A MATTER OF THE FLESH by Jesse F. Knight

A MATTER OF THE FLESH

An Excerpt from Mary Nashe: Life of a Great Illustrator

by Jesse F. Knight

"Does everyone think I cannot see?"

So begins Mary Nashe's journal of 1898. Given that Mary was a painter of considerable talent, this is an especially plaintive cry. Of course Mary was not talking about her painterly eye--the eye that could discern character in a moment and with a few quick strokes render it, with devastating clarity, onto canvas. She was talking about the life we all lead in which each of us acts more transparently than we realize. "The ghosts of our emotions and desires," she once wrote in later years, "show themselves quite unconsciously but nonetheless unmistakably, so that we have no idea how much we reveal without meaning to reveal anything at all." That was perhaps the secret of her skill in painting. She could discern, whether the sitter intended it or not, the inner person and render character with blinding clarity.
When I began research for this slight biographical sketch of Mary Nashe, from which this even briefer excerpt is taken, I was surprised to discover that Edward Chandler, too, had kept a journal. [Editor's Note: Both the diary and the journal are in the Boston University's Mulger Library's Special Collections, along with much other archival material.]
Of course, this should come as no surprise to those who are familiar with the Victorian Era. Diaries and journals were rampant. Every young woman of quality kept a diary. Artists, writers, sculptors, poets, you name it--they all kept a journal of who visited them and when. Models kept diaries of their love affairs. Travellers kept journals of their journeys, which were often turned into magazine articles and books. And on and on. So in that sense Edward and Mary were not at all unusual; in fact, they were quite ordinary, quite Victorian.
Neither Mary nor Edward revealed to the other that she/he was keeping a diary/journal until long after the events they related. But that is not extraordinary either. One rarely went around telling others that he or she was keeping a record of the events in which they were participants. That would have taken the fun out of it, for the minute you tell someone you are writing about him is the moment he immediately stops being he.
Mary--she of the common name--was born in 1868, and her sister Regina was born in 1878. No doubt Mary's being ten years older than Regina led her to a maternal instinct towards her sister. They were not unfamiliar with tragedy, and their joint loss may have had something to do with Mary's maternalism. By the mid-1880s, Drexel Nashe owned a mill, a small railroad, several mines, emporia, among many other holdings. But when the Panic of 1892 swept across America Drexal Nashe lost everything, for he had overextended his credit. The once proud family was destitute. The family may have been poor, but it was never broken. Neither Mary nor her younger sister were ever humble, or humbled, for that matter. I am not suggesting they were arrogant. Quite the contrary. But Mary and Regina had an inner self-confidence that transcended poverty.
The painter R. Joshua Logan visited the two sisters in Mary's studio in Philadelphia before they moved to New York City. When he left that evening, he exclaimed in his own journal, "My god, those girls served me cheese and a watered wine as if they were princesses. I almost felt honored to partake of their meager fare . . . almost." Of course he had to add the second snide: "almost." Leave it to Logan. It is something of an indication of the reason he would die alone and friendless. In any event, it is quite likely that he was more honored than he realized, for it is probable that cheese and watered wine was all the food they had in the house.
Their father Drexel committed suicide on January 17, 1895. Was his suicide the result of pride? A broken spirit? The deep depression he had plunged into? We cannot say for certain. But what we can say is that when he died, he left the family penniless. His wife, Louisa, a gentle and sensitive spirit, followed him to the grave a short six months later. It seems like a case where life did not seem worth living without her life-long mate.
So, by the end of 1895 Mary and Regina were entirely on their own--two young women, ages 27 and 17, without a penny to their names. Mary took stock of their assets and potential. The opportunities for women in the late 19th century were limited. They could have become domestic servants--Mary certainly could have become a tutor; Regina could have become a paid companion. But that would have meant the sisters separating, and that, Mary was determined, would never happen. Another option: they could have married Regina off. Regina was at a marriageable age, and she certainly would have been courted by any number of beaus. But that neither would Mary consider, though many well-meaning friends urged that course upon Mary. No, when Regina married it would be whom she wanted and when she chose, Mary declared most emphatically.
Fortunately, Mary had, as a teenager, exhibited considerable skill in drawing. Both the girls had been given a properly genteel upbringing. As young Victorian ladies, they took singing and piano lessons, and drawing lessons, as well. Mary's considerable talent was uncovered early. Regina's talents, it turned out, did not lean towards the artistic.
Three years after their parents died, approximately a year after the visit recorded by Logan, the two sisters moved to New York City. Mary had tried to earn a living as a portraitist in those early years in Philadelphia, but had been unsuccessful. Her problem was not with her technique, as anyone who has seen her portraits today can attest. The real issue was, she did not have the proper connections that most society painters needed, nor for that matter, did she have the desire to develop the kind of social graces that were required of society portraitists.
Regina, meanwhile, was trying to do the things that a maid-of-all-work and a cook would do. She made tea, prepared meals, did the laundry, and she was surprisingly good at it, too. Her future husband, surely not aware of her background, would one day write, "Her sole function in life is to be beautiful." If he had known her in those early days of struggle in New York City, he might not have written so poetically. He might have realized that despite her appearance of fragility, the young girl had considerable resilience. Regina was not spoiled, as her life at the time attests, but she did feel entitled, much in the way modern athletes think they are entitled, to the admiration she received. By the time she was 18, she was indeed extraordinarily beautiful, even when her clothes had been patched so much "they looked like a quilt," as Mary put it, and without a touch of make-up. She took compliments and stares as her due. She was, beneath the beautiful exterior, however, what they would call in those days, a plucky young girl. Like Mary, she didn't know what it meant to give up, even as they lived in poverty in the New York City tenements. However, Regina's intellectual attainments were not of the highest order; even she would admit that. "Dear me," her husband once recorded her as saying, "Mary is oh so much more talented and cleverer than I." And thereby ingratiated herself even further in her husband's adoration. "You were born to be beautiful, all else is superfluous," he told her in return, and she believed it.
Mary, meanwhile, knowing they needed more than Regina's porcelain beauty to survive, was determined to make a success of her drawing. They moved to New York City specifically with the idea that Mary would break into magazine and book illustrating.
Resolutely, she went from one magazine to the next, showing her wares, from book publisher to book publisher. Work did not pile upon her. Nonetheless, to the surprise of those from Harveston, the small town in Pennsylvania from which they had come, she did get a few assignments--from the newspaper the New York World, particularly, and from several magazines that wanted illustrations for the stories they published--most notably Detective Stories, the Girl's Own Paper, and Woman's Role. Some of the stories were lurid, by the standards of the day, some were inane, but they all provided much needed food on the table for the Nashe sisters. Occasionally a book assignment came Mary's way.
But all of that was after she met Edward. Edward Chandler provided her with her very first assignments.
Edward Chandler came from sturdy Maine stock, as they used to say in those days. His upbringing was genteel but not wealthy. He graduated from Yale with honors in Literature, a degree which provided him with no livelihood whatsoever. Like many graduates with literature degrees he ended up in the publishing field, a task for which he turned out to be eminently suited. He worked with many of the era's lesser, but for the time well-known writers, including J. B. Matthewson, Ronald Blassingstoke, and Mrs. Francis K. Fisher.
As for a description, well, I will let Mary give us her perspective: "Too tall for his surroundings, high cheek bones, a gaze that is confident, rather than arrogant, cobalt blue eyes, and hands that are not soft, yet gentle."
Years later, Mary would do a formal portrait of Edward and it hangs today in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D. C. There is about the painting an almost caressing line, not as if her paintbrush grazed the canvas, but rather her fingertips had grazed his soul.
Edward's description of Mary was considerably different, though not unkindly. "I met an odd young lady today--no, not young, although not old either. And odd only in the searing intensity she brought into the room. She strikes me as having been born mature, an adult--responsible, reserved, and very, very grim. Hair pulled back so tightly into a severe, serious bun that it made my skull ache just to look at it. But there is something about her eyes, the way they take in everything. Her eyes don't dart like a bird's, but rather they lovingly gather every detail of the scene into their depths. I have not met any illustrator more determined to succeed than her."
While he couldn't have known at that point with any certainly, Edward must have had some inkling of how very serious this business for Mary. She was no dilettante. She was the sole support of herself and her sister. Edward's assignments, when she obtained them, meant the difference between eating bread dipped in heated milk and a lovely sumptuous dinner. Of course he couldn't know that at the time. That information came only later.
But I have rambled on far too long. Time for me to step aside and open the curtain. I will let Mary and Edward and, to a certain extent Regina too, tell their own story. Let Mary begin.
August the 18th of 1898.

Does everyone think I cannot see!
Today I was talking with our landlord, Mr. Jelley. He insists on pronouncing it Yelly, but he is anything but soft, and he certainly doesn't quiver like jelly. He is big and thick and solid like a fence post. Anyway, I was negotiating another week to pay the rent. Lord knows I need the time--work is scarce during the summer I've heard a hundred times, and it is so beastly hot. In the most unladylike fashion I could feel the sweat trickling down my sides. I was looking out our narrow window, at the smudged and broken bricks in the building across the narrow alley from us, looking away from Mr. Jelley, because I found it distasteful not to be able to pay our bills in a timely manner. I spoke in a determined voice, low but frank, pleading my case, assuring him that he would receive his money . . . all of his money.
Finally, I turned my head to face him, to show him that I was not going to avoid my debt, when I was astonished to see that he was not even looking at me. Instead, he was gazing at Regina, who had been in the room a moment before, but was stepping into the back.
Her reddish blonde hair had come loose in the back and had a rather . . . careless way about it, as if she had been surprised at her toilette by a husband. There was an almost voluptuous quality about her swanlike neck. The light, a yellow sheet coming from the window, seemed not to draw about her like a blanket, but rather to slip beneath her flesh and turn it to a glowing and burnished gold, turning her into a golden Venus, a Bernini. My sister slowly disappeared, unaware, as she usually is, about the stir she causes about her.
The eyes of Mr. Jelley devoured her, gathering the image of my sister's beauty to his imagination hungrily. His full lower lip glistened with contemplation. But it was not a gross matter of the flesh. He was like a man in the desert who desperately needed water, but the water was not physical but something else, something spiritual. He was enthralled.
Regina disappeared into the back room, but the landlord continued to stare at where she had been, as if she had been etched in air. And me!? I might as well have been invisible for all the notice that he took of me!
"All right," he growled without looking at me. "Until a week from this Thursday, but that is all."
So it goes day after day with Regina. It is impossible to deny her beauty. It is not her fault, I realize that. Her beauty is as unconscious as that of any natural animal. Do you blame a rose for being beautiful? Or a catamount for being golden grace and power? She is not a coquette.
It is impossible, I say, to deny her beauty. Her skin is flawless, a kind of alabaster that is like Michaelangelo's Pieta. The lines of her form are grace itself! Regina's eyes are a striking brown--a brown so deep that black shimmers just below the surface. The darkness is soft. Regina's eyes remind me of the velvety brownness that is at the center of a pansy. (Oh, how long ago has it been since I saw a pansy!? Are there no pansies in this city?) I once overheard one of Regina's many suitors say she had eyes he could drown in. (Would that he had!) Almond-shaped eyes they are. Her lips are full, a soft coral color, and she has a fine chin that bespeaks of strength. She has a regal way of moving--something like a dancer who moves through space, all grace and beauty in motion.
Regina has the self-centeredness of a cat--cognizant of her own beauty, aware in a detached way that others admire her, taking it as her due. But my sister is neither cruel nor thoughtless. She is simply herself and nothing more, nor any less. And in a way that is saying a great deal. . . .
But I have written a good deal too much about something that is, after all, inconsequential. Isn't it??? It is late, and as I sit at my desk near the window I look at the glass. The glass distorts the pool of light that envelops my plain face. My shoulders are too narrow, and my face is pinched, has a look of anxiety, which is not altogether surprising, I suppose. And . . . oh, but what good does it do to complain about that which is unchangeable?
This is quite enough of feeling sorry for myself! I will write about another topic entirely . . . tomorrow. Perhaps I will figure out some way to actually pay the rent!

On the same evening that Mary was confiding to her diary, Edward was writing in his own journal, pondering a career move that had been made for him that day.
August 18, 1898.

Today I received a surprise when I arrived at work. Mr. Donovan himself called me into his office, which is highly unusual. His office is bronzely warm, as is he. But nonetheless, anyone would be apprehensive if you were called unexpectedly into your employer's office.
He mumbled gruffly, as he frequently does, but he got to the point finally. It seems I have been put in charge of selecting illustrators for our various books and magazines and sheet music. When I protested that I knew little about art, Mr. Donovan said, "You know more than you think you know."
"How is that possible?" I asked him, bewildered.
"You know what attracts you when you open a book, don't you?"
"Yes."
"What draws you into a story?"
"True."
"You know what is dramatic. What is compelling."
"But I know little about the visual--" I protested yet again.
"Nonsense," my employer exclaimed. "You know all you need to know." And he clapped me on the back in congratulations for my new position. "You'll do just fine, I'm quite sure."
I don't feel elated at my promotion, if indeed it can be viewed as a promotion (he did promise me an extra $3.50 in my paycheck, which I can surely use). Yet, I must admit I do feel a certain sense of satisfaction. After all, Mr. Donovan himself is entrusting me with a new position. He wouldn't do that unless he actually believed I could accomplish it. I have been with the firm only a little over two years. Still, I am ready for the challenge.
So tomorrow I am in charge of--what? I'm not at all sure. No doubt I shall find out soon enough.

August the 19th of 1898.

Sometimes the heat is unbearable as I trudge from publisher to publisher. Oh, I try to appear brisk and coolly efficient, but I am afraid I am not always successful. The heat is more than just . . . the heat. It is like a soggy blanket over the city, oppressive and energy draining. I swear my paper grows limp as I carry it about. The air itself is clammy. Regina and I have experienced nothing like this. Perhaps it was because we always went to the seashore when it was too hot inland. Daddy saw to that. . . . But now Daddy is gone. . . .
The heat is especially annoying when I make my rounds. I have to sit in dingy, noisy rooms, tan with dust. The offices are invariably stifling, and my back aches. The hard-backed benches sear across the middle of my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, like a cross. And there is something of a sneer on the lips of the secretaries, as I have to wait until Mr. So-and-So is ready to see me. Sometimes the wait can stretch out to an hour or more as perspiration trickles down my back.
I have gone to so many publishers that I have started a notebook where I enter what publisher I have seen, when, who I saw, what kind of response I got. If nothing else, I can be organized!

Edward's entry for the same day sounds nearly as bleak and despairing as that of Mary's diary:
Aug. 19, 1898.

Now I know what it means to be "Artistic Director"--it means looking at dozens and dozens of drawings exhibiting no talent whatsoever, no imagination, no creativity, no drama. Does everyone in the world think he or she has talent simply because they are able to put pen or pencil to paper? This job will, no doubt, cause my soul to wither away to nothingness, to shrivel up to the size and hardness of a raisin! Or perhaps I don't have a soul!--isn't that what most writers and artists would say about those who, after all, bring their works before the public? In any case, I will die, there is no doubt about it, in the purgatory of "Artistic Directors." In the afterlife, I will be consigned to a hell in which I have to look at drawing after awful drawing without end, without hope.

August the 22nd of 1898, Monday.

Success at last! Or at least the beginnings of success, I believe. I visited Donovan's today. They have three or four magazines, I believe, and they have a sheet music publishing branch, and a book-publishing wing, as well.
An Edward Chandler met me at the door of his office, holding out a hand that was as large as a bear's paw but not insensitive. There is something I like about the man. There is a freshness about his eyes. Sometimes when you look in another's eyes you can see a weariness; sometimes fear or anxiety; sometimes there is an unabashed delight in looking to the future. And really, it has nothing to do with age. Some of the youngsters--pinched and drawn and pale--that I see around our tenement have eyes that are a thousand years old. And it almost makes me weep. But Mr. Chandler--his eyes are the eyes of youth, of hope still restless as spring is restless in the breast of a young girl. There is something glorious about the way those crinkles at the corner of his eyes deepen when he smiles. His mouth too is young, if you know what I mean. There is in his glance an element of being unafraid-resolute--a man who would stand alone if necessary.
All that I surmised without his saying a word. Oh my!
"Please . . . be seated." He gestured towards a chair in front of his desk.
"Have you ever illustrated anything before?" he asked.
"Actually, no, not in real life. But I worked up some examples. I took three stories I admired and drew some illustrations for them. Let me show them to you. Here is one of Mr. Hawthorne and another of Mr. Poe."
He looked at my drawings, one after another. He made that sound that art directors and editors often do--a sort of humm like the murmur of bees in a field of buttercups.
"You are rather proud of them," he said.
"Yes, of course," I replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Does that sound terribly conceited?--I suppose it is. Mother always said pride was one of my many failings.
"This is the extent of your background?"
"Well . . . no; I have done portrait work in Philadelphia."
"Portrait work?"
"Judge Wilson and his wife. And the children of the financier, Harris Coldelain."
"And you left portrait work because--?"
"Frankly, I was unable to support my sister and myself in Philadelphia. I have hopes that the field of illustration will supply my sister and me with an adequate living."
"I see."
"But perhaps you don't--."
"You've done very little work for books or magazines."
"That is quite true," I admitted, reluctantly; "however, you can see that I have a natural affinity."
"That is perfectly all right, Miss--Miss--?"
"Nashe, Mary Nashe, Mary Nashe with an 'e.' Miss Nashe."
"It is perfectly all right you haven't had much experience, Miss Nashe with an 'e.' We all have to start somewhere. If it is any consolation, I have been on this job only a few days." Which put me somewhat at my ease.
He returned to the drawings, looking closely at them.
Finally he said, "Yes, I think these will do quite well."
My heart leaped up. I fear I stuttered a bit. "You mean--"
"I think I can give you some work."
And suddenly like that, what had begun with the expectation of yet another routine dismissal from another art director became an occasion for joy.
"But mind you," he went on, rather severely, trying to appear more severe than he actually accomplished, "our deadlines are rigid. We have no time for artistic tantrums."
"Oh, I understand, sir," I assured him.
"I will give you assignments and our company will be prepared to pay you ------ per drawing or painting."
I was dizzy at the figure he cited. Lamb would be on our table again and sweets for Regina. Perhaps we could hire a servant if I could get such assignments on a regular basis. And in time there will be new dresses for both of us, and perhaps we will be able to move into a nicer flat, one over by Gramercy Park, where I love to lean against the bars and look in and watch the nannies with the children laughing and running about on the grass in the middle of New York City.
His soft, melodious voice interrupted my daydreams. "Of course, these assignments will not occur every day."
"Of course," I agreed.
"You are free to pursue other assignments as you see fit."
I nodded.
"Can you leave these drawings here and stop by tomorrow? I want to show them to my Vice President."
"Surely."
"We will see about a particular assignment for you."
"That would be wonderful."
And I skipped home like a child, totally unaware of the steam rising from the pavement of the streets or the dust choking my nostrils and coating my shoes. The irritable shouts of street vendors, as they mopped their brows, was like a melody in my ear, and the pounding of construction, of buildings going up and roads being repaired, was like a clear bell to me.
"Regina, Regina," I shouted as I flew in the doorway. My sister came out of the kitchen, flushed pinkly with housekeeping. I swung her around, as I shared with her all my good news.
"Let's splurge," I said, "we can go to that little Italian restaurant on the corner and . . . ."
And together we went out and celebrated with enormous plates of spaghet and garnet-colored wine.

Aug. 22, 1898.

I met a most unusual woman today at the office, an artist. She does not have much background in illustration. Nonetheless, she has a remarkable facility for expressiveness in her drawings. Her eyes are not quick, like a bird; they are a dark velvety blue, and seem to take in everything slowly but surely and most importantly completely and penetratingly. When she speaks, she uses her white hands with long tapering fingers; she molds phrases and thoughts and images and ideas out of air, like a sculptor might.
As soon as she had left, I showed her work to Mr. Bisby, and he immediately approved what she had done.
"Far be it for me to dampen such enthusiasm!" He said, "Give her some work. Let's see how she does with an actual assignment and under a deadline."
In this business, of course, that can happen--a fine artist simply cannot function with ideas or images not his own, or is paralyzed and flounders under a ruthless and rigid deadline.
I will give her a story for a magazine to illustrate, one with several children. And I will set a deadline with plenty of extra time. But I won't tell her that. That way if she doesn't succeed we can call in one of our veterans for a last minute fix it job.
There is something . . . not exactly charming about her--her name, by the way, is Miss Nashe--with an 'e'--but there is an honesty about her and a vitality, too. She made no effort to dissemble the fact that she needed the work badly. I wonder what her story is--does she have an elderly mother she is supporting, a drunkard husband? She says she has a sister, but that is all she said. Although she is not beautiful in a conventional way, still there is something striking and distinctive about her--the way she holds herself so regally, even in what I suspect is poverty. She seems capable of keeping the sordidness of poverty from staining her existence.

August the 23rd of 1898.

I picked up my sketches and an assignment from Donovan and Sons today. Mr. Chandler handed me a manuscript.
"Here, read this," he told me. "Choose six likely scenes and illustrate them for us. I'd like to see the finished work in two weeks."
I gasped at the shortness of the deadline.
"We are going to feature the novel in the next issue of Girl's Own, so we need the work quickly. Is that all right?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Yes, perfectly," I replied.
I took the manuscript home and quickly read it over in the parlor--that is, the room that serves as our parlor, living room, dining room. The manuscript is a story of three children. Although I do not like the story particularly, I have to admit it provides plenty of illustrative possibilities.
I went out onto the stoop and sat on the steps, my sketchpad on my lap. By this time in was late afternoon. There were a dozen or so children playing in the street. The sun was strong, too strong, and harsh. It didn't light up the scene so much as bake it. The sun caused me to squint. The brick of the buildings was a dull red, something like dried blood. The children, however, in their naïve exuberance, did not seem to notice the heat, the intensity of the light, nor me. Unselfconsciously, they played and ran about and shouted and scuffled, playing some intricate street game with a stick and a rock.
I spent the next couple of hours sketching the group--a large-boned blond boy of about ten, a delicate Italian, olive-skinned beauty of eight or so, who, it was evident in her languid glances, had already learned the fine art of coquetry, and another girl with pigtails and freckles. Those were the three I concentrated on, although I sketched all seven or eight of them in many positions and attitudes.
Later, Regina called me in. She had made us meager supper of a watery soup that couldn't have been made with more than a vegetable or two, and we ate the spare fare in silence. For some perhaps such a meal might have weakened them, but frankly it made me the more eager to get work.
"Tomorrow," I told Regina, "I will begin the real work. And I will even beat the deadline Mr. Chandler has set me!"
Even this late at night I am eager to get going! Characters move about, speaking and acting, then suddenly are stilled into drawings. Pictures form in my mind, bright and hard-edged, then melt to be replaced by other pictures. I hope I will be able to sleep tonight!

Aug. 23.

. . . . Was I too harsh with her? Too demanding, perhaps? Miss Nashe seemed genuinely surprised at the deadline I gave her. I suppose I was a little hard. I certainly could have given her another couple of weeks. I almost stopped her as she was leaving my office. But then really I must find out if she has that drive to produce what we need. Better to find it out sooner, rather than later.

August the 30th of 1898.

I finished the drawings! A full week ahead of schedule! He asked for six line drawings, and I finished them all, working non-stop. I even added two additional drawings. Mr. Jelley, our landlord, gave me a reprieve for the rent when I convinced him that I had indeed gotten an assignment. I showed him the drawings and the manuscript, the latter impressed him more than the former, I think. He seemed to admire the idea that he was renting to someone who was going to appear in books. He even suggested I do his portrait in lieu of rent, which I quickly agreed to. [Editor's note: The portrait was done a month later and is now in the collection at the Huntington in California. Supposedly Mary also painted Mrs. Jelley, too, but if so, no portrait has been uncovered.]
Although I am exhausted, I am sleepless. Numb but exhilarated. This afternoon--it was late and a flat plane of light speared the wall--when I completed the drawings, I grabbed Regina's hands and danced around the room. For some strange reason, I noticed that motes of golden dust danced madly in the air. And Regina, although she was bewildered, like any child who enjoys such gaiety, she sang and danced around with me, delighting in my delight.
Within the shell of numbness, however, I am excited; I doubt if I will be able to sleep tonight.
Able to sleep or not, tomorrow morning I will deliver the drawings personally to Mr. Chandler! I won't hire a delivery boy, although I have since heard that illustrators will often use boys to deliver their work to save their time for creating. No I am not doing it to save money--I have none to save, really. But mainly because I want to see the expression on his face!

August the 31st of 1898.

"Mr. Chandler," I told him, "here are the illustrations you ordered," and with a smile I laid them on his desk.
"Look at them," I told him. "Tell me if they are acceptable."
I enjoyed the expression on his face, which was a mixture of good humor, delight, with a dash of surprise.
I went on, "To be honest with you the story really isn't very good."
"Oh, really," he replied with a soft chuckle and a lifted eyebrow. "The novel happens to be by Mrs. R. R. J. Reynolds, our best selling author."
"Be that as it may, I quite think the illustrations will do much to enhance the work."
I could see his eyes, his expressive gray eyes, twinkling ever so slightly, telling me that although he couldn't say otherwise that, yes, he agreed with me that the novel wasn't really all that good.
"I did eight drawings," I told him, "to give you the opportunity to choose the six you like best."
He smiled, but it was rather absent-mindedly, for he was intent on studying the illustrations I had made.
To fit the novel, I had changed the tough little street urchins into three well behaved young men and women of refinement. I wondered what the children would think if they knew they were appearing in the pages of a novel in knee breeches and satin dresses.
"Yes, yes," he said, "these will do quite nicely. In fact, I think I can say that we will use all eight of them."
Then he cited a figure that was more--much more--than I had hoped for.
"I will see that the accounting department sends out a check next month."
Even as he spoke, my elation slid into disappointment. A month to get paid! What were we to live on in the meantime? All those bills had piled up, and the rent more than overdue.
He must have noticed my expression, for he said, "Dear me, I see how it is."
"Can't you--?" and I blushed to be asking.
"Of course," he replied, rather gruffly, as if he too were slightly embarrassed by my straits. "I'll see what I can do. It'll stir the feathers of the accounting office--"
"Would you?"
"After all, it isn't as if I do it constantly. I'll bring a check around to your place tomorrow. Or I can take it to your bank for you."
My heart was fluttering at my good fortune. But I suddenly felt rather embarrassed by our poor living conditions. I didn't want Mr. Chandler to see our circumstances. It wasn't my fault, heaven knows, that we were poor. Still, I felt as if I were wearing a dress that was accidentally torn by a thorn. It might not be my fault--still, I would not wish a man to see the tear in the material.
"That is perfectly all right," I replied. "I will stop by your office tomorrow afternoon if it should be convenient."
He sensed my dilemma and said, "Of course."
"And perhaps you might have another assignment for me by then," I added slyly.
And his laughter filled the room like an arpeggio from a golden harp. "Perhaps I might," he agreed.

Aug. 31.

The new illustrator Miss Nashe has done a smashing job! I'm calling her my first protégé, but if the truth be known, it was she who discovered me! Not the other way around. I gave an assignment to her just last week, and to my amazement she returned this very day with the most extraordinary work I have ever seen. Distinctive, yet popular, lively yet graceful. And all her own. She captured just the right amount of mischievous innocence in the children.
I am delighted with her work, which means, I suppose, that I am delighted with her! She has, I am sure, a bright future.
Over the next several months, Edward gave Mary a number of assignments, and there is evidence that their relationship grew closer and closer. In an entry in her diary, Mary said, "Sometimes it seems as if Mr. Chandler says something, just as I am thinking it."
And Edward wrote in his journal, "There are times, I swear, Mary is able to draw scenes just the way I imagine them in my mind without me saying a word."
Edward gave Mary several story assignments. Then when her distinctive style caught the eye of the public, not to mention Edward's bosses, he gave her several covers to do. Book assignments followed. Not only did she get plenty of assignments from Donovon and Sons, but they increased her pay as well. She began to get offers from other publishers, and when she mentioned the fact to her editor, he promptly raised her payment schedule several notches upwards. As Edward wrote in his journal, he knew a good deal when he saw it.
As soon as the two sisters were able, they moved to a nicer neighborhood, not terribly far from Gramercy Park--something Mary had wanted to do since moving to the city. She always loved the bit of green the park represented. A few years later, it would be the same small neighborhood that the short story writer O. Henry would move into. The novelist B. R. Brighton lived right on the square as well.
New York, in those days, was more a conglomeration of many small neighborhoods, almost villages in their own right, than the vast metropolis it is today. Back then, a New Yorker could live in one neighborhood his whole life and never venture out of it. A trip to Coney Island, in that bygone age, was a genuinely long-distant trip.
"I cannot get out of this flat soon enough," Mary exclaimed to her diary about their tenement. "The heat is either stifling or non-existent, nothing but cold water, and an absolutely depressing environment!" So, on a frigid day in January, Mary and Regina moved into the Gramercy Park district--a quiet little neighborhood with its own local tavern on the corner, a grocery nearby, an Italian restaurant, and of course the lovely park in the middle of the square. Mary and Regina did not live right on the square, but they found some comfortable quarters around the corner; the flat was on the first floor with a large window that overlooked the street, so Mary could people-watch to provide visual ideas for her illustrations.
Mary's growing income also paid for more fashionable clothing than either of them had worn in nearly a decade. They employed a maid-of-all-work and a large-boned Russian neighbor, whose husband owned the nearby tavern, came in to cook for them twice a day. If they didn't lead a luxurious life by the standard of the day (most middle class families had servants), at least, they were comfortably off. More than occasionally Mary must have reflected with a wry smile on the dire predictions everyone had uttered to her about her and her sister's future, and wouldn't it really be better to marry Regina off to some wealthy industrialist-suitor from Pittsburgh. (No one of course suggested that Mary marry.)
No, no one suggested that Mary marry. Yet, such thoughts must have occasionally crossed her mind--albeit, furtively. Edward and Mary had been working together for more than eight months. On a languid spring day in the latter part of April, Mary confided to her diary:
I really feel that Edward and I have something rather unique, something, I dare say, that is special. I would not call it love, no, not that, but it is a kinship; we have a way of looking at the universe that is very near to one another. Sometimes, Edward will point out this or that aspect of my work that will be completely novel to me. He seems to select the kind of stories that bring out the best of my skill. But no, it is not love, not at all.
I think Mary was protesting a bit too much. I think she was in love. But she knew that their relationship was strictly a business one. Chandler had never given her the slightest reason to believe otherwise. She also knew she had a sister to support at home; that obligation would not go away until Regina was married. She realized furthermore that in the eyes of the world she was--to be generous--plain. It would take a special man indeed to see beneath the surface of her skin.

May 1, 1899.

Mary never ceases to astonish me. She has more than just a painterly eye; she has a real sense of the dramatic. Lately, she's even taken to making suggestions to improve the manuscript. (I'll use the term "improve" rather than "criticize.") And you know, after I have thought about her ideas I usually find I agree with them!
I gave Mary a particularly difficult assignment today. I am curious to see how she pulls it off. It is a story of a society beauty, a member of the aristocracy, who for convoluted reasons becomes a pauper and a member of the lower class. Yet despite the poverty and squalor she lives in, her beauty shines through. And she ends by marrying a count or some such thing. A modern fairy tale? A silly story? I suppose so. Yet it has a pleasant enough message to it.
However the illustrations strike me as a perplexing task. How do you make someone beautiful in the midst of squalor? Does not poverty obscure beauty? I will be interested to see what Mary makes of it.

May the 1st of 1899.

Mr. Chandler has given me a new assignment--one I find I am not comfortable with. Why is that? From the moment I received the manuscript, from the instant Mr. Chandler gave me a general idea of what the story was about I knew who my model would be: Regina. When I got home and asked her to model for me, she was delighted, of course. She laughed and clapped her hands like the adorable child she can sometimes be.
Over supper and all night long Regina chattered about costumes. At first, as soon as we were done eating, she simply had to read the book, as if she had ever done any such thing before. After a page or two, she laid the manuscript aside languidly as if all of her psychic energy had been drained.
"Tell me the story again," Regina asked.
So I told her what Mr. Chandler had given me for an outline.
She started to babble about this costume and that, about picking out jewelry and fabric and other ornaments.
"I can get some rags together and look like a striking charwoman."
"Yes, you can," I replied absent-mindedly, turning over my own ideas in my own head, none of which had anything at all to do with a striking charwoman.
"Or perhaps a charming peasant."
"A charming peasant! What kind of novels do you read, Regina?"
"And a beautiful gown for the ball."
"I'm not sure there is a ball room scene in the book."
"Well, there should be," she pronounced.
Tomorrow, we will begin work, but I still wonder . . . why am I so uneasy?

May 2nd of 1899.

Perhaps I was right to be uneasy. It seems comical enough now, but perhaps it isn't.
I was awakened by sounds of bustling downstairs. Bewildered, I crept to the top of the stairs and looked over the banister. There was Regina ordering Sarah about. "Come, hurry, you lazy girl. We have much to do. Stop being so idle."
I rubbed my eyes. Was this my soft and gentle little sister?
"Regina," I called, "where are you going at this time of the morning?"
"Why, to a dress shop, of course," she replied.
"But the dress maker will hardly be astir so early."
"Then we shall rouse her immediately," said Regina with determination.
"But what on earth for?"
"For the illustrations, of course."
"Has the thought ever occurred to you, my dear sister, that I use my imagination in crafting my illustrations?"
She paused, slightly bewildered. Her pretty forehead was wrinkled in the unfamiliar thought. "Imagination?"
"Yes."
Regina pondered that idea for a moment. But she would not be deterred. "That may be, but perhaps I need to have some inspiration."
"Yes, I see," I replied.
I could barely stifle my laugh as she marched out the door, a cowed Sarah hurrying at her heels.
When my sister returned several hours later, with Sarah carrying any number of boxes, I cringed at the cost. While we are no longer destitute, we certainly could not afford such extravagances. Still, I could not deny my sister anything; and if it gave her immense pleasure to think she was contributing to my creative efforts, then so be it.
Secretly, I really didn't mind that Regina had been off shopping for the morning, for I had spent the time usefully, reading and analyzing the manuscript for possible illustrations.
From the parlor I could hear Regina bustling about the flat, working on her costumes, short-temperedly ordering a bewildered Sarah about. Finally, by late afternoon Regina was ready, and she modeled her outfits for me.
Some were quite outlandish, it was true. They were all dramatic. Regina, I have always admitted, had a flair for fashion.
Sitting her down, I became absorbed in the work at hand, and I started to draw. At first, she acted rather affected, displaying odd expressions that ranged from grimaces to surprise to some expressions I couldn't tell what they meant at all--expressions that disdained reality altogether. She struck melodramatic poses. "Just relax," I told her, "be natural." But she simply could not follow my instruction. So I tried to forget her outlandish costumes, her poses and her expressions, and I concentrated on the purity of the lines of her face and of her shape.
Turn this way and that, I would order her softly, concentrating on capturing the glory that was her gold-copper hair and the sensual sweep of her wide mouth, the gypsy-like quality of her almond eyes.
And I became lost in my work.

May the 5th of 1899.

I haven't had much time to write the last two days, for I have been absorbed in my sketches of my sister. After a time, Regina grew bored, but I was a hard taskmistress, and I insisted she maintain the pose until I was finished. She would groan loudly, but would hold the pose until I said she could move. I am not displeased with my work so far.
Unfortunately, my little sister does not agree with my assessment.
Regina asked, when I was finished with the preliminary work, "Can I see them now?" as if I had forbidden her to look at them before.
"Of course you can look at them."
While I put away my pencils, Regina gazed at the sketches for a long time . . . in silence. She turned them over one at a time, studying them. Finally, she said, "I don't think your silly old drawings look like me at all."
There was more than a hint of disappointment in her voice, a tinge of unhappiness.
I stopped for a moment, in the process of putting away my supplies, and considered what she had said, gazing at the drawing.
"Perhaps they don't," I had to agree reluctantly. "Mark it up to artistic license." She turned to go, and I could see she was deeply disturbed. I took her by the arm. "Dear heart, you know I would do nothing to hurt you."
"Then why didn't you draw me? Aren't I good enough?"
"I thought I did, Regina. You don't see yourself as others see you, that is all. Isn't she beautiful?"
Reluctantly, Regina said, "Welllll, yes."
"Then she is you!"
Regina tugged at her coral nether lip with her even white teeth, and she studied the sketch more deeply. But I could tell from the way her snowy brow furrowed that she could not penetrate the surface of the matter.
Finally, Regina gave her grudging agreement. "I suppose you are right," was all she said.
I hope Mr. Chandler gives me a more effusive approval than that!

May 8th of 1899.

I have found the subject matter more intractable than I initially thought. I have gone back to Regina several times and asked her to pose again for me, in different outfits, and for some reason she has taken an almost grim satisfaction in it, as if she was correct in her first assessment of my illustrations and I was wrong. I've done dozens of sketches only to toss them aside time after time. I am always finding something slightly wrong or not quite the way I envisioned the scene--a turn of her head, a tilt of the chin, the way the hair rests on shoulder, or the way a shadow leans on a boulder or the curl of a wave as it dies on the shore. I was too optimistic with my first attempts. I created a woman who wasn't living and breathing, but rather a marionette. Regina, in her intuitive way, was right. Alas, Regina isn't any more pleased with my later efforts than she had been with my earlier ones.
"You're getting further and further away from me!" she exclaimed.
"Nonsense!" I snapped. "I'm just beginning to find the real you."
Late at night, when I write these words, when I am no longer looking--I should say, staring--at the sheet of paper with my lines on them--everything seems just fine. But when I am in front of my drawings a deep feeling of dissatisfaction wells up in me. Will I never get them right?

May the 22nd of 1899.

At last! Finally! I have finished the illustrations. Six of them! And I am immensely pleased with them. It is as if I had to pull them up from someplace deep inside of me, and they are still dripping with my gore. My goodness, what a graphic thing to write--from me! My drawings for some of these melodramas must be having some sort of affect on me. The story--lord knows--is trivial enough, brimming with clichés. Still, in its own way it is a sweet enough story. Well, we will see what Mr. Chandler has to say about my illustrations tomorrow morning.

May the 23rd of 1899.

This morning I took my illustrations to Donovan & Sons. Mr. Chandler cordially greeted me at the door. I could tell he was most eager to see what I had delivered, for he did not engage in his usual chitchat. Instead, without saying a word, he slowly turned the pages over, one by one.
"My God," he whispered.
Bewildered, I asked, "What is it?"
"I have never seen a more beautiful creature in my life!"
"That is what I wanted it to be," I said proudly.
He continued to look and look at the illustrations, turning them over, returning to each one, gazing with rapt attention. Finally, he laid them aside, at the corner of his desk. His fingertips, bent slightly, rested close to the edge of the paintings.
For sometime we talked about the book, the contract, the illustrations, but I could see that he was distracted, preoccupied. His eyes kept wondering back to the drawings on his desk. His fingertips twitched.
Finally, he dismissed me (and dismiss me he did!) . . . which was just as well, for he paid scant attention to what I said.
[Journal of Edward Chandler]
May 23.

I have never believed in love at first sight, despite all of the novels I have edited to the contrary. What a ludicrous idea I have always thought it to be. It is not that I do not believe in love. Rather, I think: how can you love someone about whom you know nothing? But my God, my God, what have you brought me, Mary Nashe? For a long hour I stared at the paintings after she had left. I looked out my window. The light was so intense, and I stared at it so long, it caused golden flecks to dance in front of my eyes.
Fisher came into my office. He wanted to discuss the last quarter's sales records. He babbled on for some moments. Then he stopped and stared at me.
"Look here, my good fellow, you're not listening to a word I'm saying."
All I could do was give a half-hearted apology and admit it was true.
"I have a lot on my mind," I offered, but I could tell he was not pacified, and he left my office in a bit of a huff.
After that, all I did all afternoon long was to gaze at that incredibly beautiful face in those drawings until it seemed like golden flecks were still before my eyes. Mary has not created just illustrations for a book that will be a bestseller but genuine works of art. But it isn't her artistic expertise that I am enthralled with--as good as it is; no, it is the face of that lovely girl/woman in the paintings--or rather the spirit animating the face. I picked each drawing up and studied it minutely, memorizing each gesture, each expression. In one scene she is working in a mill, and she has lifted her slender hand to her forehead, and she is pushing a curl from her eyes. Such an unconscious gesture, yet fraught with meaning, a symbol of the exhausted heroism in the book. Or look at the scene where she has crept into the house of the villain. Her eyes are fearless. Or the charming scene by the brook. Her expression validates the sometimes antiquated notion that humans deserve to be happy without any guilt whatsoever--a somewhat subversive idea in puritanical New England, I suspect.
To say I have been captivated by this lovely woman is an understatement of vast proportions. I must, I must meet her.

May 25th of 1899.

I went to Mr. Chandler's office to discuss the contract for the illustrations I had delivered two days ago. There were showers last night (I heard the light flick of drops on my window), and it was a lovely, green morning, with that hint of how enchanting the city can be when the air is fresh and light.
Mr. Chandler ushered me into his office immediately. When he asked me how much I wanted for the illustrations, I told him. He readily agreed to my figure with barely a comment. Now I have always found Mr. Chandler to be always generous with me. But he usually took a more leisurely journey towards the settlement of my fees.
I could see that he was agitated. Neither of us were ever very good with small talk, if the truth be known. It didn't take long for him to burst out: "I must meet her!"
"Who?" I asked, but already feelings of dismal inevitability were enveloping me, a sort of spiritual vertigo.
"Your model, of course. The girl you used in your illustrations."
My "of course," rang hollow in the room.
I suppose I could have lied. I could have told him that I had hired a model, that she had disappeared into the great maw of the City, as models and other such are inclined to do. I could have claimed that she was entirely the product of my imagination. Or I simply could have denied his request (request? demand was more like it!). I could have told him that my model wished to remain anonymous. I could have told him a thousand stories that perhaps would have satisfied him or at least put him off. So why didn't I?
Here, this evening, with the yellow light over my shoulder, creating a golden halo that hovers over this leaf of paper, I ponder the question.
I would say that I did not want this obstacle between us. A lie is hardly a noble thing under the best of circumstances, and when it becomes a wall . . . I couldn't have a falsehood tainting all the truths to follow. Well, let's just say I decided I would tell him all, come what may.
"The model is my sister, Regina."
"You never mentioned you had a sister."
He acted as if it had been deliberate, intentional, as if I had withheld the information.
"Well, I did," I protested, "but the fact has never been germane to our discussions, so you probably forgot it."
"Of course, of course, you're right." A long moment passed while he drummed his fingers on the desk. "I would like to call on you . . . you and your sister," he said, a slight croak in his voice.
I kept my voice even. "Naturally," I replied. "Would tomorrow evening be satisfactory?" I surely would not stand between him and my sister. I tried to keep the dryness out of my voice. I'm not sure I succeeded. But if I did not, Mr. Chandler chose to ignore it.
"That is quite satisfactory. Shall we say at half past seven?"
"That would be fine," I replied.
Rising, I said, "Since I suspect we have no more business to discuss, I will bid you good afternoon and I look to seeing you tomorrow evening."
I tried to sound cold, but he didn't notice.
[Journal of Edward Chandler]
After Midnight.

I tossed and turned for several hours until I decided sleep was useless, and I angrily rose and opened my window. The cool rain-drenched air flowed into my bedroom. The sounds of the city were distant but distinct. In the street out in front every so often I heard a shout. Sometimes I would see someone who had too much to drink staggering down the sidewalk; a policeman helped him home. When the policeman returned to his beat, he let his nightstick rap against a fence that enclosed the house across the street. The soft and muffled din paused; the air was so still I could hear him humming a vaudeville song.
The night is not black. It is never black in New York City. Instead, it is gray above and purple around the edges. In some forgotten corner of the city someone has planted a lilac bush and its heady perfume wafts through my dark but open window.
Finally, I turned on the gas to write about that lovely creature who is resting her head against a pillow across town, a creature whom I will meet tomorrow . . . I should say today, for it is well after midnight. I can imagine her alert, perceptive eyes now closed with sleep. I wonder what color they are--gray, green, blue? I think I already know. I can imagine her quick understanding resting under sleep's heavy cloak, the steady rise and fall of her gown under her even breathing.
Strangely enough, I can say I have no hopes, no dreams. I do not hope to win her. I do not believe it possible that she might reciprocate my affection. My admiration will be at a distance. Her beauty will serve to quench my parched spirit. All this must sound terribly corny. Yet, sheer adoration exists on my part, and that is quite enough.
[Diary of Mary Nashe]
May the 26th of 1899.

When I told Regina that Mr. Chandler would be calling on us, she seemed genuinely, innocently surprised. "But is it seemly?" she asked, her brow puckering in that familiar furrow of doubt. "After all, he is a workman, isn't he?"
"Nonsense," I told her; "He is no more a workman than I am." There was something a bit condescending in her utterance, which irritated me. After all, it was this workman who was her sister's employer; this workman who provided Regina with the means to live as she was living, enjoying the services of a maid and the latest fashions and lamb with mint sauce.
"Mr.Chandler is a fine, honest, polite gentleman. He has a college education. A woman could do far worse than him."
"I dare say a woman could," my sister agreed, but I thought I detected a hint of disdain in her voice.
I did not tell her that Mr. Chandler had fallen in love with the drawings I had made of her. I didn't know how she would react; after all, she hadn't especially cared for the drawings. She would, I supposed, find out soon enough. But for some reason, I thought it might be just as well if she didn't.
Later that evening Mr. Chandler arrived. As has so often been the case, I disappeared beside my sister. We were in the parlor, and Regina sang while I played for her. She sang that lovely haunting ballad, "Heart of My Heart." Then "Absent" and "Always." Regina has a beautiful voice, a thread of silver in the timbre, and of course Mr. Chandler's eyes were entirely fastened on her. As usual, Regina accepted the admiration Mr. Chandler bestowed upon her quite unconsciously--like a beautiful thoroughbred. The jewels of his praise were showered upon her. Without a thought, she put them in a treasure chest along with all the other jewels with which she had been showered over the years.
"Excuse me," I said, "but I will look in on Sarah to see how the coffee and cakes are coming."
Sarah is far more competent in the kitchen than I ever could be, but . . . well, I think you understand. I gave them several minutes alone before I discreetly returned, tray in hand.
"Here we are," I said, as gaily as I could.

[Journal of Edward Chandler]
May 26.

"Your parlor is lovely," I told Regina. "So warm and cozy."
"Do you think so?" she asked.
I tried again to start the conversation. But to no avail. However many times I would try she returned little more than a monosyllabic reply.
What is it? What is wrong? As she sat there on the piano bench, I kept waiting for her face to light up with some sign of insight or inspiration, perhaps some impish thought. At any moment I kept expecting to hear some witty comment. But nothing--nothing. She kept looking at me, as if in anticipation, and I suppose I looked at her in the same manner. Her face, like lovely porcelain, seemed like a Venetian mask! It revealed nothing behind it.
Now that I am alone I can ponder the matter more deeply. Search for the mystery. Perhaps it was me! Yes, that must be it! Could it have been something I said? Perhaps it is I who was unwitty and dull. I must search my memory.

May 26th of 1899.

After Regina had stopped singing, Mr. Chandler asked if she had heard the new Edward MacDowell Piano Concerto, the Second. Regina said she hadn't thought so. But the first was . . . nice. Nice? asked Mr. Chandler. Nice, Regina said. Mr. Chandler wondered if Regina had an opinion on the Hague Peace Conference. No, she didn't think she had an opinion. The War? What on earth was the United States going to do with the Philippines and with Puerto Rico? Mr. Chandler asked. Regina didn't know. And what a tragedy it was that the Windsor Hotel had burned down, 92 died in the blaze, he thought. The public was crying for better safety regulations. Yes, Regina agreed, it was a tragedy.

[Journal of Edward Chandler]
May 27.

This morning I looked again at the illustrations Mary has done, using her sister as a model. The office was closed because it was Saturday, so silence reigned supreme, and my concentration was unbroken. An office is so different when emptied of spirit. Anyway, I marveled once again at the vivacious expression in one drawing, at the sensitivity in another, at the devastating innocence in a third. The more I looked the more confident I became that I must have alienated the young beauty in some way or another, and I vowed to do all I could to change that perception she must have of me.
I sent a letter to Mary this morning, asking if I could call again this evening, and she wrote back immediately, saying "Of course. Shall we again say 7:30 this evening?"
I checked everything before I left. I wanted to be just perfect. I had on my best cuffs and collar. My cufflinks glowed like warm gold. My best suit, a salt and pepper tweed with matching vest. I swear that I was at my most charming as I sat in the parlor with Miss Regina. But it was for naught. It was as if there was a thick, impenetrable wall between her mind and mine. I could not see what was on the other side. That animation, that lively spirited girl that Mary had captured on paper for me was not for me to see. She preferred the veil.
Why, oh, why did she refuse me entrance?
Dejected, I left, morose and silent. I found a cab near the park. The driver was asleep, and I'm afraid I frightened him when I called to him--almost angrily. The horse's hooves echoed off the brick buildings as we clomped down the deserted street. Although well into spring, a cold wind sprang up, and I shivered, clutching my coat to my throat. I sighed deeply and buried my head in my coat. The galvanic smell of the rain on the street drifted to my nostrils. Without really seeing, I watched the puddles of wetness on the street, watched the dark shape of the cab shudder through them. Reflections . . . .
I suddenly sat up bolt straight in the cab and looked back in the direction of the park. It was, of course, far behind us by then; there was nothing to be seen but a city street of black and gray . . . but I looked back nonetheless.

[Diary of Mary Nashe]
May the 29th of 1899.

I received a brief message from Mr. Chandler yesterday morning. "Would I be so kind as to oblige him by visiting him at his office?"
"Of course," I wrote back. "Would tomorrow morning be acceptable--say about ten in the morning?"
"Fine," he wrote, "I will be waiting for you."
From the doorway, I watched the messenger boy, dodging in and out of the crowd, scampering down the street. I wondered what Mr. Chandler could possibly want with me. My latest assignment wasn't due for another two weeks. I shrugged, supposing he wanted to speak to me about his pursuit of Regina, perhaps wanted to ask my advice or my permission--as her older sister and the provider for the family, I was the likely candidate--for her hand. I would have to tell him it was entirely up to Regina.
I returned to the upstairs room I had converted into my studio, but I found I couldn't concentrate on my work. After a time, with a sigh, I laid aside my brushes and stared out the window at the street below, watching the children with their nannies going to Gramercy Park.
The next morning I went to Mr. Chandler's office--arriving at 10 as I promised.
I noticed that my drawings, the ones that had enamoured him were still on his desk.
"Mary, please." He indicated a chair for me.
I sat silently.
He began, "I owe you an explanation."
I looked at him, somewhat puzzled. "You don't owe me anything that I can think of," I responded.
His long fingertips glided over the surface of my drawings as they were caressing the face of the girl in the illustration. It had such an overpowering erotic energy to it that I had to look away, and I felt a tear in the corner of my eye.
"When I first saw your drawings I immediately fell in love with the woman in them. I don't think that is any surprise to you."
"It isn't," I agreed.
"I fell in love with her spirit, with her lively attitude, with her mind, her cleverness, her wit, her love of life, her indomitable spirit. I loved the way her lips curled ever so slightly as if she saw something immensely humorous that everyone else was oblivious to.
"See here," he showed me the drawings, "the glitter of insight; here, the mischieviousness; here . . . but I don't have to show them to you. You put it all there."
"That is true," I replied.
"When I found out the model was your sister, I was deliriously happy."
"I know."
"But when I met her . . . ."
"Yes?"
"Something was missing. I couldn't explain it, but something was missing. The beautiful face was there; there was no doubt about that. But it was not animated. It was as if it were--I don't know, a mask, I suppose--a mask from which a voice would utter but the mask remained inanimate.
"Two nights ago, returning from your flat, I suddenly realized what had happened. I looked into a puddle and I saw a rainbow around the moon. And I realized that it was not the moon with the rainbow, but the puddle of water. And it came to me that it was you, Mary, you, who animated the drawings. Without your intelligence, without your wisdom, your understanding, without your insight and sensitivity, these drawings would be as empty as . . ." he wanted to say "your sister's head" but he didn't. "It is your spirit, Mary, that I admired in the drawings, not some flawless face. It is the 'you' you drew there.
"That is what I had to learn to understand, Mary. Will you forgive me?"
"Oh, Edward," I said, touching the edge of his fingertips on my paintings.
He added, "I had to learn that beauty is more than a matter of flesh."
Me? I had to take my hanky from my purse, to dab the corner of my eyes. "I expect you will be calling this evening?" I asked, but it was less of a question than a statement.
A gentle smile drifted onto his lips, and that golden laugh of his echoed softly, like golden coins tossed into the air, drifting there forever in defiance of gravity. "I expect I will," he agreed.

The End

A MATTER OF THE FLESH © 2003 by Jesse F. Knight

Jesse F. Knight's short fiction, plays, and non-fiction have appeared in many national and international publications. His historical fiction has been published in Of Ages Past and several anthologies. He recently completed an historical play titled A Crown of Wildflowers, which will be performed in Stockholm, Sweden, in April 2003. He has done a number of literary biographies for the magazine Firsts--articles on Rafael Sabatini, Saki, Edgar Pangborn, and most recently on the mystery writer Mabel Seeley. An article on Errol Flynn is scheduled for the June issue of that magazine. He has written extensively on Rafael Sabatini, and was a guest speaker recently at a Conference on Sabatini in Italy.

Back to Bygone Days

A MATTER OF THE FLESH

An Excerpt from Mary Nashe: Life of a Great Illustrator

by Jesse F. Knight