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for hope, still invincible, told him that he could afford to do it, that he had in a drawer fifty pounds’ worth of unpublished articles, works of the baser power, and that, war or no war, he could surely sell them.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 was madness, though a madness divine and irresistible.  In view of its continuance he called upon Mackinnon and inquired whether at any time, if the occasion should arise, he could count upon an advance of salary.  Mackinnon, solid, impenetrable, but benignant, replied that very possibly it might be so.  This Rickman interpreted as a distinct encouragement to dally with the Tragic Muse.  It was followed by a request from Mackinnon that Rickman on his part should oblige him with a few columns in advance.  This he did.  He was now, though he was blissfully unaware of it, the last man on the paper.  In six months from the time of his joining its staff the Literary Observer ceased from observing, and Mackinnon retired suddenly into private life.

Dicky, who had watched with joy the decline of the Literary Observer, chuckled openly at its fall.  He was sorry for old Razors, though.  It was hard luck on him.  Old Razors, in Dicky’s opinion, was about done for now.

It might have seemed so to Rickman but that the experience had sobered him.  He rose from the embraces of the Tragic Muse.  Yet dizzy with the august rapture, he resisted and defied the god.  He thrust his tragedy from him into the hindmost obscurity of his table-drawer.  Then he betook himself, in a mood more imperative than solicitous, to Hanson.  Hanson who had labelled him Decadent, and lumped him with Letheby.  It was no matter now.  Whatever Hanson thought of his genius, there could be but one opinion of his talent.