The things we do!

Oh, Mrs. Pendennis, isn't it
humiliating? Why isn't there a war? Why can't I go and distinguish myself
somewhere and be a general? Why haven't I a genius? I say, Pen, sir, why
haven't I a genius? There is a painter who lives hard by, and who sends
sometimes, to beg me to come and look at his work. He is in the Muggins
line too. He gets his canvases with a good light upon them: excludes the
contemplation of all other objects, stands beside his pictures in an
attitude himself, and thinks that he and they are masterpieces.
Masterpieces! Oh me, what drivelling wretches we are! Fame!--except that
of just the one or two--what's the use of it? I say, Pen, would you feel
particularly proud now if you had written Hayley's poems? And as for a
second place in painting, who would care to be Caravaggio or Caracci? I
wouldn't give a straw to be Caracci or Caravaggio. I would just as soon
be yonder artist who is painting up Foker's Entire over the public-house
at the corner. He will have his payment afterwards, five shillings a day,
and a pot of beer.


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