"Nay," said Rameau, "this is not true. We fancy, in our hours of indolence, that we must wait for inspiration; but once force ourselves to work, and ideas spring forth at the wave of the pen. You may believe me here, I speak from experience: I, compelled to work, and in modes not to my taste—I do my task I know not how. I rub the lamp, 'the genius comes.'"
"I have read in some English author that motive power is necessary to continued labour: you have motive power, I have none."
"I do not quite understand you."
"I mean that a strong ruling motive is required to persist in any regular course of action that needs effort: the motive with the majority of men is the need of subsistence; with a large number (as in trades or professions), not actually want, but a desire of gain, and perhaps of distinction, in their calling: the desire of professional distinction expands into the longings for more comprehensive fame, more exalted honours, with the few who become great writers, soldiers, statesmen, orators."
"And do you mean to say you have no such motive?"
"None in the sting of want, none in the desire of gain."
"But fame?"
"Alas! I thought so once. I know not now—I begin to doubt if fame should be sought by women." This was said very dejectedly.
"Tut, dearest Signorina! what gadfly has stung you? Your doubt is a weakness unworthy of your intellect; and even were it not, genius is destiny and will be obeyed: you must write, despite yourself—and your writing must bring fame, whether you wish it or not."
Isaura was silent, her head drooped on her breast—there were tears in her downcast eyes.