"Now, Herbert, don't bother him. Have another meringue.""But, Rickie, my dear boy, you're twenty. It's time you thought.
The Tripos is the beginning of life, not the end. In less than two years you will have got your B.A. What are you going to do with it?""I don't know."
"You're M.A., aren't you?" asked Agnes; but her brother proceeded--"I have seen so many promising, brilliant lives wrecked simply on account of this--not settling soon enough. My dear boy, you must think. Consult your tastes if possible--but think. You have not a moment to lose. The Bar, like your father?""Oh, I wouldn't like that at all."
"I don't mention the Church."
"Oh, Rickie, do be a clergyman!" said Miss Pembroke. "You'd be simply killing in a wide-awake."He looked at his guests hopelessly. Their kindness and competence overwhelmed him. "I wish I could talk to them as I talk to myself," he thought. "I'm not such an ass when I talk to myself.
I don't believe, for instance, that quite all I thought about the cow was rot." Aloud he said, "I've sometimes wondered about writing.""Writing?" said Mr. Pembroke, with the tone of one who gives everything its trial. "Well, what about writing? What kind of writing?""I rather like,"--he suppressed something in his throat,--"Irather like trying to write little stories."
"Why, I made sure it was poetry!" said Agnes. "You're just the boy for poetry.""I had no idea you wrote. Would you let me see something? Then Icould judge."
The author shook his head. "I don't show it to any one. It isn't anything. I just try because it amuses me.""What is it about?"
"Silly nonsense."
"Are you ever going to show it to any one?"
"I don't think so."
Mr. Pembroke did not reply, firstly, because the meringue he was eating was, after all, Rickie's; secondly, because it was gluey and stuck his jaws together. Agnes observed that the writing was really a very good idea: there was Rickie's aunt,--she could push him.
"Aunt Emily never pushes any one; she says they always rebound and crush her.""I only had the pleasure of seeing your aunt once. I should have thought her a quite uncrushable person. But she would be sure to help you.""I couldn't show her anything. She'd think them even sillier than they are.""Always running yourself down! There speaks the artist!""I'm not modest," he said anxiously. "I just know they're bad."Mr. Pembroke's teeth were clear of meringue, and he could refrain no longer. "My dear Rickie, your father and mother are dead, and you often say your aunt takes no interest in you. Therefore your life depends on yourself. Think it over carefully, but settle, and having once settled, stick. If you think that this writing is practicable, and that you could make your living by it--that you could, if needs be, support a wife--then by all means write. But you must work. Work and drudge. Begin at the bottom of the ladder and work upwards."Rickie's head drooped. Any metaphor silenced him. He never thought of replying that art is not a ladder--with a curate, as it were, on the first rung, a rector on the second, and a bishop, still nearer heaven, at the top. He never retorted that the artist is not a bricklayer at all, but a horseman, whose business it is to catch Pegasus at once, not to practise for him by mounting tamer colts. This is hard, hot, and generally ungraceful work, but it is not drudgery. For drudgery is not art, and cannot lead to it.
