“You have a fine talent,” he said—“you may even have genius. Your book is obviously sincere—it’s vêcu, as the French say. I suspect you must have been in love when you wrote it.”
“In a way,” said Thyrsis, flushing slightly. He had not intended that to show.
The other smiled. “It’s overwrought in places,” he went on, “and it tends to incoherency. But the main trouble is that it’s entirely over the heads of the public. They don’t know anything about the kind of love you’re interested in, and they’d laugh at it.”
“But then, what am I to do?” cried Thyrsis.
“You’ll simply have to keep on trying, till you happen to strike it.”
“But—how am I to live?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Ardsley, “that is the problem.” He smiled, rather sadly, as he sat watching the lad. “You see how I’ve solved it,” he went on. “I was young once myself, and I tried to write novels. And in those days I blamed the publishers—I thought they stood in my way. But now, I see how it is; a publisher is engaged in a highly competitive business, and he barely makes interest on his capital; he can’t afford to publish books that won’t pay their way. Here am I, for instance—it’s my business to advise this house; and if I advise them wrongly, what becomes of me? If I take them your manuscript and say, ‘It’s a real piece of work,’ they’ll ask me, ‘Will it pay its way?’ And I have to answer them, ‘I don’t think it will.’”
“But such things as they publish!” exclaimed the boy, wildly.
And Mr. Ardsley smiled again. “Yes,” he said. “But they pay their way. In fact, they save the business.”
So Thyrsis went out. He saw quite clearly now the simple truth—it was not a matter of art at all, but a matter of business. It was a business-world, and not an art-world; and he—poor fool—was trying to be an artist!