CHAPTER X.

A FAMOUS CLOCK.

Meantime the new Horologe was making rapid progress. That is, it was making rapid progress considering that it was a Horologe of many parts—no less, indeed, than nine. “Herein,” says Father Chretei’s descriptive preamble, which had been laid before the Town Council, “herein are nine things to be considered.”

“First then, this astronomical clock, which is twenty feet high, stands in the west end of Strassburg Cathedral, and is divided into a great many compartments. A cornice decorated with curious allegorical figures runs across the base. That is divided in the centre by a circle containing a smaller one, in which two angels, one on either side, point out the days of the week, the Anno Domini, the Leap Year, Movable Feasts, Dominical Letter, and many other such details as are to be found in an almanack. A little above this are the planets personified as they name the days; for instance, on Sunday, the sun drawn in his chariot, and so on. Above these is a minute dial, flanked by figures of children, one of which holds a sceptre, and he moves it when the clock strikes; the other child holds an hour-glass, of which the sand runs with the time of the clock, and which he turns when the clock strikes. Above this minute dial is another dial, on whose outer rim are marked the twelve hours of the day, and these are pointed out by the head and tail of a dragon, while in its centre is a curious astrolabe, showing the motion of every planet, the position of the sun to the moon, &c. The fifth thing to be observed is a circle, in which are set forth the two signs of the moon’s rising and falling; a hollow in the surface shows at what quarter she has arrived, and an index points out her age. The sixth thing consists of four little bells, whereon are struck the quarters of the hour; at the first quarter comes forth a little boy, who strikes the first bell with an apple, so he passes on to under the fourth bell, until the second quarter, when a lusty youth comes forth, who strikes two bells with his dart, and then succeeds into the child’s place at the fourth bell, until at the third quarter there comes forth a man-at-arms, halbert in hand, who strikes three bells; he, too, passes on into the place of the youth; then at the fourth quarter, comes forth an old man with a crooked staff, and with much ado, being old, strikes all the four bells, and finally stands still under the fourth quarter.

“Then, and mark, this is the eighth thing to be considered, comes Death into a compartment above, and at each quarter he is supposed to snatch each of these former ages away with him; but close beside him comes our Lord Christ, and drives Death in, only when the last quarter is heard, Christ gives him leave to go to the bell hanging overhead, and then Death strikes the hour with his bone. Then, the old man underneath and Death above him, both go in together. The ninth thing, completing the details of the structure itself, is a tower, containing a merry chime, which rings out at three, seven, and eleven, each time a different tune, and at Christmas, Easter, and Whitsuntide, a thanksgiving unto Christ; and when the chime is done, there is a cock standing at the top, who, stretching out his neck, shaking his comb, and clapping his wings twice, crows thrice, and this he does so shrill and naturally as would make any man wonder.

“Besides this, the clock is decorated with many rare pictures. Machinery is also conveyed into the tower of the Cathedral itself, which works a dial on the walls outside, whereon the hours of the sun, the courses of the moon, the length of the day, and such other things are set out with much art. There is beside, a curious celestial globe, supported by a pelican, standing out three feet from the clock itself; it moves from east to west in twenty-four hours; a separate motion describes the sun, which runs through its signs once every year; the third motion describes the moon, which runs her course in twenty-eight days. So that in this globe you may view the motions of the sun and moon every minute of an hour, the rising and falling of every star.”

From the above description, it may well be seen that many hands were engaged in producing this curious specimen of decorated mechanism. The chief part of its wheels and movements were entrusted to the care of Isaac Habrecht, a native of Schaffhausen; while its quaint carvings were wrought by his brother, a youth of about sixteen, named Kaspar. Very proud was Isaac Habrecht of this young brother, and well he might be, for not one in all the broad Black Forest could approach Kaspar’s talent for wood-carving. Gifted with a highly fanciful and graceful imagination, and with a delicate touch and power of manipulation, Kaspar excelled in his art, and it was a joy to the eyes to stand by and see how loyally his hands obeyed the workings of his brain. Other details were carried out by the rest of the students, all of whom were picked men and skilled. The naked wooden case or framework of the Clock had been set up in its place, in the west end of the cathedral, awaiting there the good pleasure of Radegund von Steinbach, to be clothed by her own fair hands in gorgeous allegorical paintings. As yet, however, these paintings were but faint foreglimmerings of their brilliant future; for Radegund was not to be hurried, she chose to do her pictures at her own time, and no other. They would be ready, she said, when all the rest was; and so, as to the when and how of their doing, Strassburg neither cared, nor, indeed, ventured to enquire.

Only Prudentius, lay Brother of Saint Thomas’, and custodian of the cathedral keys, found occasion for deep and enduring displeasure against the artist; and still more against my Lord Bishop himself. Prudentius’ choler was stirred by the fact of Radegund von Steinbach having demanded for herself a key to admit her within the cathedral walls at any hour, day or night, which might suit her; thereby obtaining a power altogether independent of Prudentius’ keys. “Take it how you might,” he argued, “it was wrong, practically and theoretically wrong. What, pray, would Saint Peter himself have to say at such an infringement of his prerogative? Could not my lord see, with half an eye, that the Protestants would at once seize on it, as a tacit admission that there were, after all, little side doors into Heaven, independently of the Apostolic Grand Entrance? and then, of all people in the world, to give this Radegund von Steinbach, this proud, arrogant, overbearing creature, a right to do as she thought proper. This woman who wanted keeping down in her place, with a pretty strong hand, too—no, it was fundamentally, radically bad; an iniquitous precedent my lord would live to repent.” And Prudentius sighed, and felt that in that little key a gem of the first water had been wrenched from his crown of office.

Notwithstanding, the sacristan had brought the indignity on his own head; and it had come about in this wise: One evening just as dusk was fading; into darkness, Radegund von Steinbach had applied for admission to the cathedral, in order to take some measurements for her paintings round the cornice-work of the Horologe; but she came at an inauspicious moment, for Brother Prudentius had already bolted and barred up for the night. It was his invariable custom to have this duty pretty well completed by the time the last lingering worshippers were about to leave the edifice; for he loved not to be left all alone amid those dim, silent aisles. He could never be sure at what spot the terrible shade of old Erwin’s daughter might chance to loom forth. Moreover, on the evening in question, Prudentius had a nice cutlet of vension just done now, as he felt sure, to a turn, awaiting his coming in from the cathedral; he had himself set it down by the fire in his own little cupboard of a lodgment next the sacristy; and as it was a _maigre_ day, he felt it desirable that the fragrance from this morsel should not proclaim itself too far abroad. So, what with one thing and another, Prudentius did not want to be kept kicking his heels in the chilly cathedral, waiting on Radegund’s will and pleasure, and he told her so much.

How he said it never transpired, but Prudentius was a man of many words, while Radegund could ill brook opposition; probably she left him in the midst of his peroration, for he was afterwards heard to say, “She turned and glared—positively glared at me, and then stalked out through the doorway, with never a word but ‘I will settle this matter with my lord himself’. Himself! mark you! and so by Saint Benedict she has too, and my lord has actually taken from me my little cloister door key, and given it to this painting-woman! Oh, it is abominable. The Bishop is as blind as a mole; only think what a kettle of fish he is brewing for himself, to go letting this Radegund have the run of the place day and night. Why can’t she abide by my rules like decent folks? Ah, well, living or dead, they’re a strange lot those von Steinbachs. Mark my words now, one of these fine nights she’ll be picking a quarrel with that ghost cousin of hers, up in the choir yonder—ah, it’s awful to think of!” and the sacristan shivered. “But there, my lord is always letting himself be hoodwinked. Yet what can you expect? He only knows womenkind with their church faces on, and has not a notion what overbearing cats they are. But I know,” nodded the worldly-wise Prudentius, “and I know I’d have eaten my head off before I’d have given in to this Radegund; there’ll be mischief come of it as sure as I’m alive, see if there won’t.”