1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

The air in the entire hall froze completely after just the first paragraph!

Mr. Popper's smirk froze, replaced by an expression of disbelief.

Although he was old-fashioned, he still had an appreciation for poetry.

Michel knew from the very first line of this poem that it was definitely a good poem!

A poem he could never have written in his entire life!

Perfect rhyme.

Strict meter and rhyme scheme.

Each syllable seems to have been precisely calculated, neither too many nor too few, just right.

But how is this possible?

A heretic who was just advocating that poetry should break free from its constraints has suddenly produced a poem with such perfect meter and such beautiful imagery.

This is far beyond Mr. Popper's comprehension!

What if he collapses later?

With a glimmer of hope, Mr. Popper prepared to continue listening.

As Michelle recited, all the guests present were stunned.

An image involuntarily surfaced in everyone's mind:

An elderly man with white hair sat by a fireplace on a winter's day, holding an old book, reminiscing about his lost youth...

This scene carries the weight of time and a heartbreaking tenderness...

Michel ignored the shock of the crowd; he was completely immersed in the emotions of the poem.

His voice continued to echo in the hall, gentle yet full of power.

How many loved your moments of glad grace!

Whether I admire your beauty feigned or genuine,

Only one person loves your pilgrim soul.

I love the painful wrinkles on your aging face.

If the first paragraph was a tender reminiscence, then this paragraph is a shocking confession!

An overwhelming surge of emotion was infused into the hearts of everyone present through the words.

"Only one person loved your pilgrim soul!"

Upon hearing this line of poetry, many of the ladies present unconsciously covered their eyes with their hands, their eyes instantly welling up with tears...

What kind of love can transcend beauty, transcend time, and reach the deepest part of the soul?

This is no longer ordinary love, but a kind of devotion that is almost like faith!

However, among everyone present, the Countess was probably the one who felt the most deeply.

The Countess of Bresington trembled slightly.

For the first time, tears welled up in her beautiful eyes, which had seen countless storms.

She spent her life pursuing power, fame, and wealth, and she was admired and adored by countless people.

But what do those people love about her—her beauty, her status, or her true soul?

she does not know.

But this line of poetry gave her a definite answer.

It turns out that true love really does exist in this world.

To love someone's weathered face with a devout and lonely soul...

In a daze, the figure reciting in front of her gradually overlapped with a figure in her memory.

It was Lord Byron! Equally brilliant! Equally handsome! Only more gentle and reserved...

Dickens' eyes also reddened.

Michel's poem reminded him of the women who had come and gone in his life, of the complex and tangled emotions he felt, and of the subtle and moving moments within those emotions...

Ask yourself honestly, have you ever truly loved someone's soul, as described in the poem?

Dickens felt a pang of shame.

Compared to Michel's poem, all his descriptions of love seem somewhat pale.

Michel's voice trembled with a hint of sadness as he slowly recited the last verse of the poem.

"He bowed his head beside the glowing red stove."

She sadly and softly recounted the passing of that love.

It slowly paced up the mountain above.

A face is hidden among a cluster of stars.

The poem has ended...

The legend has only just begun...

The entire side hall fell into a silence that was longer than ever before.

In this silence, there was no confusion, no doubt, only pure shock and emotion.

People's souls seemed to have been ripped away, and they were unable to recover from that profound and sorrowful emotion for a long time...

I don't know how much time passed.

"Clap clap clap".

A round of applause rang out.

It wasn't just polite applause, but applause from the heart.

The one clapping was none other than the Countess of Brexington.

She stood up, clapping as she gazed deeply at Michel with her tearful eyes.

Her applause was like a signal.

The next second, thunderous applause erupted from every corner of the hall!

"Oh my god! This is so beautiful!"

"I have never heard such a moving love poem!"

"This...this poem is no less than Lord Byron's!"

Praises, exclamations, and cheers merged into a massive wave of sound that nearly blew the roof off Gore's mansion.

Those who had previously questioned Michelle now wore expressions of shame and fervor.

Their gaze toward Michelle had shifted from disdain to admiration.

Mr. Popper stood there, his face turning pale and then flushed, his body swaying precariously.

He lost.

They were utterly humiliated.

Michel utterly shattered all his accusations with a technically impeccable and emotionally superb metrical poem.

It turns out that there really are geniuses in this world who are born with knowledge!

How could this be a complete novice who doesn't understand poetry?

This is clearly a master poet who has already reached the pinnacle of his art!

Michelle not only writes, but she writes better than anyone else in the room!

His so-called "innovation" was not due to incompetence, but rather a confidence and composure that only a true master possesses, transcending form!

Thinking of this, Mr. Popper's already swaying body actually collapsed.

Several gentlemen from the neighborhood quickly helped him out of the side hall...

Mr. Popper certainly didn't actually faint, but this was the only relatively dignified way for him to leave.

After all, he was Michelle's biggest stepping stone and backdrop this time.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, his name will become increasingly famous along with Michel's success.

Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing is hard to say...

Amidst enthusiastic applause, Michelle simply stood there calmly and bowed slightly to the crowd.

Clearly, he won!

Starting tonight, his status in London's literary world will soar to the very top of the hierarchy!

The applause lasted for a long time.

Until the Countess of Brexington raised her hand, signaling for everyone to be quiet.

The entire hall instantly returned to silence.

Everyone watched the salon queen, awaiting her final assessment.

She lifted her skirt and gracefully walked through the crowd to Michelle.

She stood before him, her beautiful eyes gazing at him with an unprecedented solemnity.

"Mr. Michel."

Her voice was clear and powerful, echoing in everyone's ears.

"From tonight onward, London will remember your name."

She paused, then declared, word by word.

"In the name of the poet!"

After saying that, she extended her hand to Michelle, a meaningful smile on her face.

"Now, please come with me. I think we need to talk about something privately..."