Rudyard Kipling 135 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. Sustained by her indomitable will, The hands shall fashion, and the brain shall pore, And all her sorrow shall be turned to labor — I fancy Maisie means to embody herself in the picture.” “Sitting on a throne of rejected pictures? No, I shan’t, dear. The notion in itself has fascinated me. — Of course you don’t care for fancy heads, Dick. I don’t think you could do them. You like blood and bones.” “That’s a direct challenge. If you can do a Melancholia that isn’t merely a sorrowful female head, I can do