Seen through his eyes, the
seashore in the Saint Anne had the airless lethargy of some damasked
chapel in a Spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a wan spirit
of evil that was very troubling. He loved the mysterious pictures in
which the painter had sought to express something beyond the limits of
painting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing for unhuman
passions. Oliver Haddo found this quality in unlikely places, and his
words gave a new meaning to paintings that Margaret had passed
thoughtlessly by. There was the portrait of a statuary by Bronzino in the
Long Gallery of the Louvre. The features were rather large, the face
rather broad. The expression was sombre, almost surly in the repose of
the painted canvas, and the eyes were brown, almond-shaped like those of
an Oriental; the red lips were exquisitely modelled, and the sensuality
was curiously disturbing; the dark, chestnut hair, cut short, curled over
the head with an infinite grace. The skin was like ivory softened with a
delicate carmine. There was in that beautiful countenance more than
beauty, for what most fascinated the observer was a supreme and
disdainful indifference to the passion of others.
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