'If I have taken the common clay And wrought it cunningly In the shape of a god that was digged a clod, The greater honour to me.'?
'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.
Sustained by her indomitable will, The hands shall fashion, and the brain shall pore, And all her sorrow shall be turned to labour----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 Melancolia that isn't merely a sorrowful female head, I can do a better one; and I will, too. What d'you know about Melacolias?' Dick firmly believed that he was even then tasting three-quarters of all the sorrow in the world.
'She was a woman,' said Maisie, 'and she suffered a great deal,--till she could suffer no more. Then she began to laugh at it all, and then I painted her and sent her to the Salon.'
The red-haired girl rose up and left the room, laughing.
Dick looked at Maisie humbly and hopelessly.
'Never mind about the picture,' he said. 'Are you really going back to Kami's for a month before your time?'
'I must, if I want to get the picture done.'
'And that's all you want?'
'Of course. Don't be stupid, Dick.'
'You haven't the power. You have only the ideas--the ideas and the little cheap impulses. How you could have kept at your work for ten years steadily is a mystery to me. So you are really going,--a month before you need?'
'I must do my work.'
'Your work--bah! . . . No, I didn't mean that. It's all right, dear. Of course you must do your work, and--I think I'll say good-bye for this week.'
'Won't you even stay for tea?
'No, thank you. Have I your leave to go, dear? There's nothing more you particularly want me to do, and the line-work doesn't matter.'
'I wish you could stay, and then we could talk over my picture. If only one single picture's a success, it draws attention to all the others. I know some of my work is good, if only people could see. And you needn't have been so rude about it.'
'I'm sorry. We'll talk the Melancolia over some one of the other Sundays.
There are four more--yes, one, two, three, four--before you go. Good-bye, Maisie.'
Maisie stood by the studio window, thinking, till the red-haired girl returned, a little white at the corners of her lips.
'Dick's gone off,' said Maisie. 'Just when I wanted to talk about the picture. Isn't it selfish of him?'
Her companion opened her lips as if to speak, shut them again, and went on reading The City of Dreadful Night.
