"Dear lady, you are sad," said he, drawing close to her.
"It is nothing, Donatello," she replied, resuming her work; "yes;
a little sad, perhaps; but that is not strange for us people of the
ordinary world, especially for women. You are of a cheerfuller race, my
friend, and know nothing of this disease of sadness. But why do you come
into this shadowy room of mine?"
"Why do you make it so shadowy?" asked he.
"We artists purposely exclude sunshine, and all but a partial light,"
said Miriam, "because we think it necessary to put ourselves at
odds with Nature before trying to imitate her. That strikes you very
strangely, does it not? But we make very pretty pictures sometimes with
our artfully arranged lights and shadows. Amuse yourself with some
of mine, Donatello, and by and by I shall be in the mood to begin the
portrait we were talking about."
The room had the customary aspect of a painter's studio; one of those
delightful spots that hardly seem to belong to the actual world, but
rather to be the outward type of a poet's haunted imagination, where
there are glimpses, sketches, and half-developed hints of beings and
objects grander and more beautiful than we can anywhere find in reality.
The windows were closed with shutters, or deeply curtained, except one,
which was partly open to a sunless portion of the sky, admitting only
from high upward that partial light which, with its strongly marked
contrast of shadow, is the first requisite towards seeing objects
pictorially. Pencil-drawings were pinned against the wall or scattered
on the tables. Unframed canvases turned their backs on the spectator,
presenting only a blank to the eye, and churlishly concealing whatever
riches of scenery or human beauty Miriam's skill had depicted on the
other side.
In the obscurest part of the room Donatello was half startled at
perceiving duskily a woman with long dark hair, who threw up her arms
with a wild gesture of tragic despair, and appeared to beckon him into
the darkness along with her.
"Do not be afraid, Donatello," said Miriam, smiling to see him peering
doubtfully into the mysterious dusk. "She means you no mischief, nor
could perpetrate any if she wished it ever so much. It is a lady of
exceedingly pliable disposition; now a heroine of romance, and now a
rustic maid; yet all for show; being created, indeed, on purpose to wear
rich shawls and other garments in a becoming fashion. This is the true
end of her being, although she pretends to assume the most varied duties
and perform many parts in life, while really the poor puppet has nothing
on earth to do. Upon my word, I am satirical unawares, and seem to be
describing nine women out of ten in the person of my lay-figure. For
most purposes she has the advantage of the sisterhood. Would I were like
her!"