Mr. Rawlence could hardly have expected an answer from me; but part of his charm was that he made it seem, while he talked and I listened, that we were jointly discussing the subject of his monologue, and that he was much interested by my views. He had that air; his smile and his manner made one feel that.
'Well, you know,' he continued, 'it must be partly the crude material difficulties which the actual and physical conditions of country life here present to educated people, and partly the fact that our country in Australia has got no traditions, no associations, no atmosphere. It is just a negation, a wilderness; not a rural civilisation, but a mere gap in civilisation. Pioneering is picturesque enough--in fiction. In fact, it permits of no leisure and no idealisation; and without those things----'
Mr. Rawlence paused with outstretched hands, shrugging shoulders, and the smile of one who should say--'You understand, of course.' My modest contribution was in three words, delivered with emphatic gestures of acquiescence--'That's just it.'
'Exactly,' resumed the artist. 'Without leisure, without time for anything outside the material things of life, where is your culture? Where is art? Where is romance? Where, in short, is civilisation? And so, as I say, I cannot advise you to stick to the country here. No, one really can't conscientiously advise that, you know.'
A listener might fairly have supposed that I was a young gentleman of means who had sought advice as to the desirability of investing capital in rural New South Wales, and taking up, say, the pastoral life, in preference to a professional career in Sydney. I pinched my knees exultingly; perhaps to demonstrate to myself the fact that all this was no dream. It was I, the orphan, who was carrying on this thrilling conversation with an accomplished man of the world, a distinguished artist. I felt that Mr. Rawlence must clearly be a distinguished artist.
'And so what--what would you advise me to do?' I asked when a pause came. And, immediately, I reproached myself, feeling that I had broken a delightful spell, and risked abruptly ending the most interesting conversation in which I ever took part. The words of my question had so crude a sound. They dragged our talk down to a lower plane, to a plane merely utilitarian, almost squalid by comparison with the roseate heights we had been easily skimming. That was how the sound of my own poor words struck me; but my companion was not so easily dashed. My crudity could not fret his accomplished savoir-faire. (Mr. Rawlence impressed me as the most finished man of the world I had ever met, with the single exception of my father; and, indeed, the Sydney artist did shine brightly beside the sort of people I had lived among of late.)
'Well,' he said, with smiling thoughtfulness, 'I would advise you, when--when the time comes, to make your way to Sydney, and to--to work up a place for yourself there. Of course, there is your native country--England. Who knows? Some day, perhaps-- But, meantime, I think Sydney offers better chances than any other place in this country. Yes, I think so. Have you any special leanings? Is there any particular work that you are specially keen on?'
Like a flash the thought passed through my mind: 'What a miserable creature I must be! There's nothing I particularly want to do. If he finds that out, there's an end to any interest in me, of course. Why haven't I thought of this before? What can I say?' And in the same moment, without appreciable pause, I was startled, but agreeably startled, to hear my own voice saying in quite an intelligent way: 'Well, my father wrote, of course; his work was literary work, and--newspapers, you know.'
I can answer for it that I had never till that moment given a single thought to any such notion as a literary career for myself. As well think of a prime minister's career, I should have thought. But, as I well remember, my very accent, intonation, and choice of words had all insensibly changed to fit, as I thought, the taste and habit of my new friend. And I felt it would be an extravagant folly to talk to him as I had talked with Ted, or as I talked with fellow orphans at St. Peter's, of 'pound-er-week-an'-all-found' jobs, or the 'good money' there was 'in carting,' or the fine careers that offered in connection with the construction of new railways. I had often been told you could not beat the job of cooking for a shearers' or a navvies' camp; and that a wideawake boy could earn 'good money' while learning it, as a rouseabout assistant. It seemed to me that there would have been something too absurdly incongruous in attempting to talk of such things to Mr. Rawlence. Hence, perhaps, my audacious suggestion of the literary career. There I might secure his interest. And, sure enough, I did.
'Ah! to be sure, to be sure,' he said, nodding encouragingly. 'Well, with that in view, Sydney is practically the only place, you know. Mind you, I don't say it's easy, or that one could hope to make headway quickly; but gradually, gradually, a fellow could feel his way there, if anywhere in the colony. It is undoubtedly our centre of art and literature, and culture generally. At first you might have to do quite different sort of work; but, while doing it, you know, you could be always on the lookout, always feeling your way to better things. Sydney is, at all events, a capital city, you see. There is society in Sydney, in a metropolitan sense. There is culture. One is continually meeting interesting people who are doing interesting things. It's not Paris or London, you know, but----'