He could see the olive walls, the unique copper-and-crimson
arabesque frieze (his own selection), and the delicate draperies; an
open grate full of glowing coals, to temper the sea winds; and in
the midst of it, between a landscape by Enneking and an Indian in
a canoe in a canyon, by Brush, he saw a somber landscape by a
master greater than Millet, a melancholy subject, treated with
pitiless fidelity.
A farm in the valley! Over the mountains swept jagged, gray,
angry, sprawling clouds, sending a freezing, thin drizzle of rain, as
they passed, upon a man following a plow. The horses had a sullen
and weary look, and their manes and tails streamed sidewise in the
blast. The plowman clad in a ragged gray coat, with uncouth,
muddy boots upon his feet, walked with his head inclined t~ ward
the sleet, to shield his face from the cold and sting of it. The soil
rolled away, black and sticky and with a dull sheen upon it.
Nearby, a boy with tears on his cheeks was watching cattle, a dog
seated near, his back to the gale.
As he looked at this picture, his heart softened. He looked down at
the sleeve of his soft and fleecy nightshirt, at his white, rounded
arm, muscular yet fine as a woman's, and when he looked for the
picture it was gone.
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