The artist Stenburg stood in his Dusseldorf studio. He looked quizzically at his visitor, Father Hugo, vicar of the Church of St. Jerome.
"We need an altarpiece for our church," Father Hugo said. "A painting of the crucifixion. Done with the touch of the master—Stenburg! We can pay any price you ask. A wealthy penitent will buy this altarpiece and give it to the church. We can afford you—at your own price!”
Stenburg smiled, tapped his pipe on his easel. "I think, Reverend. Father, it can be done. I'll give you the most magnificent altarpiece that St. Jerome has ever seen.”
In the weeks that followed Stenburg searched out the historical facts of Jesus' death. He was talented; he was famous; he was becoming wealthier every year. But Stenburg did not have peace.
The first brush full of color touched the canvas, then another, and another. One day the cross stood stark and upright on Golgotha. The next, a band of tired disciples wept at its foot. Day after day Stenburg's brush caressed the canvas.
Then suddenly he was tired. "I'll forget this sombre altarpiece," he declared. "I'll walk out to the country and sketch.”
It was spring, and the woods were green. At the edge of the forest Stenburg stopped. There a gypsy girl plaited a straw basket. Blue-black hair reached her waist; her red dress was faded and torn. Her eyes were black, large, restless.
"What a painting!" thought Stenburg.
The girl stared up at the artist. Then she smiled, threw her straw down, sprang up and raised her hands high above her head. She twirled and danced gaily in front of him.
"Stand," cried Stenburg. The girl dropped her arms. "This week you must come to my studio; I'll paint you...”
"But, Signor," the girl said shyly, "I'm only a poor gypsy girl.”
"Come," he said. And she came, in her red dress, with her hair tucked back with a flower. Stenburg was ready. "Stand! Sit! Dance!" he commanded.
Pepita had never been in an artist's studio before. Her questions amused Stenburg. But suddenly her roving eyes stopped at the altarpiece for St. Jerome. It was almost completed. "Who is it?" she asked.
"The Christ," the artist said, carelessly.
"But what are they doing to Him?”
"Crucifying Him," he answered.
"But who are those cruel people?”
Stenburg threw his brush down. "Now look here," he said. "You stand there... still... and do not move your lips to speak.”
Pepita closed her lips. But her eyes never left the crucifixion.
Posing for the day was over. At the door, Pepita stopped. "Was He bad?" she asked.
"No, no; very good," Stenburg said. "Remember! Be here the day after tomorrow.”
Each day that she came, she asked another question. "If He was good, why did they do it?”
Stenburg tipped his head to one side. "Listen! I will tell you once for all." Hurriedly, he repeated the facts of Christ's death, and as he talked he saw her black eyes fill with tears.
One day, both paintings were finished—the altarpiece and the Spanish dancing girl. For the last time Pepita came to the studio. When she saw herself on the canvas, she clapped her hands with pleasure. Then she walked over to the altarpiece and stood silently. She turned to Stenburg. "You must love Him very much, Signor, when He has done all that for you; do you not?”
Then she was gone.
Stenburg stood looking after her; but the street noises refused to drown out the sound of Pepita's voice: "Love Him very much when He has done so much for you.”
But all week, he heard the question: "You must love him very much, do you not?" His restlessness, his dissatisfaction grew. He could stand no more. Perhaps, if he went to confession—
Before Father Hugo he knelt and confessed every sin he could recall. The vicar gave him absolution. "All will be well," he said.
Stenburg left the church. His heart was still tormented. Absolution was not enough! Perhaps if he gave the church a token? But what? His altarpiece! That was it. A Stenburg painting at a fraction of the cost he had intended was a royal gift indeed.
He found Father Hugo and told him his decision. The vicar smiled. "For what you have done," he said, "God be with you.”
But Stenburg knew that God was not with him. All that was with him was the question: "You must love Him very much, do you not?”
To shake his mood, he walked night and day up and down the streets of Dusseldorf. One night he idly watched a group of people hurrying through a low doorway. It was curious, he thought, that the people who entered looked so happy.
Then Stenburg went one day to the house. He entered and sat down with the happy people. He listened to the preacher, a Flan who seemed to have found what Stenburg was looking for. That night Stenburg found the answer to the restlessness in his life. No absolution, no gift to the church was enough! Jesus Christ had died on the cross for Stenburg; and at last the artist could say, "And how much I love Him!”
The next morning, he could not keep this gratitude to himself. "How can I tell others?" he asked himself. "I can paint," he said with decision.
And soon a great masterpiece was presented to the Dusseldorf gallery for every visitor to see, a sermon for all to hear.
One day he found in front of his picture a girl, weeping. She turned, and it was Pepita. "It is you, Signor," she cried out. "Oh, Signor, if He had but loved me so!”
They both sat in front of the painting and he told her the story of that wondrous death, and the glorious resurrection. "For all men, for the gypsies for everyone—Christ has suffered and bled on the cross. All this He did for thee, Pepita.”
The gypsy girl was quiet. Then she looked up. "I believe it," she said, simply.
Two years later Pepita died, believing in Him. Her last words were, "All this I did for thee.”
The artist grew older. Eventually, he must put his brush aside. Dusseldorf lost its artist, but the painting of the crucifixion still hung.
Years later, a young German nobleman wandered into the gallery and stopped in front of the Stenburg masterpiece. He read the words on the frame. "All this I did for thee. What hast thou done for Me?”
Hours passed. That night the young count made a decision. That nobleman was Zinzendorf. In Dusseldorf he decided to give his life to answering the question under the Stenburg painting. He died as a martyr to the cause of Christ, still answering it.
The gallery, burned years ago, and with it the famous canvas. But the question for everyone—for you—remains the same. "All this I did for thee. What hast thou done for Me?”