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the belt of his blouse, and his left hand holding the pipe he had withdrawn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 honour 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 some day be known worldwide. When
that day came, Stenburg ruefully thought that he would be past 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
closer observer, proclaimed a spirit not at peace. Otherwise, to the world, he
appeared a jolly, prosperous man, who displayed, on occasions, 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 ill repay
me for the labour of so large a church picture as you honour 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 a gift of a penitent.”
“So! — That makes a great 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 following weeks Stenburg studied the
composition of the picture, and penetrated into the Jewish Strauss for the
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 a rapid progress.
With the bursting of the young green leaves, and the
upspringing of the first flowers, a hunger had seized upon the artists 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 gypsy girl
plaiting straw baskets. Her face was beautiful; her coal black hair 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 artists regard — restless, limped, 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 on a lake.
“What a capital picture she would make!” thought Stenburg;
“hut then who would buy a gypsy girl? No one!” The gypsies were looked upon in
Dusseldorf with hatred; and even to this day the fact of being a gypsy is, in
the eyes of the law, a punishable offence.
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 armour, pottery, and carving. Presently
she began examining the picture, now nearing 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 had 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 that
picture grew upon her. Sometimes she ventured an inquiry, for her curiosity
consumed her.
“Why did they crucify Him? Was He had, very had?” “No; very
good.” That 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
hack to his easel; then, looking at her, the eager, questioning face moved his
pity.
“Listen. I will tell you once and 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 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 gypsy pride forbade
to fall.”
The picture and the Spanish — girl were finished simultaneously.
Pepitas 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 leaf 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 sometime 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,
“Done all that for you.”
At last the pain was not to be borne. He would face it, and
conquer it. But he went to confession in vain to get the peace he longed for,
and which can only be found by faith in Christ alone. A liberal discount on his
picture gave ease of mind for a week or two. But then up rose the old question,
“You must love Him fry much, do you not?” and would be answered. He grew
restless, and could not settle to his work. So wandering about, he heard of
things which had not come under his notice before.
One day he saw a group of persons hastening to a house near
the walls, a poor place, and then he noticed others coming in the opposite
direction, and they, too, passed into its low doorway. He asked what was
happening there, but the man he questioned either would not or could not
satisfy him. This roused his curiosity. A few days later he learned that a
stranger, one of the “Reformed,” lived there, one of those despised men who
appealed on every occasion to the Word of God. It was hardly respectable,
hardly safe, even to know them. Yet perhaps here he might find that which he
sought.
The artist had heard how these Reformers risked and
frequently parted with their all, for the truth they held. They might possess
the secret of peace. So Stenburg went to “observe,” perhaps to “inquire,”
certainly not to join them; but a man cannot approach fire and remain cold.
Yes. He saw a man who might have lived in ease; enduring hardship; one who
might have been honoured, despised; who might have been beloved and respected,
an outcast and yet serene, even happy. This Reformed preacher spoke and looked
as one who walking the earth with Christ; yes, one to whom was all. Stenburg
found what he longed for — a living faith. His new friend lent him for a time a
precious copy of the New Testament, but hunted from Dusseldorf after a few
weeks, he left, and had to take the book with him; but its essence was left in
Stenburg’s heart. As a sinner he received Christ and was saved. (Ephesians
2:8-9.)
Ah! no need to question now. He felt in his soul the fire of
an ardent love. “Did all that for me! How can I ever tell of that love,
that boundless love, which can brighten their lives, as it has mine? It is for
them too, but they do not see it, as I did not. How can I preach it? I cannot
speak. I am a man of few words. If I were to try I could never speak it out. It
burns in my heart, but cannot express it — the love of Christ!” So thinking,
the artist idly drew with a piece of charcoal in his fingers a rough sketch of
a thorn-crowned head. His eyes grew moist as he did so. Suddenly the thought
flashed through his soul, “I can paint! my brush must proclaim it. Ah! in that
picture His face was all agony. But that was not the truth. Love unutterable,
infinite compassion, willing sacrifice!” The artist fell on his knees, and
prayed to paint worthily, and thus speak.
And then, as he wrought, the fire of genius blazed up — up
to the highest fibre of his power, nay, beyond it. The picture of the
crucifixion was a wonder — almost divine, admired by all.
He would not sell it. He gave it a freewill offering to his
native city. It was hung in the Public Gallery, and there the citizens flocked
to see it, and voices were hushed and hearts melted as they stood before it,
and the burghers returned to their homes knowing the love of God, and repeating
to themselves the words written so distinctly beneath.
All this I did for thee; What has thou done for Me?
Stenburg himself also used to go there; watching far
back from the corner in the gallery the people who gathered about the picture,
he prayed God to bless his painted sermon. One day he observed when the rest of
the visitors had left, a poor girl standing weeping bitterly before it. The
artist approached her. “What grieves thee, child?” he asked.
The girl turned; she was Pepita. “Oh Signor. If He had but
loved me so,” she said, pointing to the face of yearning love, bending above
them. “I am only a poor gypsy. For you is the love, but not for such as I”; and
her despairing tears fell fast and unstrained.
“Pepita, it was also all for thee.” And then the
artist told her all. Until the late hour at which the gallery closed they sat
and talked. The painter did not weary now of all her questions, for the subject
was the one he loved best, and crowning glory of resurrection, and also
explained to her the union that redeeming love effected.
She listened, received, and believed. – “All this I did
for thee.”
Two years have passed since the picture had been finished.
Winter had come again. The cold intense, and the wind moaned down the narrow
streets of Dusseldorf, and shook the casements of the artists dwelling. His
days work was done, and by the blazing pine logs he was seated, reading a copy
he had with difficulty obtained of his beloved New Testament. A knock sounded
at the door, and a man was admitted. He wore an old sheep-skin jacket on which
the snow had frozen; his hair had hung in dark locks. He glanced ravenously
towards the bread and meat upon the table, even as he gave his message, “Would
the gentleman come with him on urgent business?”
“Where?” demanded the painter.
That, he must not tell, or the agents of the law might get
to know, and drive them out of their camp in the woods.
“Wherefore do you wish me to come?”
“Eat,” said the artist. “I will accompany you.” The man
murmured his thanks as he devoured the food. “You are hungry?”
“Sir, we all are famished with hunger.”
Stenburg brought a hag of provisions. “Can you carry this?”
“Ah! gladly. But come, there is no time to lose.”
The artist followed. His guide led him quickly through the
streets, and out into the country beyond. The moon rose, and showed they were
in the forest. At last they came to a clearing. Here a few tents were erected.
“Go in there,” said the man, pointing to one of the tents,
and then turned to a group of men, women, and children, who thronged about him.
He spoke to them in a wild unknown tongue, and lifted his bag from his
shoulder.
The artist, crouching, crept into the tent. A brilliant ray
of moonlight illuminated the poor interior. On a bed formed of a mass of dried
leaves was the form of a young woman. Her face was pinched and hallo. “Why,
Pepita!”
At the sound of the artist’s voice the eyes opened. Those
wonderful dark eyes still were brilliant. A smile trembled to her lips, and she
raised herself on her elbow. “Yes,” she said, “HE has come for me! He holds out
His hands! They are bleeding! And He says, “For thee…All this I done for
thee. “ And she not long after bade him farewell.
Long years after when both the painter and the gypsy girl
had met in another land above. A young nobleman drove his splendid equipage
into Dusseldorf, and while his horses were baited, he wondered into the famous
gallery. He was rich, young, intelligent — the world bright, and its treasures
within grasp. He stood before Stenburg’s pictures — reading and re-reading the
Words at the foot of the frame. He could not tear himself away — it grew into
his heart. The love of Christ its powerful grasp on his soul. Hours passed, the
light faded; the curator touched the weeping nobleman, and told him it was time
to close the gallery. Night had come — nay! rather, for that young man, the
dawn of eternal life. He was Zinzendorf. He returned to the inn and re-entered
his carriage — but to turn his back on Paris, and seek again his home.
From the moment he through life, fortune, fame, at the feet
of Him who had whispered to his heart,
“All this I did for thee; What hast thou done for me?”
Zinzendorf, who was the father of the Moravian Missions,
answered that question, by his devoted life and his welcome death.
Stenburg’s picture no longer hangs in the gallery of
Dusseldorf, for when some years ago the gallery was destroyed by fire, it
perished — but preached, and God used it to tell of His gift, of whom Paul
said, “He loved and gave Himself for me.”
Can you say. “AND FOR ME.?”
I gave my life for thee! my precious blood I shed,
That thou might’st ransomed be, and quickened from the dead.
I gave My life for thee: what hast thou done for Me?
Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is
covered. — Psalm 32:1
Wounded for me, wounded for me,
‘There on the Cross He was wounded for me.
Gone my transgressions, Thank God I am free,
And all because Jesus was wounded for me.
Old paths series —
No. 17
If further Interested Please Contact: —
Mr. J. Ritchie
3 Strathpeffer, Law,
Carluke, ML8 5SQ
Scotland.
