"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!"




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