Gazing at these, who
could guess the story of that most guilty woman and astute
conspirator--unbridled in sensuality--remorseless in statecraft--who
counted her lovers by legions, and saw, unmoved, her chief favorite torn
limb from limb on the rack?
But this is no singular instance. Marble and canvas are more discreet
than the mask of the best trained living features. Messalina and Julia
look cold and correct enough since they have been turned into stone.
Only by the magic of her smile and by the glory of her golden hair do we
recognize her who, if all tales are true, might have given a tongue to
the walls of the Vatican. We forget the Borgia, with her laboratory of
philtres and poisons--we only think that never a duke of all his royal
race brought home a lovelier bride than Alfonso of Ferrara.
Perhaps it is best so. Why should a mark be set upon those whom, it may
be, history has condemned unrighteously? Let us not be more uncharitable
than the painter or the sculptor, but pass on without pausing to
reflect--_Desinit in piscem_.
If one had wanted to find a fault in Constance Brandon's beauty, I
suppose it would have been that her forehead was too high, and her lips
too thin and decided in their expression, especially when compressed
under any strong feeling.
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