I must preface everything I say about Mr. and Mrs. Andrews with a few words about Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788), their portraitist. Put simply, I am far from a fan of his. Worse, I am genuinely sorry for those who are compelled to cherish him for whatever reason, including national pride. Now, much has been written about his rendering of Mr. and Mrs. Andrews and their acres, executed around 1750, but I have never found a single account of it that broaches the subject of their singular—indeed, arresting—ugliness. If there is anything that draws me to Gainsborough, it is the fact that he has rendered the ill-favored couple without any restraint. In fact, this is the only touch of greatness I can detect in the painter. He must have loathed his subjects, and his painting shows it. Perhaps this is why Mrs. Andrews’ feet are so improbably small and so far flung, as though a child is hiding under her ample skirt. Be that as it may, the only mystery of this painting is in the couple’s acceptance of their own unspeakable hideousness. They must have been committed to it for some reason. The only reason I can fathom from the painting itself is that they hated each other with passion bordering on love. “Get that surly bitch!” I can almost hear Mr. Andrews hissing behind Gainsborough’s back. The rifle slung under his arm is my only proof. She would have been partial to the quiet charms of poison, though.