That moment she consumed by carefully dusting and closing the machine with the same tenderness and precision with which some musician might put away his beloved instrument.
“You take good care of your machine.”
“Yes, that is all there is between me and the street; I must take good care of that.”
“I believe you said art transposed you from some other sphere in life to your present position,” said I, anxious to draw her back to her subject.
“Yes, I was born into a rich home, wherein the merry jingle of dollars was of less consequence to the different members of my family, than the rattle of pennies is to me now. I received all the finishing touches of education, then as my indulgent father said—”just for pastime“—I took up drawing and painting. My heart, brain and fingers seemed tuned with one accord, so that taking the brush and palette in my hand was only striking the chords of my artistic nature, and the harmony which was thereby inspired spread itself in delicate tints and shades, producing pictures which were as natural as those of the old masters were. So much attention was paid to my amateurish productions that I soon found myself famous. Then I fell in love; art and love should have been brother and sister, born of the same woman and nurtured on the same sweet food. To love a man was to love to draw beautiful pictures as nearly perfect as my accomplishment would allow, then no matter what the canvas portrayed after it had received my finishing touches, I took great pleasure in likening the work to that of my idol, and always found my production wanting. Long days I spent in my studio, striving to make a picture of something which would show as much excellence as a work of art as my lover showed as a man; each time I tried I improved, but before I had reached that stage of supremacy as an artist, I had so lost my head along with my heart that it was a hopeless task; there was nothing so true, so sweet, so perfect as my Reginald.”
“We were married. The conditions and circumstances under which we met at the altar were favorable in the extreme. My husband was a musician of note; in fact, he knew nothing but music and love; certainly nothing was more natural than the blending of our souls in love, inspired by ambition; then to add joy to the happy situation my husband’s best and dearest friend, Jean Vincent (whom he had long since given up as dead), returned to our home town two days before the nuptials. Wealth was a thing easy of access to us, as both our families were independently rich. I was an only child and it was a common expression of my father’s that as I was so careless in regard to my sex, it would be my duty to the family to produce a son. We were very happy, my husband, Mr. Vincent and I, for Reginald insisted on his taking up his residence with us during his stay; he, too, was an artist of no mean ability, and as Reggie said, we could share the same studio and perhaps be of assistance to each other, and besides my husband was teaching a great deal now, and it would be so nice to have Jean in the house for company.”
“We spent many happy days; I could sit for hours and listen to those two “chums” discuss their travels, one in quest of musical education, the other chasing art in its various forms and a part of the time the two royal rovers spent their time in quest of pleasure; but Reginald had tired sooner than his friend, and the date of his homecoming had been the beginning of the love match which had culminated so happily. Mr. Vincent had remained in Italy for a time, then visited the Sahara desert, climbed the pyramids of Egypt and scaled the dangerous peaks of the Alps; he had hunted in the jungles of Africa, and probed mother earth for gold in far off Australia; in fact, he had been everywhere, from the scenes of direst poverty to the grandeur of royal palaces. It was not strange, therefore, that this swarthy man of Oriental customs could entertain, instruct and make friends at one and the same time.
“There was such a striking contrast between him and Reginald that many spoke of it. Reginald was one of those dear little, short, fat men, who seemed to beam with good nature; his round face was pink and white, while his clear blue eyes shown with that merry twinkle of tenderness so characteristic of the German type, while Mr. Vincent was tall and broad shouldered, with a face which was a study of stern determination. The years of hardship were not without effect, neither did his dark skin, black curly hair and luminous eyes of ebony have a tendency to soften the expression which the ravages of time had stamped upon his face. So much did these men enjoy the companionship of one another that they were always together when it was possible and it was only natural that I should join in all their conversation. You may imagine my joy when Reginald came to me and said:
“‘Celeste, I want you to make a portrait of Jean, and, dear, make it your masterpiece.’
“Then came long days of close association; we were closeted for hours in the studio; we talked art; we exchanged views; Jean sat for me and then I persuaded him to reciprocate. I told him that as he was sitting for a picture of himself for my husband that it would be a grand opportunity for him to put my face on canvas, and after the deliberate conclusion that we would surprise Reggie, we decided to present him with my likeness at the same time Jean’s was finished.