The question pursued him still more, after the one interview which resulted from all this correspondence. There was a distinguished Harvard professor who had told him that he had rare powers and must go on; and hearing that the professor was in New York, Thyrsis asked the privilege of calling.
It was in one of the city’s most expensive hotels—for the professor had married a rich wife, and was what people called “socially prominent”. The other did not know this; but it seemed an awful thing to him that anyone should be sitting in a brocaded silk-covered chair in a palace of luxury like this, while possessed of the knowledge that his genius was starving.
“You tell me to go on, professor,” he said. “But how can I go on?”
The professor was fingering his gold eyeglasses and studying his visitor.
“You must get some kind of routine work,” he declared—“enough to support you. You can’t expect to live by your writing.”
“But if I do that, I can’t write!” cried Thyrsis.
“You’ll have to do the best you can,” said the other.
“But I can’t do anything! The emotions of it eat me all up. I daren’t even let myself think about my work when I have to do other things.”
“I should think,” commented the professor, “that you would find you are still more hindered by the uncertainties of hack-work.”
“I do find that,” the boy replied. “That is just what is the matter with me.”