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He was certain that "The Genius" was a play of genius, and its author a man of genius; and yet Thyrsis knew that if it had been Meyer and Levinson, across the street, who were producing it, Mr. Rosenberg would have called it "rot". Mr.
He was fresh from a "ticket-chopper's" job in the subway, and he knew no more about farming than Thyrsis did; but he put up a clever "bluff", and was so prompt with his wits that it was hard to find fault with him successfully.
The very day after he had received this letter, there came, in quick succession two bursts of sunlight through the clouds of Thyrsis' despair. The first was a letter, written in a quaint script, from a man who explained that he was interested in a "Free People's Theatre" in one of the cities of Germany.
"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.
But the barriers were down, and there was no building them up again; Thyrsis never even tried, because of the revelation which came to him from Corydon's side. Corydon was craving, reaching out hungrily for something which she had not in herself, and which life did not give her in sufficiency. She called this thing "love"; and she had no hesitations and no limits to her demand for it.
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." Section 7. Thyrsis was still reading in the papers and magazines of philanthropists and public-spirited citizens; and he was still sitting down to write them and explain his plight.
Thyrsis replied by quoting Kautsky's formula: "Communism in material production, Anarchism in intellectual". He showed how the state might print and bind and distribute, while men in "free associations" might edit and publish. But one could not get very far in this exposition, because of the excitement of the elder Macintyre.
"It would be Nature! 'Blessings on thee, little man!" "That's all very well. But I want Cedric to have curls " "Curls!" he cried. "And then a Fauntleroy suit, I suppose!" "No at least not while we're poor. But I want him to look decent " "If you have curls, then you'll want a nurse-maid to brush them!" "Nonsense, Thyrsis! Can't a mother take care of her child's own hair?"
But Corydon was personal, and loved life; and she stood out that death was unthinkable that she had the sense of infinity within her. Thyrsis strove to make her see that one was to wreak one's hunger for infinity at each moment, and not put it off to any future age; that life was a thing for itself, and needed no sequel to justify it.
And the promise of marriage that I make you is just this: not that I love you I do not love you; but what I wish the woman to be whom I am to love that I will make you! And do not ever dare to ask me for any other promise, for you will not get it. You will come with this. MY THYRSIS: I had an iron grip at my heart just now, as I was trying to study.
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