Chapter CXX: Section 6: About this time Thyrsis thought of another plan. Perhaps he

might get some one to publish the play in book form--that would bring him a little money, and possibly also it might help him to interest some other manager or actor. So he took the manuscript to his friend Mr. Ardsley, who told him it would not sell, and then gave him another lecture upon his folly in not having written the “practical” novel; and then he took it to the publisher for whom Prof. Osborne acted as reader. So he had another conference with that representative of authority.

“I’ll get him some day,” Thyrsis had said to himself, after their last interview; and he found that he had almost “got” him now. There was no chance of the play’s selling, said the professor, and therefore no recommending it for publication; but it was indeed a remarkable piece of work--one might possibly say that it was a _great_ piece of work.

To which the author responded, “Why can’t one say that surely?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said the other, “whether your violinist is a genius, or only thinks he is.”

Thyrsis pondered this. “That’s rather an important question,” he said.

“Yes,” admitted the other.

“There ought to be some way of deciding such a question definitely.”

“Yes, there ought to be.”

“But there isn’t?”

“No--I’m afraid there isn’t. We know too little about genius as yet.”

“But, professor,” said Thyrsis, “you are a critic--you write books of criticism. And that’s the one question a critic has to answer.”

“Yes, I know,” said Prof. Osborne.

“And yet, when you face the issue, you give up.”

“It has generally taken a long time to decide such a matter,” was the professor’s reply.

“Yes, it has,” said the other; “and meantime the man is starved out.”

There was a pause. “You have never had any such experience yourself?” asked Thyrsis. “Of inspiration, I mean.”

“No,” was the answer. “I couldn’t pretend to.”

“So your judgments are never from first-hand knowledge?”

The professor hesitated. “I am dealing with you frankly---” he began.

“I know,” said Thyrsis, “and I appreciate that. You understand that it’s an important point for me to get clear. I’ve felt that all along about you--I’ve felt it about so many others who set themselves against me. And yet I have to bear the burden of their condemnation--”

“I never condemned you,” interposed the other.

“Ah, but you did!” cried Thyrsis. “You told me that I knew less about writing than anyone in your class! And you spoke as one who had authority.”

“But you had given no indications in the class-room--”

“I know! I know! I tried to get you to see the reason. I wanted to create literature; and you set me down with a lot of formulas--you told me to write about ‘The Duty of the College Man to Support Athletics!’”

“It’s difficult to see,” began Prof. Osborne, “how we could teach college boys to create literature--”

“At least,” said the other, “you need not follow a method which would make it impossible for one of them to create literature if he had it in him.”

“Does it seem to you as bad as that?” asked the professor, a little disturbed.

“It truly does,” said Thyrsis.

“But what would you say we could do?”

To which the boy replied, “You might try to get your pupils to feel one deep emotion about life, or to think one worth-while thought; then they might stand a chance of knowing how it feels to write.”