“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.