YEARS ago, a painter stood in his studio, his right thumb in the belt of his blouse, and his left hand holding the pipe he had withdrawn from his lips in honor of his visitor. Father Hugo, the Vicar of the rich Church of St. Jerome. The artist had not yet reached middle age. He was famous in Dusseldorf, and some said that his name would someday be known world-wide. When that day came, Stenburg ruefully thought that he would be past the enjoyment of riches which tarried so long. Still, he managed to enjoy life in the present. He loved his art. Now and again he became so absorbed in his work, that he forgot all else than the picture upon his easel.
Still, though good work he had done, he had as yet never satisfied himself, nor reached his own ideal. His was good work, but he desired something more, Thus Stenburg was not a satisfied man. There was a restlessness in his handsome eyes, and a sharp tone in his voice, which, to a close observer, proclaimed a spirit not at peace. Otherwise, to the world, he appeared a jolly, prosperous man, who displayed, on occasion, a shrewd business capacity, and one who knew his own interests well. He was speaking now.
“No; not so, I assure you; the sum you offer would but ill repay me for the labor of so large a church picture as you honor me by naming. It must have many figures, all carefully studied. The crucifixion is not, an easy subject, and it has been so often taken, that it would be difficult to compose a picture different —as I should wish it to be—from others.”
“I will not limit you to the price. You are an honest man, Sir Painter, and the Church of St. Jerome will not pay for the picture. It is to be the gift of a penitent.”
“So! That makes a difference. Return, sir, please, a month from today, and studies for the work shall be ready.” So they parted, both well pleased, and during the fallowing weeks Stenburg studied the composition of the picture, and penetrated into the Jewish Strasse for models for his figures.
The Vicar was satisfied. He desired the central point of the picture to be the Cross of the Redeemer, and left the grouping of the accessories to the artist. From time to time the Vicar dropped in, often accompanied by another priest, to inspect the progress of the work. It was to be placed in the church upon a feast day, which fell upon the first day of June, and it was making rapid progress.
With the bursting of the young green leaves, and the unspringing of the, first flowers, a hunger had seized upon the artist’s soul to leave Dusseldorf, and with his sketch-book wander over the surrounding country. On the borders of the forest he came one day upon a gipsy. girl plaiting straw baskets. Her face was beautiful; her coal-black hair fell in waving ripples to her waist; and her poor, tattered, red dress, faded and sunburnt to many hues, added to her picturesque appearance. But her eyes were the feature that caught the artist’s regard, —restless, limpid, black eyes, whose expression changed every moment: pain, joy, fun and roguery were reflected in their depths as swiftly as the cloud shadows chase each other across a lake.
“What a capital picture she would make!” thought Stenburg; “but then who would buy a gipsy girl? No one!” The gipsies were looked upon in Dusseldorf with hatred; and even to this day the fact of being a gipsy is, in the eyes of the law, a punishable offense.
The girl noticed the artist, and flinging her straw down, sprang up, raising her hands above her head, and snapping her fingers to keep time. danced lightly and gracefully before him showing her white teeth, and her glance sparkling with merriment.
“Stand!” cried Stenburg, and rapidly sketched her. Quickly as he drew, it was a weary position for the girl to maintain; but she never flinched, though a sigh of relief, as her arms dropped and she stood at rest before him, attested to the artist the strain the attitude had been.
“She is not only beautiful, she is better—a capital model. I will paint her as a Spanish dancing girl.” So a bargain was struck. Pepita was to come thrice a week to Stenburg’s house to be painted. Duly at the appointed hour she arrived. She was full of wonder. Her great eyes roved round the studio, glancing on the pieces of armor, pottery, and carving. Presently she began examining the pictures, and soon the great picture, now nearing its completion, caught her attention. She gazed at it intently.
In an awed voice, she asked,—
“Who is that?” pointing to the most prominent figure, that of the Redeemer on the Cross.
“The Christ,” answered Stenburg carelessly.
“What is being done to Him?”
“Being crucified,” ejaculated the artist. “Turn a little to the right. There! that will do.” Stenburg, with his brush in his fingers, was a man of few words.
“Who are those people about Him—those with the bad faces?”
“Now, look here,” said the, artist, “I cannot talk to you. You have nothing to do but stand as I tell you.”
The girl dare not speak again, but she continued to gaze, and speculate. Every time she came to the studio the fascination of the picture grew upon her. Sometimes she ventured an inquiry, for her curiosity consumed her.
“Why did they crucify Him? Was He add, very bad?”
“No; he was good.”
This was all she learnt at one interview but she treasured each word, and every sentence was so much more known of the mystery.
“Then, if He was good, why did they do so? Was it for a short time only? Did they let Him go?”
“It was because—” The artist paused with his head on one side, stepped forward, and arranged her sash.
“Because?” repeated Pepita breathlessly. The artist went back to his easel; then, looking at her, the eager, questioning face moved his pity.
“Listen. I will tell you once for all, and then ask no further questions:” and he told her the story of the Cross—new to Pepita, though so old to the artist, that it had ceased to touch him. He could paint that dying agony, and not a nerve of his quivered; but the thought of it wrung her heart. Her great black eyes swam in tears, which the fiery gipsy pride forbade to fall.
The picture and the Spanish dancing-girl were finished simultaneously. Pepita’s last visit to the studio had come. She looked upon the beautiful representation of herself without emotion, but turned, and stood before the picture, unable to leave it.
“Come,” said the artist, “here is your money, and a gold piece over and above, for you have brought me good luck, the ‘Dancing-girl’ is already sold: I shall want you some time perhaps again, but not just yet. We must not overstock the market with even your pretty face.” The girl turned slowly.
“Thanks, Signor!” but her eyes, full of emotion, were solemn. “You must love Him very much, Signor, when He has done all that for you, do you not?”
The face into which she looked flushed crimson. The artist was ashamed. The girl, in her poor, faded dress, passed from his studio, but her plaintive words rang in his heart. He tried to forget them, but impossible. He hastened to send the picture to its destination. Still he could not forget. “All that for you.”
ML 09/23/1906