Capítulo 5: First Book
Year- 1902
[Third Person POV]
The publication of Max Ashford's first book of poems was met with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
After all, the idea of a ten-year-old prodigy writing poetry was a hard pill for many to swallow.
Yet, when the book titled 'The Road Not Taken' hit the shelves in early 1902, it surprised many who were initially drawn in by its intriguing cover.
The initial reception was a slow. It began in Bloomsbury, where local bookstores, familiar with Herbert and his rising reputation, had agreed to stock copies of the book.
Within days, the first batch sold out. Then the whispers began—quiet at first, but growing louder with each passing day.
In a small tea shop tucked away in a corner of Bloomsbury, two well-dressed ladies sipped their afternoon tea, their conversation drifting towards the latest literary buzz.
"Have you heard about this young poet? Only ten years old, they say," one of the women said, raising an eyebrow skeptically as she took a delicate bite of her scone.
"Indeed," her friend replied, her voice tinged with intrigue. "My husband brought home a copy just the other day. I must admit, I was ready to dismiss it as a below-average work—what can you expect from a child of lower birth? But I was surprised," she confessed.
"The book consists of 20 poems. The themes are simple, but the writing is exceptional. I still can't believe he wrote it!" she continued.
------
Across town, in a smoke-filled drawing room, a group of literary critics and scholars gathered for their regular meeting. They had heard the rumors too, and as men of letters, they felt it their duty to dissect this new sensation.
"A ten-year-old boy?" said Sir William Harcourt, a stout man with a walrus mustache that twitched with every word. "Surely, this is nothing more than a clever marketing ploy. The work of his father, perhaps?"
"Possibly," mused another critic, adjusting his spectacles. "But have you read the poems? Even if the father wrote them, the work is something we can't ignore. And if there is a chance the boy himself wrote them, it would make us look like bigoted old fools. Why not arrange a meeting? We can surely judge him there."
There was a murmur of agreement, and soon the room was filled with the rustling of pages as they passed around a copy of the book.
------
Meanwhile, in the grand halls of Westminster School, an assembly of teachers and professors discussed the implications of this book.
"I think we must consider the possibility of inviting the boy here," said Professor Reed, an elderly man with silver hair and a reputation for nurturing young talent. "Such talent should be nurtured, but a test before admission would be necessary in this case."
"Admission now? But he's just a child," argued another teacher, shaking his head. "And about the test, I don't think it would be necessary. I read the book he last wrote with Herbert, and I remember Wells mentioning an eight-year-old student of his. His work should be authentic."
The debate raged on, there was one thing they all agreed on: Max Ashford was a name to watch.
----
On one fine evening, not far from the heart of the city, in a grand house with towering columns, Lady Margaret Weston, a well-known patron of the arts, was hosting one of her famous soirées. The evening was filled with the chatter of London's elite, but the topic on everyone's lips was the same.
"Have you read the boy's book?" Lady Weston asked a group of writers who had gathered near the fireplace, her voice carrying the tone of someone who expected an affirmative answer.
"Of course," replied one of the writers, a thin man with a sharp nose. "The whole city's talking about it. The poems are… well, they're not what you'd expect from a child. They're not what you'd expect from most adults, either."
"Yes," Lady Weston agreed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. " I wish I could forget everything and read the book again."
Across the room, a publisher from London's Fleet Street overheard the conversation and made a mental note to contact Max Ashford in the morning. If the boy's work was already creating such a stir, there was no doubt that the publishing rights would be worth a small fortune.
----
As the buzz around the book continued to grow, it caught the attention of some of the most prominent figures in English society.
In a well-appointed study in Buckingham Palace, even King Edward VII, known for his love of the arts, found himself intrigued by the reports of this young prodigy.
"Max Ashford ? Him again." the King mused, glancing up from his correspondence as he spoke to his private secretary.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the secretary replied. "The boy's work has been well-received, even praised by some of the harshest critics in London."
"I remember the name—didn't he write a book with Wells?" asked the King, as he read the last book.
"Yes, Your Majesty," said the secretary.
King Edward leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Interesting. Very interesting. Perhaps we should invite young Master Ashford to one of our gatherings. It would be quite something to meet the boy wonder himself."
-----
Meanwhile, in the cozy kitchen of the Ashford home, Max's parents were still trying to wrap their heads around the whirlwind their son's book had created.
"I knew he was talented," his mother said, wiping her hands on her apron as she spoke to Rollo, who was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. "But I never imagined this. Invitations, letters, people we've never even met wanting to speak to our Max."
Rollo nodded, a proud smile on his face. "I always knew it. He's my boy, after all."
Rollo had been boasting about his son to everyone in the bakery, even his old friends wrote him letter about asking him about his son, he even got marriage proposals for the boy!
Even after this success, there was a little fear which could be seen in Rollo's eyes. He was happy for Max, but he still won't let the boy go outside London, as he knows very well, fame isn't always good for people.
Max, who was sitting quietly at the table with his own cup of tea, listened to his parents' conversation. He had been expecting some reaction to his book, but the scale of it was overwhelming him.
"Do I really have to go to all these places?" Max asked, looking up at his father.
Rollo said seriously, "Not all of them, Max. But some, yes. These are important people and it's not like we have to travel, they all are in London."
Max nodded.
-----
As the days turned into weeks, the buzz around the book only grew louder. The newspapers began to pick up the story, with headlines like "The Boy Prodigy of Bloomsbury" and "A Young Genius in Our Midst" gracing the front pages of London's most prominent publications.
The Times ran a feature article with the opening line: "Is this the future of English poetry?" The article praised Max's work for its emotional depth and lyrical beauty while also questioning how much of it could truly be attributed to a child of his age.
Over at the Daily Mail, the tone was slightly more sensational. "Move over, Shakespeare," one columnist wrote. "There's a new literary sensation in town, and he's not even out of short trousers."
Even the literary journal The Spectator weighed in, offering a more measured analysis of Max's work. "Whether young Master Ashford will live up to the promise of this first collection remains to be seen. We have seen the rise of numerous geniuses, but they disappear with their first work and never rise up to the expectations. We can only wait," the review stated. "But there is no doubt that his debut marks him as a poet of singular talent."
Amid all the praise, there were, of course, detractors. Some critics dismissed the book as a gimmick—a clever ploy by an ambitious father to thrust his son into the limelight. Others questioned the authenticity of the work, suggesting that it must have been heavily edited or even ghostwritten.
Many believed the critics, but they didn't know what Max had in store for them.
Herbert kept track of invitations, enjoying Max's success more than the boy himself.
One day, a letter arrived that caused quite a stir in the Ashford household. It was from none other than Rudyard Kipling, one of England's most celebrated authors.
The letter was addressed to Max himself, and it read:
Dear Master Ashford,
I have had the pleasure of reading your poetry, and I must say, I am impressed. Your words carry a wisdom beyond your years, and I see great potential in your future. It would be my honor to meet with you, should you find yourself in Birmingham.
Yours sincerely,
Rudyard Kipling
The letter was carefully folded and placed on the mantelpiece.
As the weeks passed, the invitations and offers continued to pour in. There were requests for interviews, appearances, and even a few suggestions of turning Max's poems into songs or plays.
As the year wore on, despite the growing fame, life in the Ashford household remained remarkably unchanged.
Max still woke up early each morning, went to school, and helped out in the family bakery whenever he could. The only difference now was that his after-school activities included meeting with the occasional journalist.
[POV end]
____________
[First Person POV]
I didn't think my first book would create such a stir. Maybe if I were a little older, the whole saga would have been a bit calmer.
I named the book The Road Not Taken because I loved the poem in my last life. Maybe that's why I ended up writing it in my science notebook.
After the book became a hit, I had to take tests from various journalists who wanted to debunk the claims and expose me as a fake writer. But I always proved them wrong.
Their strategy was simple: first, they hyped me up to boost sales, then they tried to stir up controversy for some attention-grabbing headlines.
In any interview, I didn't forget to mention how grateful I was to Herbert and his family, which made Herbert cry tears of joy, while Henry laughed at his father's crying face.
Some journalist even tried asking me math questions, hoping for one slip-up, but they didn't get any. And it wasn't just journalists—some scholars tested me too, though more subtly. A few apologized after being proven wrong, and I did hold grudges against those who didn't. What can I say? I'm still a child, after all.
The money was good, the publication was the same one that had been working with Herbert.
I still hadn't received any letter from Eaton College. I wonder how many books it will take for them to finally break those 'Scholars' of 'noble' blood.
[POV end]
________________________________________
How was this one? It was fast-paced, I'll try to slow down in next chapter.
Seeya tomorrow.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder