with a mocking smile. His pride as an author was hit hard.
Herbert couldn't remember the last time he cried, but this boy here made him vulnerable with a poem.
'This is good. I can just study and work on writing some books, and I don't have to be bored getting lectured,' thought Max as he nodded.
---
Timeskip 1 Year .
[First person pov]
1901
The death of Queen Victoria and the end of the Victorian Era left the people of England devastated, as she was quite loved by the common people. Edward VII, Victoria's eldest son, ascended to the throne, marking the beginning of the Edwardian era.
Another significant event was the formation of the Labour Party in the United Kingdom. The Labour Party was formed to represent the working-class population, advocating for social reforms, workers' rights, and fair wages.
I spent most of my time on my book, while Amy gave birth to a cute redheaded boy named Henry. It was fun playing with him, though Herbert often complained about the sleepless nights he had to endure due to Henry.
My classes with Amy were more troublesome. I knew the etiquettes, but getting my body to do all those tedious tasks was making me a little frustrated. But I knew I had to put up with these lessons. I learned to dance with Amy, and I had to be careful with my strength as it was growing every year. I was sure I could lift a few hundred kilograms easily, I really wanted to go to a gym and test my strength, without appearing inhuman.
Herbert also published his book The First Men in the Moon written by H.G. Wells and Max Ashford.
Yes! As he was writing, I gave him ideas to improve the book, changing some things in the plot to make it more interesting. He liked the changes and made me the co-author of the book.
I still remember my mother's heartwarming reaction and my father's surprised face. Herbert also signed a professional contract with my father as my legal guardian, about the royalties and ownership of the book. And it wasn't a surprise—my father didn't know anything about that. He wanted to let mother handle the meetings with Herbert, but I didn't let that happen.
The money helped us a lot. The first thing I bought was a house in Bloomsbury! Yes, I fulfilled my dream. It was a house with a bath, and my father hugged me and cried a lot that day. I, too, cried a lot. It was the best day of my life. The previous owner of the house was a friend of Ryan, who helped us out in buying it.
We also expanded our bakery. Now, we make biscuits and sweets too, and my father was overjoyed looking at the new Ashford Bakery sign.
The money did bring unwanted attention from bad people, but my father wrote a letter, and the gang quickly disappeared. I'm guessing it had something to do with his past. I didn't ask questions as it never bothered me.
My other book of stolen poems was coming together as well. At this point, I had become quite shameless and started copying popular books from my past life.
I'm planning on releasing The Philosopher's Stone when I turn 15 or maybe 16.
The book with Herbert was a hit and was selling quite nicely. Herbert also did an interview for a newspaper, and people were really surprised to hear my age. He told the whole story of how he discovered a genius, and how I will change literature.
His interview resulted in me receiving invitation letters from Harrow School, a prestigious academy for nobles, and Westminster School, a renowned institution for literature.
Both schools wanted me to enroll at the age of 15, but I had different plans. I was aiming for a place that would undoubtedly make me the center of attention in all of England. I was confident that the books I intended to release would be enough to capture the attention of that institute.
At just 9 years old, I was planning to release five books by the time I turned 15.
The first would be a poetry collection, featuring 25 poems, cementing myself as a talented poet.
The next three would be The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. The trilogy would establish me as one of the best fiction writers.
And lastly, The Philosopher's Stone would start a saga that would elevate me from one of the best, to the best.
Meanwhile, I would continue to excel in my studies at school. Remember, I didn't just want to be a writer; I also aspired to be respected in the field of science. Maybe a few inventions in physics and biology would do the trick. Who knows? We have a lot of things to copy.
[POV end]
________________________________________
This chapter was kind of a let down, but next one is going to be good. I promise.
Seeya tomorrow.
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