The Essential Writings of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated Edition). Редьярд Киплинг

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       "If thou hast taken the common clay,

       And thy hands be not free

       From the taint of the soil,

       thou hast made thy spoil

       The greater shame to thee."

       —The Two Potters

      He did no work of any kind for the rest of the week. Then came another Sunday. He dreaded and longed for the day always, but since the red-haired girl had sketched him there was rather more dread than desire in his mind.

      He found that Maisie had entirely neglected his suggestions about line-work. She had gone off at score filed with some absurd notion for a "fancy head." It cost Dick something to command his temper.

      "What's the good of suggesting anything?" he said pointedly.

      "Ah, but this will be a picture,—a real picture; and I know that Kami will let me send it to the Salon. You don't mind, do you?"

      "I suppose not. But you won't have time for the Salon."

      Maisie hesitated a little. She even felt uncomfortable.

      "We're going over to France a month sooner because of it. I shall get the idea sketched out here and work it up at Kami's."

      Dick's heart stood still, and he came very near to being disgusted with his queen who could do no wrong. "Just when I thought I had made some headway, she goes off chasing butterflies. It's too maddening!"

      There was no possibility of arguing, for the red-haired girl was in the studio. Dick could only look unutterable reproach.

      "I'm sorry," he said, "and I think you make a mistake. But what's the idea of your new picture?"

      "I took it from a book."

      "That's bad, to begin with. Books aren't the places for pictures. And——"

      "It's this," said the red-haired girl behind him. "I was reading it to Maisie the other day from The City of Dreadful Night. D'you know the book?"

      "A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are pictures in it. What has taken her fancy?"

      "The description of the Melancolia—

      'Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle,

       But all too impotent to lift the regal

       Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride.

      And here again. (Maisie, get the tea, dear.)

      'The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams,

       The household bunch of keys, the housewife's gown,

       Voluminous indented, and yet rigid

       As though a shell of burnished metal frigid,

       Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down."

      There was no attempt to conceal the scorn of the lazy voice. Dick winced.

      "But that has been done already by an obscure artist by the name of Durer," said he. "How does the poem run?—

      'Three centuries and threescore years ago,

       With phantasies of his peculiar thought.'

      You might as well try to rewrite Hamlet. It will be a waste of time."

      "No, it won't," said Maisie, putting down the teacups with a clatter to reassure herself. "And I mean to do it. Can't you see what a beautiful thing it would make?"

      "How in perdition can one do work when one hasn't had the proper training? Any fool can get a notion. It needs training to drive the thing through,—training and conviction; not rushing after the first fancy." Dick spoke between his teeth.

      "You don't understand," said Maisie. "I think I can do it."

      Again the voice of the girl behind him—

      "Baffled and beaten back, she works on still;

       Weary and sick of soul, she works the more.