Up such a staircase, on the morning after the scene at the sculpture
gallery, sprang the light foot of Donatello. He ascended from story
to story, passing lofty doorways, set within rich frames of sculptured
marble, and climbing unweariedly upward, until the glories of the first
piano and the elegance of the middle height were exchanged for a sort of
Alpine region, cold and naked in its aspect. Steps of rough stone, rude
wooden balustrades, a brick pavement in the passages, a dingy whitewash
on the walls; these were here the palatial features. Finally, he paused
before an oaken door, on which was pinned a card, bearing the name of
Miriam Schaefer, artist in oils. Here Donatello knocked, and the door
immediately fell somewhat ajar; its latch having been pulled up by means
of a string on the inside. Passing through a little anteroom, he found
himself in Miriam's presence.
"Come in, wild Faun," she said, "and tell me the latest news from
Arcady!"
The artist was not just then at her easel, but was busied with the
feminine task of mending a pair of gloves.
There is something extremely pleasant, and even touching,--at least,
of very sweet, soft, and winning effect,--in this peculiarity of
needlework, distinguishing women from men. Our own sex is incapable of
any such by-play aside from the main business of life; but women--be
they of what earthly rank they may, however gifted with intellect or
genius, or endowed with awful beauty--have always some little handiwork
ready to fill the tiny gap of every vacant moment. A needle is familiar
to the fingers of them all. A queen, no doubt, plies it on occasion; the
woman poet can use it as adroitly as her pen; the woman's eye, that has
discovered a new star, turns from its glory to send the polished little
instrument gleaming along the hem of her kerchief, or to darn a casual
fray in her dress. And they have greatly the advantage of us in this
respect. The slender thread of silk or cotton keeps them united with
the small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the continually operating
influences of which do so much for the health of the character, and
carry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbid
sensibility. A vast deal of human sympathy runs along this electric
line, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humblest
seamstress, and keeping high and low in a species of communion with
their kindred beings. Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle
characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments love
to sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own hearts
than while so occupied.
And when the work falls in a woman's lap, of its own accord, and the
needle involuntarily ceases to fly, it is a sign of trouble, quite as
trustworthy as the throb of the heart itself. This was what happened
to Miriam. Even while Donatello stood gazing at her, she seemed to have
forgotten his presence, allowing him to drop out of her thoughts, and
the torn glove to fall from her idle fingers. Simple as he was, the
young man knew by his sympathies that something was amiss.