Chapter XLI: Section 1: Thyrsis was half hoping that the next publisher would decline

the manuscript; and he was only mildly stirred when he got a letter saying that although the publisher could not make an offer for the book, one of his readers was so much interested in it that he would like to have a talk with the author. Thyrsis replied that he was willing; and to his surprise he learned that the reader was none other than that Prof. Osborne, who in the university had impressed upon him his ignorance of the art of writing.

He paid a call at the professor’s home, and they had a long talk. There was nothing said about their former interview. Evidently the other recognized that Thyrsis had succeeded in making good his claim to be allowed to hew his own way; and Thyrsis was content with that tacit surrender.

They talked about the book. The professor first assured him that it would not sell, and then went on to explain to him why; and so they came to a grapple.

“The thing is sincere, perhaps even exalted,” said Prof. Osborne; “but it’s overstrained and exaggerated.”

“But isn’t it alive?” asked Thyrsis.

The other pondered; he always spoke deliberately, choosing his words with precision. “Some people might think so,” he said. “For myself, I have never known any such life.”

“But what’s that got to do with it?” cried Thyrsis.

“It has much to do with it--for me. One has to judge by what one knows--”

“But can’t one be taught?”

The professor meditated again. “I have lived forty-five years,” he said, “and you have lived less than half that. I imagine that I have read more, studied more, thought more than you. Yet you ask me to submit myself to your teaching!”

“No, no!” cried Thyrsis, eagerly. “It is not as if it were a matter of learning--of scholarship--of knowledge of the world. There is an intensity of experience that is not dependent upon time; in the things of the imagination--in matters of inspiration--surely one does not have to be old or learned.”

“That might be true,” admitted the other, hesitatingly.

“You read the poetry of Keats or Shelley, for instance. They were as young as I am when they wrote it, and yet you do not refuse to acknowledge its worth. Is it just because they are dead, and their poems are classics?”

So these two wrestled it out. Thyrsis could bring the other to the point of acknowledging that there might be genius in his work, but he could not bring him to the point of _doing_ anything about it. The poet went away, seeing the situation quite clearly. Prof. Osborne was an instructor; it was his business to know; and if he should abdicate before one of his pupils, then what would become of authority? He had certain models, which he set before his class; these models constituted literature. If anyone might disregard them and proceed to create new models according to his own lawless impulse--then what anarchy would reign in a classroom! Under such circumstances, it was remarkable that the professor had even been willing to admit of doubts; as Thyrsis walked home he clenched his hands and whispered to himself, “I’ll get that man some day!”