"Bravo! Well, if you trust to poetry to make your way in the world—I have remarked something curious in this place and I am going to tell you what it is. Verses are still read here with interest, and it seems the girls learn them by heart. But in the capital I assure you there is scarcely anyone who cares for poetry. You are twenty or thirty years behind the age here—at the height of the romantic period."
Segundo, annoyed, said with some vehemence:
"And Campoamor? And Nuñez de Arce? And Grilo? Are they not famous poets? Are they not popular?"
"Campoamor? They read him because he is very witty, and he sets the girls thinking and he makes the men laugh. He has his merit, and he amuses while he philosophizes. But remember that neither he nor Nuñez de Arce lives by writing verses. Much prosperity that would bring them! As to Grilo—well, he has his admirers among ladies of rank, and the Queen Mother publishes his poems, and as far as we can judge he has plenty of money. But convince yourself that no one will ever grow rich by following the road that leads to Parnassus. And this is when masters are in question, for of poets of a secondary rank, young men who string rhymes together with more or less facility, there are probably now in Madrid some two or three hundred. Have you ever heard of any of them? No; nor I either. A few friends praise them when they publish anything in some insignificant review. But there is no need to go on. In plain words, it is time lost."
Segundo silently vented his anger on his cigar.
"Don't take what I say as an offense," continued Don Victoriano. "I know little about literature, although in my youthful days I wrote quintillas, like everybody else. Besides, I have seen nothing of what you have written, so that my opinion is impartial and my advice sincere."
"My ambition," began Segundo at last, "is not confined exclusively to lyric poetry. Perhaps later I might prefer the drama—or prose. Who knows? I only want to try my fortune."
Don Victoriano rose and stepped out into the balcony. Suddenly he returned, placed both hands on Segundo's shoulders, and putting his clean-shaven face close to the face of the poet, said with a pity which was not feigned:
"Poor boy! How many, many disappointments are in store for you!"
And as Segundo, astonished at this sudden effusion, remained silent, he continued: