Miriam's Studio

In one of the angles of the courtyard, a pillared doorway gives access
to the staircase, with its spacious breadth of low marble steps, up
which, in former times, have gone the princes and cardinals of the great
Roman family who built this palace. Or they have come down, with still
grander 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 down
their hereditary staircase for the last time, leaving it to be the
thoroughfare of ambassadors, English noblemen, American millionnaires,
artists, tradesmen, washerwomen, and people of every degree,--all of
whom find such gilded and marble-panelled saloons as their pomp and
luxury demand, or such homely garrets as their necessity can pay for,
within this one multifarious abode. Only, in not a single nook of the
palace (built for splendor, and the accommodation of a vast retinue, but
with 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 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.