RADEGUND’S INSPIRATION.
When the good Strassburgers are asked who built their magnificent
cathedral, they are apt to say that it was Erwin von Steinbach, and
that what he left unfinished, was completed after his death by Sabina
von Steinbach, the architect’s daughter. Furthermore, they will
point out with no little pride, two statues of great beauty over the
south doorway, carved by this Sabina’s own fair hands. Erwin and his
daughter, however, who lived in the fourteenth century, only added to
and beautified the main building, of which a great portion already
existed when Charlemagne—nay, when Pepin le Bref was king. In the
eleventh century, Bishop Werner of Hapsburg further improved it, and
from time to time, interior and exterior adornments were added; but
it was reserved for Erwin von Steinbach to perfect the beauty of the
glorious fabric. It was Erwin who erected the west front and the
curious tower, with its winding staircase rising to such a giddy
height; but ere this work was done, Death laid his hand on the old
architect, and his son John, and Sabina his daughter, reigned in his
stead.
Tradition said that Sabina’s life had been an unhappy one. A
passionate, unrequited love had for a time deprived her of her high
intellect, and finally driven her into a convent, where at last she
ended her wretched existence by her own hand. The tale went, that the
ghost of the sculptress walked the cathedral at midnight; and many
a time and oft, successive sacristans had fled in affright from the
sanctuary, averring, with much shivering, that the white, bloodstained
robes of the unhappy woman were plainly visible amid the delicate
tracery and fretwork of the choir.
It is not, however, with the architect and his daughter that this story
has to do; years must carry the gentle reader on apace. Von Steinbach
is a time-honoured name in Strassburg now. Is not, indeed, Niklaus von
Steinbach its Burgomaster? and look, too, at Radegund von Steinbach,
the Burgomaster’s niece, in whom, after fitfully smouldering through
two centuries, the old genius has burst forth in all its brilliancy.
A clever artist is Radegund von Steinbach. Some years ago her strong
will and adventurous spirit took her to Italy, where she studied in
the schools of Venice and Padua, living there her strange, haughty,
independent life,—dreaming before Cimabue and the Bellini, catching
inspiration from Fra Angelico, lost in contemplation before Raphael’s
angels and madonnas,—then at last coming home again to old Strassburg
city, she established herself as an artist in the house built by
Erwin himself, and her brother Otto’s by inheritance; and became a
celebrity. Her studio was the haunt of the _dilettanti_. Many a rich
burgher and noble lady would come to Radegund von Steinbach that she
might paint their portraits, and a pretty price she charged them for
her work; but they did not mind that; it was quite the thing just then
to be painted by this clever artist, and one acquired much additional
lustre from it in the fashionable world. It was not, however, all pure
undiluted pleasure to her clients, for Radegund was not as a rule
affable or conciliating, and it was by no means a comfortable process
to sit for some hours in her scornful presence, very often without
the interchange of a dozen words; but then, as they said, Radegund
was “peculiar, a genius,” and what not, which was supposed amply to
condone for all the airs and graces it was her humour to indulge in.
On the face of it, one might have marvelled why it was that Radegund
condescended to make pictures of such commonplace mortals as these
citizens and citizenesses, but that would have been to betray a very
superficial acquaintance with this woman’s character; she worshipped
notoriety, and she found that fame and notice came to her more
prodigally through a portrayal of broad Teutonic countenances, and
of portly bedizened stomachers, than through the really artistic and
beautiful work towards which her good angel naturally inclined her.
Now it happened that this good angel contrived to bring Radegund’s
fame before the notice of the Bishop of Strassburg, and ere long the
good man, ever ready to encourage native talent and industry, had
commissioned her to paint a picture altar-piece for the chapel of Saint
Laurence, in the north aisle of the cathedral, and Radegund produced a
work which crowned her fame. Half Elsass—nay, connoisseurs came from
all parts of Germany and France to see the famous Saint Laurence, and
to go away filled with admiration which, in countless instances, was
extended to the handsome artist herself. Those enthralled by her genius
offered her large sums to leave Strassburg and to establish herself in
Paris or other famous capitals of Europe; those enchained by her beauty
offered marriage and titles; but Radegund would listen to none of these
proposals; she haughtily declared herself content with her present
condition, and said that no consideration would ever again induce her
to leave her native city. As to the altarpiece, Radegund had thrown
her whole soul and spirit into it. She had represented the Martyr
standing beneath a graceful Moorish arch, his dark robes falling to
his bare sandalled feet, waves of dusky auburn hair, streaked here and
there with golden, flowed back from a brow illumined by a marvellous
intellectual glory. The firm, decisive lines of the beautiful mouth
and chin were softened by an impassioned sweetness; but the supreme
loveliness of that picture reigned in the eyes—deep, earnest, somewhat
heavy-lidded, unfathomable eyes they were, with a certain sad
wistfulness about them, and with the fire of thought brilliantly,
eagerly, steadfastly burning. There was, too, a world of character
expressed in the slender but manly hands, and in the slightly-drooping
attitude of the tall figure.
Many of the Strassburgers declared that they could see in the Saint
Laurence a certain sort of resemblance to their gifted fellow-citizen,
the Professor Conrad Dasipodius, and one or two remarked as much to
Radegund; but the artist always tossed her beautiful head, and said:
“Like Dasipodius, indeed! and what, forsooth, had she to do with
Dasipodius? As well say that she, Radegund von Steinbach, was like that
awesome figure of Atè in the justice chamber of the _Rath-haus_!”
And so she was—sometimes; yet this resemblance between Conrad and the
Saint Laurence was curious. Sabina von Steinbach, for instance, must
surely have noticed it, else why did she so invariably betake herself
to the Saint Laurence chapel to tell her daily rosary in, before any
other quiet spot in the cathedral? and what a glorious thing to be an
artist Sabina thought it was! “If I could paint like that,” she would
murmur to herself, “I’d make books full of Conrads; but for me—poor,
stupid, every-day me—why, when I even try to remember how his dear
face looks, it just goes away altogether! And yet I love him; while
Radegund—ah! now, if Conrad had but loved Radegund, and Radegund had
loved Conrad”—and then Sabina paused in her cogitations, to try and
imagine to herself how one could be a living woman and not love Conrad;
but hardly succeeding to her satisfaction, she went on: “Well there
would, I mean, have been two wonderful people together then; while I
can only spin and keep house, and make marchpane and such like. It’s
true Conrad says never was such marchpane as mine—but to be an artist!
Oh, ’tis a grand thing!—and yet, somehow, I don’t believe Conrad
admires Radegund a bit. Now that is so odd—poor Radegund!”
Rich little Sabina!
Meanwhile the critics continued to be enthusiastic in their praise of
the picture.—“Exquisite! wonderful! charming! marvellous light and
shade!—the artist has surpassed herself! Nothing short of inspiration
could have produced such a work!”
Among these worshippers at Radegund’s shrine was Bruno Wolkenberg, the
surgeon; many looked upon him as the favoured aspirant for her hand,
but lookers-on do not always rightly understand these things. It is
true that Radegund accorded Bruno favours which the common herd sighed
for in vain, such as lending an ear to, and even asking his opinion
concerning the effects or groupings in her pictures; but then Bruno
Wolkenberg was a walking Encyclopædia of historical and traditional
lore. Then too—albeit that in the healing art, surgery was his strong
point—he was a very clever chemist, and had discovered many little
secrets for the improvement of colours and pigment-mixing, greatly
valued by Radegund, who was too true an artist ever to pass by anything
which might add to the greater excellence of her pictures; and the
surgeon was proud indeed when she would make use of his talents; and
his heart, where this woman reigned sole empress, thrilled proudly
when leading him to her studio, she unveiled for him her finished
_chef-d’œuvre_.
“You like my poor picture then, Master Bruno?” said Radegund, watching
his face.
“Like!” echoed the surgeon; “that is no word for it—it is glorious! It
is inspired!”
A sigh escaped Radegund’s breast, but she was silent.
“It is the face of a demigod!” went on Bruno, clasping his hands.
“You are a false critic, Bruno Wolkenberg, or I have utterly failed
in my conception. I aimed at creating a saint, and you talk to me of
demigods!”
“They are one and the same, Radegund, and you know it,” said Bruno:
“you, who acknowledge that the Divine fire burned in the souls of those
we call heathens——”
“There, there, Bruno! I know you want to be saying that Aristotle
was every whit as good as Saint Augustine, don’t you? Well, do I
gainsay it? But still, it is so hard to be told that my poor Saint
Laurence here, is nothing greater than a Jason or a Hercules. I
flattered myself,” continued she, gazing lovingly at her work, “that
I had contrived to throw into those eyes a glimpse of that hopeful
serenity which, after all, even you and I, Bruno, must own, seems to be
exclusively a Christian heritage.”
“And so you have,” rapturously exclaimed Bruno; “you are a magician,
Radegund! there is no need to write, as some have to write, beneath
their pictures: ‘This is a saint’: your exquisite art has concealed
art, and all the world can tell at a glance that this is a man—not,
mark you, a perfect man; a _Christus Redemptor_, whose divinity, even
in its humility, asserts itself—but here is a fallible humanity, and
none but you, Radegund, could have limned those sweet, sad eyes, with
their luminous, far-away look, seeming to gaze on visions beyond mortal
ken. And yet they are true to nature; for I have seen such eyes,” added
Bruno, turning a sudden glance on Radegund: “yes—I know; they are—they
are the eyes of Conrad Dasipodius!”
“And no others,” said Radegund, in calm tones.
“An excellent model, truly!” said Bruno, with the faintest ring of
jealousy in his voice. “The glance of those eyes must have lingered
long in the brain which has thus reproduced them.”
“It would be a poor artist who could pass unheeding by such
excellence,” answered Radegund, her own eyes now riveted on the
painting.
“That is true—dear old Conrad,” assented the surgeon; “and yet,” he
went on, as though thinking his thoughts aloud, “it is so strange—so
passing strange!”
“What is?” sharply asked Radegund.
“That eyes so full of expression should be—should be——” and then
Wolkenberg stopped abruptly.
“Should be what?” breathlessly demanded Radegund, catching at his
sleeve.
“Nothing,” said Bruno, disengaging himself.
“Fool!” said Radegund; “what was it you were maundering about this
minute?”
“Nothing—I do not know what I was saying”: and the unfortunate
surgeon’s face flushed to the roots of his sunny curls.
“No; there never was such an idiot as you,” angrily retorted Radegund.
“Go home, Bruno; I am tired of you. I fancy sometimes that you have
more sense than those others calling themselves men, who come dallying
their time away here: but not one—no, not one of them would insult me
like this.”
“How, Radegund,” implored Bruno, “tell me how have I offended you?
what did I say? what have I done?”
“Done—but it is so like you, Bruno Wolkenberg, beginning a sentence,
and then stopping right in the middle. You are so boorish—so ill-bred.”
“But that is better,” pleaded Bruno, “than to betray secrets.”