CHAPTER V
MIRIAM'S STUDIO
The courtyard and staircase of a palace built three hundred years agoare a peculiar feature of modern Rome, and interest the stranger morethan many things of which he has heard loftier descriptions. You passthrough the grand breadth and height of a squalid entrance-way, andperhaps see a range of dusky pillars, forming a sort of cloister roundthe court, and in the intervals, from pillar to pillar, are strewnfragments of antique statues, headless and legless torsos, and buststhat have invariably lost what it might be well if living men could layaside in that unfragrant atmosphere--the nose. Bas-reliefs, the spoil ofsome far older palace, are set in the surrounding walls, every stone ofwhich has been ravished from the Coliseum, or any other imperial ruinwhich earlier barbarism had not already levelled with the earth. Betweentwo of the pillars, moreover, stands an old sarcophagus without itslid, and with all its more prominently projecting sculptures brokenoff; perhaps it once held famous dust, and the bony framework of somehistoric man, although now only a receptacle for the rubbish of thecourtyard, and a half-worn broom.
In the centre of the court, under the blue Italian sky, and with thehundred windows of the vast palace gazing down upon it from four sides,appears a fountain. It brims over from one stone basin to another,or gushes from a Naiad's urn, or spurts its many little jets from themouths of nameless monsters, which were merely grotesque and artificialwhen Bernini, or whoever was their unnatural father, first producedthem; but now the patches of moss, the tufts of grass, the trailingmaiden-hair, and all sorts of verdant weeds that thrive in the cracksand crevices of moist marble, tell us that Nature takes the fountainback into her great heart, and cherishes it as kindly as if it were awoodland spring. And hark, the pleasant murmur, the gurgle, the plash!You might hear just those tinkling sounds from any tiny waterfall in theforest, though here they gain a delicious pathos from the statelyechoes that reverberate their natural language. So the fountain is notaltogether glad, after all its three centuries at play!
In one of the angles of the courtyard, a pillared doorway gives accessto the staircase, with its spacious breadth of low marble steps, upwhich, in former times, have gone the princes and cardinals of the greatRoman family who built this palace. Or they have come down, with stillgrander and loftier mien, on their way to the Vatican or the Quirinal,there to put off their scarlet hats in exchange for the triple crown.But, in fine, all these illustrious personages have gone downtheir hereditary staircase for the last time, leaving it to be thethoroughfare of ambassadors, English noblemen, American millionnaires,artists, tradesmen, washerwomen, and people of every degree,--all ofwhom find such gilded and marble-panelled saloons as their pomp andluxury demand, or such homely garrets as their necessity can pay for,within this one multifarious abode. Only, in not a single nook of thepalace (built for splendor, and the accommodation of a vast retinue, butwith no vision of a happy fireside or any mode of domestic enjoyment)does the humblest or the haughtiest occupant find comfort.
Up such a staircase, on the morning after the scene at the sculpturegallery, sprang the light foot of Donatello. He ascended from storyto story, passing lofty doorways, set within rich frames of sculpturedmarble, and climbing unweariedly upward, until the glories of the firstpiano and the elegance of the middle height were exchanged for a sort ofAlpine region, cold and naked in its aspect. Steps of rough stone, rudewooden balustrades, a brick pavement in the passages, a dingy whitewashon the walls; these were here the palatial features. Finally, he pausedbefore an oaken door, on which was pinned a card, bearing the name ofMiriam Schaefer, artist in oils. Here Donatello knocked, and the doorimmediately fell somewhat ajar; its latch having been pulled up by meansof a string on the inside. Passing through a little anteroom, he foundhimself in Miriam's presence.
"Come in, wild Faun," she said, "and tell me the latest news fromArcady!"
The artist was not just then at her easel, but was busied with thefeminine 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 ofneedlework, distinguishing women from men. Our own sex is incapable ofany such by-play aside from the main business of life; but women--bethey of what earthly rank they may, however gifted with intellect orgenius, or endowed with awful beauty--have always some little handiworkready to fill the tiny gap of every vacant moment. A needle is familiarto the fingers of them all. A queen, no doubt, plies it on occasion thewoman poet can use it as adroitly as her pen; the woman's eye, that hasdiscovered a new star, turns from its glory to send the polished littleinstrument gleaming along the hem of her kerchief, or to darn a casualfray in her dress. And they have greatly the advantage of us in thisrespect. The slender thread of silk or cotton keeps them united withthe small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the continually operatinginfluences of which do so much for the health of the character, andcarry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbidsensibility. A vast deal of human sympathy runs along this electricline, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humblestseamstress, and keeping high and low in a species of communion withtheir kindred beings. Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentlecharacteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments loveto sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own heartsthan while so occupied.
And when the work falls in a woman's lap, of its own accord, and theneedle involuntarily ceases to fly, it is a sign of trouble, quite astrustworthy as the throb of the heart itself. This was what happenedto Miriam. Even while Donatello stood gazing at her, she seemed to haveforgotten his presence, allowing him to drop out of her thoughts, andthe torn glove to fall from her idle fingers. Simple as he was, theyoung man knew by his sympathies that something was amiss.
"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 theordinary world, especially for women. You are of a cheerfuller race, myfriend, and know nothing of this disease of sadness. But why do you comeinto 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 atodds with Nature before trying to imitate her. That strikes you verystrangely, does it not? But we make very pretty pictures sometimes withour artfully arranged lights and shadows. Amuse yourself with someof mine, Donatello, and by and by I shall be in the mood to begin theportrait we were talking about."
The room had the customary aspect of a painter's studio; one of thosedelightful spots that hardly seem to belong to the actual world, butrather to be the outward type of a poet's haunted imagination, wherethere are glimpses, sketches, and half-developed hints of beings andobjects 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 onlyfrom high upward that partial light which, with its strongly markedcontrast of shadow, is the first requisite towards seeing objectspictorially. Pencil-drawings were pinned against the wall or scatteredon the tables. Unframed canvases turned their backs on the spectator,presenting only a blank to the eye, and churlishly concealing whateverriches of scenery or human beauty Miriam's skill had depicted on theother side.
In the obscurest part of the room Donatello was half startled atperceiving duskily a woman with long dark hair, who threw up her armswith a wild gesture of tragic despair, and appeared to beckon him intothe darkness along with her.
"Do not be afraid, Donatello," said Miriam, smiling to see him peeringdoubtfully into the mysterious dusk. "She means you no mischief, norcould perpetrate any if she wished it ever so much. It is a lady ofexceedingly pliable disposition now a heroine of romance, and now arustic maid; yet all for show; being created, indeed, on purpose to wearrich shawls and
other garments in a becoming fashion. This is the trueend of her being, although she pretends to assume the most varied dutiesand perform many parts in life, while really the poor puppet has nothingon earth to do. Upon my word, I am satirical unawares, and seem to bedescribing nine women out of ten in the person of my lay-figure. Formost purposes she has the advantage of the sisterhood. Would I were likeher!"
"How it changes her aspect," exclaimed Donatello, "to know that she isbut a jointed figure! When my eyes first fell upon her, I thought herarms moved, as if beckoning me to help her in some direful peril."
"Are you often troubled with such sinister freaks of fancy?" askedMiriam. "I should not have supposed it."
"To tell you the truth, dearest signorina," answered the young Italian,"I am apt to be fearful in old, gloomy houses, and in the dark. I loveno dark or dusky corners, except it be in a grotto, or among the thickgreen leaves of an arbor, or in some nook of the woods, such as I knowmany in the neighborhood of my home. Even there, if a stray sunbeamsteal in, the shadow is all the better for its cheerful glimmer."
"Yes; you are a Faun, you know," said the fair artist, laughing at theremembrance of the scene of the day before. "But the world is sadlychanged nowadays; grievously changed, poor Donatello, since those happytimes when your race used to dwell in the Arcadian woods, playing hideand seek with the nymphs in grottoes and nooks of shrubbery. You havereappeared on earth some centuries too late."
"I do not understand you now," answered Donatello, looking perplexed;"only, signorina, I am glad to have my lifetime while you live; andwhere you are, be it in cities or fields, I would fain be there too."
"I wonder whether I ought to allow you to speak in this way," saidMiriam, looking thoughtfully at him. "Many young women would think itbehooved them to be offended. Hilda would never let you speak so, I daresay. But he is a mere boy," she added, aside, "a simple boy, putting hisboyish heart to the proof on the first woman whom he chances to meet.If yonder lay-figure had had the luck to meet him first, she would havesmitten him as deeply as I."
"Are you angry with me?" asked Donatello dolorously.
"Not in the least," answered Miriam, frankly giving him her hand. "Praylook over some of these sketches till I have leisure to chat with youa little. I hardly think I am in spirits enough to begin your portraitto-day."
Donatello was as gentle and docile as a pet spaniel; as playful, too, inhis general disposition, or saddening with his mistress's variable moodlike that or any other kindly animal which has the faculty ofbestowing its sympathies more completely than men or women can ever do.Accordingly, as Miriam bade him, he tried to turn his attention to agreat pile and confusion of pen and ink sketches and pencil drawingswhich lay tossed together on a table. As it chanced, however, they gavethe poor youth little delight.
The first that he took up was a very impressive sketch, in which theartist had jotted down her rough ideas for a picture of Jael driving thenail through the temples of Sisera. It was dashed off with remarkablepower, and showed a touch or two that were actually lifelike anddeathlike, as if Miriam had been standing by when Jael gave the firststroke of her murderous hammer, or as if she herself were Jael, and feltirresistibly impelled to make her bloody confession in this guise.
Her first conception of the stern Jewess had evidently been that ofperfect womanhood, a lovely form, and a high, heroic face of loftybeauty; but, dissatisfied either with her own work or the terrible storyitself, Miriam had added a certain wayward quirk of her pencil, which atonce converted the heroine into a vulgar murderess. It was evident thata Jael like this would be sure to search Sisera's pockets as soon as thebreath was out of his body.
In another sketch she had attempted the story of Judith, which we seerepresented by the old masters so often, and in such various styles.Here, too, beginning with a passionate and fiery conception of thesubject in all earnestness, she had given the last touches in utterscorn, as it were, of the feelings which at first took such powerfulpossession of her hand. The head of Holofernes (which, by the bye, had apair of twisted mustaches, like those of a certain potentate of theday) being fairly cut off, was screwing its eyes upward and twirlingits features into a diabolical grin of triumphant malice, which it flungright in Judith's face. On her part, she had the startled aspect thatmight be conceived of a cook if a calf's head should sneer at her whenabout to be popped into the dinner-pot.
Over and over again, there was the idea of woman, acting the part of arevengeful mischief towards man. It was, indeed, very singular tosee how the artist's imagination seemed to run on these stories ofbloodshed, in which woman's hand was crimsoned by the stain; and how,too,--in one form or another, grotesque or sternly sad,--she failed notto bring out the moral, that woman must strike through her own heart toreach a human life, whatever were the motive that impelled her.
One of the sketches represented the daughter of Herodias receiving thehead of John the Baptist in a charger. The general conception appearedto be taken from Bernardo Luini's picture, in the Uffizzi Gallery atFlorence; but Miriam had imparted to the saint's face a look of gentleand heavenly reproach, with sad and blessed eyes fixed upward at themaiden; by the force of which miraculous glance, her whole womanhood wasat once awakened to love and endless remorse.
These sketches had a most disagreeable effect on Donatello's peculiartemperament. He gave a shudder; his face assumed a look of trouble,fear, and disgust; he snatched up one sketch after another, as if aboutto tear it in pieces. Finally, shoving away the pile of drawings, heshrank back from the table and clasped his hands over his eyes.
"What is the matter, Donatello?" asked Miriam, looking up from aletter which she was now writing. "Ah! I did not mean you to see thosedrawings. They are ugly phantoms that stole out of my mind; not thingsthat I created, but things that haunt me. See! here are some triflesthat perhaps will please you better."
She gave him a portfolio, the sketches in which indicated a happier moodof mind, and one, it is to be hoped, more truly characteristic of theartist. Supposing neither of these classes of subject to show anythingof her own individuality, Miriam had evidently a great scope of fancy,and a singular faculty of putting what looked like heart into herproductions. The latter sketches were domestic and common scenes, sofinely and subtilely idealized that they seemed such as we may seeat any moment, and eye, where; while still there was the indefinablesomething added, or taken away, which makes all the difference betweensordid life and an earthly paradise. The feeling and sympathy in all ofthem were deep and true. There was the scene, that comes once in everylife, of the lover winning the soft and pure avowal of bashful affectionfrom the maiden whose slender form half leans towards his arm, halfshrinks from it, we know not which. There was wedded affection in itssuccessive stages, represented in a series of delicately conceiveddesigns, touched with a holy fire, that burned from youth to age inthose two hearts, and gave one identical beauty to the faces throughoutall the changes of feature.
There was a drawing of an infant's shoe, half worn out, with the airyprint of the blessed foot within; a thing that would make a mother smileor weep out of the very depths of her heart; and yet an actual motherwould not have been likely to appreciate the poetry of the little shoe,until Miriam revealed it to her. It was wonderful, the depth and forcewith which the above, and other kindred subjects, were depicted, and theprofound significance which they often acquired. The artist, still inher fresh youth, could not probably have drawn any of these dear andrich experiences from her own life; unless, perchance, that first sketchof all, the avowal of maiden affection, were a remembered incident, andnot a prophecy. But it is more delightful to believe that, from first tolast, they were the productions of a beautiful imagination, dealing withthe warm and pure suggestions of a woman's heart, and thus idealizinga truer and lovelier picture of the life that belongs to woman, thanan actual acquaintance with some of its hard and dusty facts could haveinspired. So considered, the sketches intimated such a force and varietyof imaginative sympathies as would enable Mir
iam to fill her life richlywith the bliss and suffering of womanhood, however barren it mightindividually be.
There was one observable point, indeed, betokening that the artistrelinquished, for her personal self, the happiness which she could soprofoundly appreciate for others. In all those sketches of common life,and the affections that spiritualize it, a figure was portrayed apart,now it peeped between the branches of a shrubbery, amid which two loverssat; now it was looking through a frosted window, from the outside,while a young wedded pair sat at their new fireside within; and once itleaned from a chariot, which six horses were whirling onward in pompand pride, and gazed at a scene of humble enjoyment by a cottage door.Always it was the same figure, and always depicted with an expression ofdeep sadness; and in every instance, slightly as they were brought out,the face and form had the traits of Miriam's own.
"Do you like these sketches better, Donatello?" asked Miriam. "Yes,"said Donatello rather doubtfully. "Not much, I fear," responded she,laughing. "And what should a boy like you--a Faun too,--know about thejoys and sorrows, the intertwining light and shadow, of human life? Iforgot that you were a Faun. You cannot suffer deeply; therefore youcan but half enjoy. Here, now, is a subject which you can betterappreciate."
The sketch represented merely a rustic dance, but with such extravaganceof fun as was delightful to behold; and here there was no drawback,except that strange sigh and sadness which always come when we aremerriest.
"I am going to paint the picture in oils," said the artist; "and I wantyou, Donatello, for the wildest dancer of them all. Will you sit for me,some day?--or, rather, dance for me?"
"O, most gladly, signorina!" exclaimed Donatello. "See; it shall be likethis."
And forthwith he began to dance, and flit about the studio, like anincarnate sprite of jollity, pausing at last on the extremity of onetoe, as if that were the only portion of himself whereby his friskynature could come in contact with the earth. The effect in that shadowychamber, whence the artist had so carefully excluded the sunshine, wasas enlivening as if one bright ray had contrived to shimmer in andfrolic around the walls, and finally rest just in the centre of thefloor.
"That was admirable!" said Miriam, with an approving smile. "If I cancatch you on my canvas, it will be a glorious picture; only I am afraidyou will dance out of it, by the very truth of the representation, justwhen I shall have given it the last touch. We will try it one of thesedays. And now, to reward you for that jolly exhibition, you shall seewhat has been shown to no one else."
She went to her easel, on which was placed a picture with its backturned towards the spectator. Reversing the position, there appeared theportrait of a beautiful woman, such as one sees only two or three, ifeven so many times, in all a lifetime; so beautiful, that she seemed toget into your consciousness and memory, and could never afterwards beshut out, but haunted your dreams, for pleasure or for pain; holdingyour inner realm as a conquered territory, though without deigning tomake herself at home there.
She was very youthful, and had what was usually thought to be a Jewishaspect; a complexion in which there was no roseate bloom, yet neitherwas it pale; dark eyes, into which you might look as deeply as yourglance would go, and still be conscious of a depth that you had notsounded, though it lay open to the day. She had black, abundant hair,with none of the vulgar glossiness of other women's sable locks; if shewere really of Jewish blood, then this was Jewish hair, and a dark glorysuch as crowns no Christian maiden's head. Gazing at this portrait, yousaw what Rachel might have been, when Jacob deemed her worth the wooingseven years, and seven more; or perchance she might ripen to be whatJudith was, when she vanquished Holofernes with her beauty, and slew himfor too much adoring it.
Miriam watched Donatello's contemplation of the picture, and seeing hissimple rapture, a smile of pleasure brightened on her face, mixed with alittle scorn; at least, her lips curled, and her eyes gleamed, as if shedisdained either his admiration or her own enjoyment of it.
"Then you like the picture, Donatello?" she asked.
"O, beyond what I can tell!" he answered. "So beautiful!--so beautiful!"
"And do you recognize the likeness?"
"Signorina," exclaimed Donatello, turning from the picture to theartist, in astonishment that she should ask the question, "theresemblance is as little to be mistaken as if you had bent over thesmooth surface of a fountain, and possessed the witchcraft to call forththe image that you made there! It is yourself!"
Donatello said the truth; and we forebore to speak descriptively ofMiriam's beauty earlier in our narrative, because we foresaw thisoccasion to bring it perhaps more forcibly before the reader.
We know not whether the portrait were a flattered likeness; probablynot, regarding it merely as the delineation of a lovely face; althoughMiriam, like all self-painters, may have endowed herself with certaingraces which Other eyes might not discern. Artists are fond of paintingtheir own portraits; and, in Florence, there is a gallery of hundredsof them, including the most illustrious, in all of which there areautobiographical characteristics, so to speak,--traits, expressions,loftinesses, and amenities, which would have been invisible, had theynot been painted from within. Yet their reality and truth are nonethe less. Miriam, in like manner, had doubtless conveyed some of theintimate results of her heart knowledge into her own portrait, andperhaps wished to try whether they would be perceptible to so simple andnatural an observer as Donatello.
"Does the expression please you?" she asked.
"Yes," said Donatello hesitatingly; "if it would only smile so like thesunshine as you sometimes do. No, it is sadder than I thought at first.Cannot you make yourself smile a little, signorina?"
"A forced smile is uglier than a frown," said Miriam, a bright, naturalsmile breaking out over her face even as she spoke.
"O, catch it now!" cried Donatello, clapping his hands. "Let it shineupon the picture! There! it has vanished already! And you are sad again,very sad; and the picture gazes sadly forth at me, as if some evil hadbefallen it in the little time since I looked last."
"How perplexed you seem, my friend!" answered Miriam. "I really halfbelieve you are a Faun, there is such a mystery and terror for you inthese dark moods, which are just as natural as daylight to us people ofordinary mould. I advise you, at all events, to look at other faces withthose innocent and happy eyes, and never more to gaze at mine!"
"You speak in vain," replied the young man, with a deeper emphasis thanshe had ever before heard in his voice; "shroud yourself in what gloomyou will, I must needs follow you."
"Well, well, well," said Miriam impatiently; "but leave me now; for tospeak plainly, my good friend, you grow a little wearisome. I walkthis afternoon in the Borghese grounds. Meet me there, if it suits yourpleasure."
The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 1 Page 5