'
And I stood and gazed at the veil. During all the time I could hear
every word of the talk between Wilderspin, Sleaford, and my mother
before the picture in the other room.
'Awfully fine picture,' said Sleaford, 'but the Queen there--Isis:
more like a European face than an Egyptian. I've been to Egypt a good
deal, don't you know?'
'This is not an historical painting, my lord. As Philip Aylwin says,
"the only soul-satisfying function of art is to give what Zoroaster
calls 'apparent pictures of unapparent realities.'" Perfect beauty
has no nationality; hers has none. All the perfections of woman
culminate in her. How can she then be disfigured by paltry
characteristics of this or that race or nation? In looking at that
group, my lord, nationality is forgotten, and should be forgotten.
She is the type of Ideal Beauty whose veil can never be raised save
by the two angels of all true art, Faith and Love. She is the type of
Nature, too, whose secret, as Philip Aylwin says, "no science but
that of Faith and Love can read."'
'Seems to be the type of a good deal; but it's all right, don't you
know? Awfully fine picture! Awfully fine woman!' said Sleaford in a
conciliatory tone.
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