People would repeat to him, over and over, their dreary formula--“Get a position! Get a position!” And patiently, unwearyingly, Thyrsis would set himself to explain to them what it was like to be inspired. It was not perversity upon his part, it was not conceit; it was no more these than it was laziness. It was something that was in him--something that he had not put there himself, something that he could not take out of himself; a thing that took possession of him, without any intention upon his part, without any permission; a thing that required him to do certain acts, and that tore him to pieces if he did not do them. And how should he be blamed because he could not do as other men--because he could not take care of himself, nor even of his wife and child? Because he could not have any rights, because he could not possess the luxuries of manhood and self-respect? Because, in short, he was cast out into the gutter for every dog to snarl at and for every loafer to spurn? Could it be that in this whole civilization, with its wealth and power, its culture and learning, its sciences and arts and religions--there was not to be found one single man or woman who could recognize such a state of affairs, and realize what it meant? 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.”