"Let us hear what they are."
Segundo hesitated, restrained by a feeling of shyness, as if he had been going to narrate a dream or to descant on the delights of love. He followed with his eyes for a few moments the blue smoke curling upward and finally, the semi-obscurity of the room, secluded as a confessional, dissipated his reserve.
"I wish to follow the profession of literature," he returned.
The statesman stopped rocking himself and took his cigar from his mouth.
"But my boy, literature is not a profession!" he said. "There is no such thing as the profession of literature! Let us understand each other—have you ever been out of Vilamorta? I mean beyond Santiago and the neighboring towns?"
"No, Señor."
"Then I can understand those illusions and those childish notions. They still believe here that a writer or a poet, from the mere fact of his being such, may aspire to—and what do you write?"
"Poetry."
"You don't write prose at all?"
"An occasional essay or newspaper article. Very little."