e violence and
stress of living, and was no more tormented by scruple and by passion;
when the flaming orgy of his individuality no longer confused the
pageant of the world. He had been judging by himself when he
propounded the startling theory that lyric poets must grow into
dramatic poets if they grow at all. It was now, when his youth no
longer sang aloud in him, that he heard the living voices of the men
and women whom he made. Their flesh and blood no longer struggled
violently for birth, no longer tortured the delicate tissue of the
dream. His dreams themselves were brought forth incarnate, he being no
longer at variance with himself as in the days of neo-classic drama.

And so now, when he contemplated his poverty, he saw in it the
dream-crowned head and austere countenance of an archangel destiny. In
the absence of all visible and material comfort the invisible powers
assumed their magnificent dominion. He gave his evenings to Mackinnon
and his mornings, his fresh divine mornings, to the Tragic Muse, thus
setting a blessed purifying interval of sleep between his talent and
his genius. But through it all, while he slept and while he worked,
and while he scribbled with a tenth part of his brain, mechanically
filling in his columns of the _Literary Observer_, he felt that his
genius, conscious of its hour, possessed him utterly. Not even for
Lucia's sake could he resist the god who was so tyrannous and strong.
In his heart he called on her to forgive him for writing unsaleable
tragedies when he ought to have been making money for her. His heart
kept on accusing him. "You would write tragedies if she were
starving," it said. And the god, indignant at the interruption,
answered it, "You wouldn't, you fool, you know you wouldn't. And she
isn't starving. It's you who'll starve, if anybody does; so fire
away." And he fired away; for hope, still invincible, told him that he
could afford to do it, that he had in a drawer fifty pounds' worth of
unpublished articles, works of the baser power, and that, war or no
war, he could surely sell them. He could sell his furniture also; and
if the worst came to the worst, he could sell his books (his own
books, not Lucia's). Meanwhile he must get on with his tragedy. He
could easily finish it in six weeks, and expiate the crime by months
of journalism.

He did finish it in six weeks; and when the Spring came he began
another; for the hand of the god was heavy upon him. This he knew