Ariadne looked at me as though surprised that I should have been ignorant of so natural and patent a fact.
“Excuse me!” said I, “but it is not always the case with us; any man may set up for a religious teacher who chooses, with or without preparation,—just as any one may set up for a poet, or a painter, or a composer of oratorio.”
“Genius must be universal on your planet then,” she returned innocently. I suppose I might have let it pass, there was nobody to contradict any impressions I might be pleased to convey! but there is something in the atmosphere of Lunismar which compels the truth, good or bad.
“No,” said I, “they do it by grace of their unexampled self-trust,—a quality much encouraged among us,—and because we do not legislate upon such matters. The boast of our country is liberty, and in some respects we fail to comprehend the glorious possession. Too often we mistake lawlessness for liberty. The fine arts are our playthings, and each one follows his own fancy, like children with toys.”
“Follows-his-own-fancy,” she repeated, as one repeats a strange phrase, the meaning of which is obscure.
“By the way,” I said, “you must be rather arbitrary here. Is a man liable to arrest or condign punishment, if he happens to burlesque any of the higher callings under the impression that he is a genius?”
She laughed, and I added, “I assure you that this is not an uncommon occurrence with us.”
“It would be impossible here,” she replied, “because no one could so mistake himself, though it seems egotistical for one of us to say so! but”—a curious expression touched her face, a questioning, doubting, puzzled look—“we are speaking honestly, are we not?”
I wondered if I had betrayed my American characteristic of hyperbole, and I smiled as I answered her: