MARGINAL COMMENT
.By HAROLD NICOLSON
IAM sometimes asked by the parents of infant prodigies whether, in my opinion, the work of such prodigies is of sufficient merit to justify them in " adopting literature " as a profession. The doting mothers, the uncertain fathers, who consult me in such matters generally enclose a scrap or two of the infant's early verse or prose. This places me in an embarrassing position. The temptation is of course to dictate an amiable letter, expressing admiration for the premature talent disclosed and ardent hopes for a brilliant and remunerative future. Yet the doting parent may, in fact, be in a state of some perplexity, the infant prodigy may, in fact, display a certain gift of imagery and expression ; one cannot, or should not, shirk all sense of responsibility in such matters. Yet what on earth is one to say if one desires neither to stimulate unwarranted ambition nor to cause unnecessary discouragement ? In cases where the specimens submitted are wholly imitative and disclose no originality at all it is easy to get out of the difficulty by suggesting that it would be well to wait until the prodigy ceases to be an infant and not to decide until the boy or girl has reached nineteen years of age. But what is one to say when the verses or prose submitted do in fact suggest a certain talent ? It frequently occurs that boys or girls between the ages of twelve and sixteen suddenly develop a habit of writing poetry or composing little poems in prose ; such efforts on their part are not always lamentable and should never be either unduly applauded or unnecessarily snubbed. Yet it is true that only in about two per cent. of such cases is the urge to write inspired by anything more than the first adjustments of adolescence ; and that in most cases the boy or girl after eighteen will never write one line of readable verse or prose again. It would be unfor- tunate if in such cases one were, from amiable indolence, to raise
hopes which are unlikely to be realised. '
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It is so true, as the philosopher remarks, that poets are born and not made. " It is not," he wrote, " by taking thought that the poets make what they make, but owing to natural temperament and in a mood of ecstasy." Yet it is of small assistance to a doting mother at Littlehampton to receive, a quotation from the Apology. It would only convince her that her Bert or Doris did, in fact, possess this natural temperament, and that the mood in which they scribbled their imitative lines was exactly that mood of ecstasy which Socrates had in mind. And thus one ends by saying lamely that the evidence submitted does certainly indicate remarkable talent in a child of thirteen and that it will be most interesting to see whether that talent fulfils its promise as the years go by. If one is in a sententious mood, one may add a paragraph to the effect that the wise parent, when faced with an infant prodigy, is called upon to develop great modesty, becoming reticence, immense patience and a certain maternal cunning. The child must not be allowed to imagine that it is in any way superior to its less .gifted Contemporaries. Great care must be taken not to boost the child's poems in the family circle or to show them to any but the closest friends. Every effort must be made to treat these early stirrings of genius as a matter of course, to praise the good lines and to assert that the bad lines are very weak indeed. Above all will it be necessary, when dealing with a precocious and presumably neurotic son or daughter, to provide them with that certainty of mild discipline which acts as a slow pulse or rhythm in their fevered lives. There are few things more abhorrent in life than the conceited mother who shows her
children off. * * * * Occasions sometimes occur when the same question is put to one by young men or women who have already passed the troubled stage of adolescence and who "wish to write." Should they, in spite of the manifest anxiety of their parents that they should obtain some regular employment, refuse to accept any such restriction upon their powers and devote themselves entirely to literature ? It is far easier to deal with such comparatively adult aspirants than with the doting mother at Littlehampton whose child is gifted but thirteen. One can explain to them that the urge to write is an experience far more common than is generally assumed. Most people under twenty-five hope and believe that, if they had the leisure, they would write a most remarkable book ; the fact that this book is never written they ascribe, not to the debility of their writer's urge, but to the lack of leisure. Such a contention is demonstrably untrue. Most successful writers started life in a profession which they may or may not have found congenial. Trollope was for years a clerk in the Post Office and thereafter a surveyor ; Dickens started as a parliamentary re- porter ; Matthew Arnold spent most of his life as an educational inspector ; Wordsworth accepted the perhaps not very arduous duties of a distributor of stamps ; it might not have been so terrible a thing if Keats had stuck a little longer to his gallipots ; and even Verlaine, the least sedentary of poets, worked for a short and violent space of time in the Hotel de Ville. If the urge be strong enough it will surmount all restrictions upon leisure and be unaffected by the dull diurnal weight of routine duties. I seek therefore to per- suade all young aspirants that they will suffer no damage by exerting a little patience and by accepting some dull employment such as will provide them with a slight independent income and give a certain rhythm to their lives. * * *
I seldom find that they are impressed or encouraged by this argument. In vain do I point out to them that, even for self- satisfaction, it is preferable to be a Treasury official who writes poems than a young man of penurious leisure whose poems are not good enough. I then recount to them, at some length, a story which was told me by the late Sir Edmund Gosse. When a young man, Gosse had a passion for the literary eminent and would cultivate their acquaintance by being serviceable to them in many little ways. On one occasion he accompanied the aged Browning to Oxford University, where he was to receive an honorary degree. When the ceremony was over there remained an hour of spare time before the train left for London. Gosse suggested to Browning that this hour might, since it was a fine June afternoon, be well spent in the garden quadrangle at Balliol. They sat there upon one of the hard green benches which decorate that grove and Gosse arranged a travelling rug around Mr. Browning's knees. " It must be won- derful for you," said Gosse, "wonderful indeed for you to sit here in this old college after today's ceremony and to-look back upon a long life in which (except of Course for the death of your dear wife) you have nothing to regret." " Yes," Browning replied, " it is cer- tainly a lovely evening, but I should not say that there is nothing that I regret." " But surely Mr. Browning, except for the death of your dear wife, your whole career has been one of magnificent achievement ? " " Well," grumbled Browning, " there is one thing that I regret very much indeed. I regret not having been a civil servant." Edmund Gosse was shocked by this statement and pressed Browning to explain. " Had I been a civil servant, I should have been at my office all day and only written in the evening. As it is, I write all morning and all evening as well. There is the lamp, and there the paper and there the pen beside it. I have written too much, my dear Mr. Gosse ; I have over-written ; I have written myself out. If I had been a civil servant I should have written better and much less."
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I do not always find that my young aspirants are convinced by this story. They prefer the story of H. G. Wells's mother, who had always hoped that he would become a draper's assistant ; in vain she implored and wept. One day Wells received a cheque from America for the equivalent of .five thousand pounds. He took a cab to Hampstead where his mother was then living and flapped down the cheque upon her work basket. " I quite see," the old lady answered, " that it is a lot of money. But what I always say is— this writing business isn't permanent." How right she was ! All those who wish to devote their lives to literature should at least start by doing something else: but not journalism.
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