"I was reading it to
Maisie the other day from The City of Dreadful Night.
Maisie the other day from The City of Dreadful Night.
Kipling - Poems
"
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.
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.
