1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Chapter 84 "We Made a Promise to Each Other in the Summer"

The octagonal hall remained noisy and bustling for a long time after the speech ended.

Michelle was practically escorted off the stage by a crowd of people.

The principal held his hand tightly, his smile sincere and warm, a stark contrast to the solemn and dignified elder on the stage just moments before.

"Professor Michel, are you free tonight? I happen to have a bottle of aged Scotch whisky in my study, and I think we can have a lot to talk about."

The title "professor," coming from the university president, made Michelle feel both flattered and somewhat unfamiliar...

Before I knew it, I'd become someone important?

However, he thought about how many "managers" and "teachers" were on the streets in his previous life, and how many "VPs" were everywhere in investment banks.

title.

He decided to hold off on getting too ambitious for now...

After all, the hairdressers in the barbershop are all Tonys (stylists)...

Professor Rodriguez, who had previously glared at him coldly, now joined in, his face crinkling into a wide grin.

"LeBron, oh no, Professor Michelle."

There are still some parts of the "tension principle" you mentioned that I don't quite understand.

His posture was extremely humble, and his words were full of modesty; he was completely unrecognizable from the rigid scholar who had been shouting and reprimanding him just a few dozen minutes earlier...

Why do you stand tall before becoming obsequious and then suddenly become respectful...?

Michelle silently rolled her eyes.

No wonder he succeeded; his thick skin alone is something he could learn from for a long time.

Michel politely responded to this sudden enthusiasm, but his heart remained calm.

He understood that these people only respected "Professor LeBlanc," who had proposed the "iceberg theory" and was about to become famous in the literary world.

This respect came quickly and went quickly.

If he actually believes these flatteries, then he's not far from speedrunning.

Michelle responded to their enthusiasm with a smile, speaking politely while subtly maintaining a distance.

On the periphery of the crowd, Professor Joseph looked at his student, who was being fawned over, and stroked his beard with satisfaction.

He didn't go up to join the fun; he just watched from a distance.

Let Michelle enjoy this honor alone.

He knew that from this day forward, this eagle would truly soar in its own sky.

Michelle's gaze swept through the crowd and met that of the old professor. He bowed his head in respect towards his mentor.

Silent communication is more effective than a thousand words.

It took Michelle a lot of effort to extricate herself from this social storm.

He needs to get some fresh air and calm his mind.

Michelle walked alone on the cobblestone streets of the University of London.

As night deepened, the campus returned to tranquility, with only the streetlights casting a dim, yellowish glow in the damp, chilly mist.

Students would occasionally pass by him in twos and threes.

They recognized him, slowed their pace unconsciously, and then respectfully removed their hats in greeting, whispering "Mr. LeBron."

Or, to be even bolder, you could simply call him "Professor".

Their faces were a mixture of admiration, curiosity, and awe.

Michelle nodded in response.

He enjoys this change, but he is also wary of it.

Michel walked into a long corridor lined with plane trees, where the dim light cast a long shadow of him.

This was a place he used to really like to come to.

Here, he can empty his mind.

But at the end of the corridor, under a solitary street lamp, stood a slender, tall figure.

A light blue long dress stood out against the night.

Her radiant face seemed to illuminate the night.

It was Charlotte.

She seemed to have been waiting for a long time, clasping her hands together and blowing on them to warm them.

He kept glancing towards the auditorium.

When she saw Michelle walking towards her alone, her face instantly lit up.

She almost ran to meet him, and because she was running so fast, a charming blush rose on her cheeks.

"Michelle!"

Her voice trembled slightly, revealing that she was not at peace inside.

In fact, Charlotte had been waiting there for quite some time.

She knew Michelle liked coming here.

"Charlotte, it's been a long time."

Michel was both surprised and delighted to be reunited with his old friend after so long.

"I...I'm so happy for you!"

"Michelle, you did it! You really did it!"

Charlotte rushed to him, her eyes even welling up with tears from excitement.

She gripped Michel's hand tightly and exclaimed, "Visiting Professor! My God, a visiting professor at the University of London! Do you know what that means?"

Her voice was filled with ecstasy.

"This means you'll never have to go back to that dirty, chaotic East Side slum! You belong here, you belong to high society!"

Michelle's smile froze slightly when she heard the words "dirty slums".

Sorry, I moved a long time ago...

But he didn't interrupt her; he just listened quietly.

Charlotte was completely absorbed in her excitement and didn't notice anything unusual about Michelle.

She continued to talk at length about her bright future.

"Next week, my father is hosting a literary salon at home, you know? It'll be all true aristocrats and established writers! Before, they wouldn't have given you a second glance, but now it's different!"

She raised her chin, her face radiating a sense of pride and honor.

"But now you're Professor LeBron! You absolutely have to come!"

"I'll show everyone how foolish and arrogant they were! Those noble scions who once mocked you will now line up and respectfully address you as 'Professor'!"

Then I really have to thank you...

As Michelle listened, her expression grew increasingly grim.

This girl, whom the original owner of this body remembered as loving literature and even having a slight fondness for it, seems to be quite different...

In the eyes of Michel, the spirit of posterity.

Literature was merely a hobby for her; what she truly loved was her social class.

I had too little contact with my predecessor, and my memories are shrouded in that filter.

Charlotte's words seemed to be cheering for him and speaking out for him.

But in reality, they completely forgot everything he had just said in his speech.

She didn't mention the "iceberg theory" at all, nor "literature in the world," nor any of the discussions about the underprivileged and the realities of life.

In her world, the success of this speech ultimately amounted to nothing more than a ticket into high society, a means to flaunt to old enemies.

She didn't understand at all.

Or rather, she understood the theory and appreciated Michel's work, but she couldn't grasp the meaning behind it at all.

Michel felt no anger, but rather a faint sadness and melancholy.

He knew that Charlotte was not wrong.

Perhaps in her eyes, all of this was perfectly natural.

Just like before, she admired her predecessor's talent and modeling skills, but did not express her feelings.

Now, Michelle has become "Professor LeBron," and she's incredibly enthusiastic.

He looked at the beautiful face before him, flushed with excitement, her blue eyes sparkling with a desire for class, fame, and vanity.

Michelle suddenly understood that what separated them was not family background or wealth, but an entire insurmountable world.

He gently, but firmly, pulled his hand out of hers.

This action brought Charlotte to an abrupt halt.

She looked at him with some surprise.

Charlotte.

Michelle's voice was soft, but every word was clear: "I accepted the title of professor so that I would have the opportunity to bring authentic voices into this ivory tower."

He paused, looking at her puzzled expression, and continued to add.

"Instead of turning myself into an exhibit in an ivory tower."

Charlotte was stunned.

The joy on her face slowly faded, replaced by a deep sense of confusion and bewilderment.

"Exhibits? Michelle, what nonsense are you talking about?"

She stepped forward and tried to pull him back again.

"This is reality! This is your future! Do you want to go back to those old days? Have you forgotten how Grant humiliated you? Have you forgotten the embarrassment of not being able to afford tuition? Now you have the chance to change everything!"

She even tried to win him over with the lingering, hazy feelings that had once existed between them.

"Michelle, you know what? I... I've always believed in you. I know you're different from them."

Now, we can finally...

'

Sis, stop!

Nothing has happened to us yet.

Michelle finally realized that no amount of explanation would be of any use.

Language is so pale and powerless in the face of deeply ingrained ideas.

He sighed and took out his notebook and pencil from his pocket.

Under the dim light of the streetlamp, Michelle bent down and quickly wrote a few lines in her notebook.

The scratching sound of the pen tip across the paper was especially clear in the quiet night.

After he finished writing, he tore off the page, carefully folded it, and placed it in Charlotte's palm.

Michel stepped back and gave her a perfectly gentlemanly bow.

A gentle smile returned to his face, but this smile carried a hint of detachment and resolve.

"Charlotte, thank you for your kindness to me, and thank you for speaking up for me during your speech just now."

"But this poem is the final response I can give you."

After saying that, he stopped looking at her, turned around without a second glance, and strode back into the damp, cold, and heavy fog of London.

Charlotte stood there, stunned, the warmth of his fingertips and the thin piece of paper still lingering in her palm.

She watched Michelle's retreating figure, a figure that was once so familiar, yet now seemed so strange and resolute.

He walked step by step into the boundless fog, disappearing completely from her world.

A wave of immense panic and despair instantly filled her heart.

She vaguely realized that what she had just lost might not just be a boy she once admired.

Rather, it was a soul she could never understand, and was destined never to reach.

A hero who is destined to illuminate this era with his own light.

She trembled as she slowly unfolded the note in her hand.

A short title: "We Promised Each Other in the Summer"

This is actually a poem! A poem written for her!

Under the dim light, there were a few lines of strong, vigorous handwriting: "We made a promise in the summer, my dear, your longing, in June when your short life passed away, I also grew weary of my own life, being caught in the darkness. Where you once laid me down, someone came with a lamp, and I received that signal too. Yes, our futures are different. Your cottage faced the sun, while mine was destined to be surrounded by the ocean and the north. Yes, your garden blossomed first, but mine was sown in the frost. However, that summer we were both queens, only you were crowned in June."

There was not a single accusation, not a single complaint, only the gentlest farewell.

But it was precisely this gentleness that made her feel a suffocating heartache.

"Your garden blossomed first, but mine was sown in the frost..."

""

She murmured to herself.

He was saying that although we once walked the same path, now you face the light while I face the storm, and the world has separated us.

We are ultimately from different worlds.

This is a farewell letter!

A wave of intense regret washed over Charlotte.

This regret would continue throughout Charlotte's long and solitary life thereafter...

The note slipped from her limp fingers, like a butterfly with broken wings, and drifted onto the wet stone pavement.

Michelle walked out of the gates of University College London.

He did not call for a carriage, nor did he head to his new apartment in Bloomsbury.

He simply followed his memory, turning into alleys and heading in the exact opposite direction from the wealthy area.

The air was filled with the smell of coal smoke and horse manure.

The roar of a factory could be heard in the distance, while nearby came the arguing of drunkards and the screams of women.

This is the human world he knows.

After walking for about half an hour, Michelle arrived at the door of a familiar pub.

The paint on the sign was peeling and faded, and only the words "Tumor-Leg Fox" could be barely made out.

He pushed open the creaking wooden door, and a wave of heat mixed with the stench of sweat, tobacco, and alcohol hit him.

The tavern was bustling with noise, packed with dockworkers, day laborers, and small vendors.

They wore dirty, tattered clothes, looked exhausted, yet shouted, boasted, and told the most vulgar jokes at the top of their lungs.

No one noticed the young man who came in through the door.

Michelle found a corner seat and sat down. A greasy-faced proprietress swayed over with her barrel-shaped waist.

"What would you like to drink, sir?"

There was a hint of wariness in her tone; clearly, Michelle's attire was out of place in this setting.

"The cheapest beer."

Michel handed over a few pennies.

The proprietress took the money and confirmed it was genuine.

She glanced at him suspiciously, then turned and went to get the wine.

Soon, a glass of cheap beer with coarse foam was placed heavily on the wooden table in front of him.

Michelle picked up her glass and took a big gulp.

The bitter, spicy liquid slid down my throat, yet it carried a sense of realness.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, and listened to the vibrant, raw, yet full-bodied sounds around him.

A worker is loudly complaining about the foreman's harshness.

The vendors argued heatedly over a single sale.

A drunken man, clutching a harp, sang an off-key folk song from his hometown, drawing laughter and curses.

Some people even tried to flirt with the proprietress.

Dude, you're really not picky, are you? Are you really hungry?

There are no elegant words or phrases here, only the most primal desires, the most real pain, and the cheapest pleasure.

Michelle smiled, the first genuine smile she had shown since the end of her speech.

His mind was clearer and more excited than ever before.

Michel knew that it was this filthy slum, these vulgar lower-class people, and their ordinary lives that were the roots of his literature and the source of his creation.

His works are written for the people...

His iceberg needs to take root in this unfathomable ocean.

A creative urge welled up within him.

Michelle took the notebook out of her pocket again.

He turned to a new page and, in the dim light of the tavern, wrote a title on the paper.