windows. That it was built with an eye to possible attacks from
thieves and outlaws, we may see from the small windows and thick walls
of masonry, which make it look like a miniature fortress. This is a
lonely spot, and inns are few and far between. The plaster is cracking
and crumbling from the surface, and the whole appearance of the place
does not betoken great thrift on the part of the owners. On the
present occasion, during the working hours of the day, doors and
windows are open after the hospitable manner of an inn.
The host stands in the doorway, greeting the strangers, and the Good
Samaritan is explaining the situation to him. In the mean time the inn
servants have come forward: the hostler's boy holds the horse by the
bridle, while a man lifts off the wounded traveler.
[Illustration: THE GOOD SAMARITAN
_Museum of Fine Arts, Boston_]
About the dooryard are the usual signs of life. In the rear a woman
draws water from a well, lowering the bucket from the end of a long
well-sweep, heedless of the stir about the door. Fowl scratch about in
search of food, and there is a dog at one side. Some one within looks
with idle curiosity from the window into the yard. It is little
touches like these which give the scene such vividness and reality.
There is also a remarkable expressiveness in the figures which tells
the story at a glance. You can see just what the Good Samaritan is
saying, as he gestures with his left hand, and you can guess the
inn-keeper's reply. Already he has put the proffered money into the
wallet he carries at his belt, and listens attentively to the orders
given him. He may privately wonder at his guest's singular kindness to
a stranger, but with him business is business, and his place is to
carry out his guest's wishes.
You see how the hostler's boy magnifies his office, swaggering with
legs wide apart. Even the feather in his cap bristles with importance.
This bit of comedy contrasts with the almost tragic expression of the
wounded man. The stolid fellow who lifts him seems to hurt him very
much, and he clasps his hands in an agony of pain. He seems to be
telling the gentleman at the window of his recent misfortune.
To study the picture more critically, it will be interesting to notice
how the important figures are massed together in the centre, and how
the composition is built into a pyramid. Draw a line from the
inn-keeper's head down the stairway at the left, and follow the
outline of the Good Samaritan's right shoulder along the body of the
wounded traveler, and you have the figure. This pyramidal form is
emphasized again by the wainscot of the stairway at the left, and the
well-sweep at the right.
To appreciate fully the character of the etching, one must examine
attentively all the different kinds of lines which produce the varying
effects of light and shadow. Below the picture Rembrandt wrote his
name and the date 1633, with two Latin words meaning that he designed
and etched the plate himself. This would seem to show that he was well
pleased with his work, and it is interesting to learn that the great
German poet, Goethe, admired the composition extravagantly.
VII
THE PRESENTATION IN THE TEMPLE
The story which the picture of the Presentation illustrates is a story
of the infancy of Jesus Christ. According to the custom of the Jews at
that time, every male child was "presented," or dedicated, to the Lord
when about a month old. Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea, a small
town about four miles from the city of Jerusalem, the Jewish capital,
where the temple was. When he was about a month old, his mother Mary
and her husband Joseph, who were devout Jews, brought him to the great
city for the ceremony of the presentation in the temple. Now the
temple was a great place of worship where many religious ceremonies
were taking place all the time.
Ordinarily, a party coming up from the country for some religious
observance would not attract any special attention among the
worshippers. But on the day when the infant Jesus was presented in the
temple, a very strange thing occurred. The evangelist St. Luke[7]
relates the circumstances.
[Footnote 7: St. Luke, chapter ii. verses 25-35.]
"And behold, there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; and
the same man was just and devout, waiting for the consolation of
Israel: and the Holy Ghost was upon him. And it was revealed unto him
by the Holy Ghost that he should not see death, before he had seen the
Lord's Christ. And he came by the Spirit into the temple: and when the
parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him after the custom of
the law, then took he him up in his arms, and blessed God, and said,
Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy
word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared
before the face of all people, a light to lighten the Gentiles and the
glory of thy people Israel.
"And Joseph and his mother marveled at those things which were spoken
of him. And Simeon blessed them, and said unto Mary his mother, Behold
this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and
for a sign which shall be spoken against; that the thought of many
hearts may be revealed."
[Illustration: THE PRESENTATION IN THE TEMPLE
_The Hague Gallery_]
In the picture we find ourselves, as it were, among the worshippers in
the temple, looking at the group on the pavement in front of us--Mary
and Joseph and Simeon, kneeling before a priest, with two or three
onlookers. It is a Gothic cathedral, in whose dim recesses many people
move hither and thither. At the right is a long flight of steps
leading to a throne, which is overshadowed by a huge canopy. At the
top of the steps we see the high priest seated with hands
outstretched, receiving the people who throng up the stairway. It was
towards this stairway that Mary and Joseph were making their way,
when the aged Simeon first saw them, and recognized in the child
they carried the one he had long expected. Taking the babe from his
mother's arms, he kneels on the marble-tiled pavement and raises his
face to heaven in thanksgiving. His embroidered cymar, or robe, falls
about him in rich folds as he clasps his arms about the tiny swaddled
figure.
Mary has dropped on her knees beside him, listening to his words with
happy wonder. Joseph, just beyond, looks on with an expression of
inquiry. He carries two turtle doves as the thank offering required of
the mother by the religious law. His unkempt appearance and bare feet
contrast with the neat dress of Mary. The tall priest standing before
them extends his hands towards the group in a gesture of benediction.
A broad ray of light gleams on his strange headdress, lights up his
outstretched hand, and falls with dazzling brilliancy upon the soft
round face of the babe, the smiling mother, and the venerable Simeon
with flowing white hair and beard.
There are but few people to pay any heed to the strange incident. Two
or three of those who climb the stairway turn about and stare
curiously at the group below. There are three others still more
interested. One man behind puts his turbaned head over Simeon's
shoulders, peering inquisitively at the child, as if trying to see
what the old man finds so remarkable in him. Beyond, two old beggars
approach with a sort of good-natured interest. They are quaintly
dressed, one of them wearing a very tall cap. Such humble folk as
these alone seem to have time to notice others' affairs.
It must not be supposed that this scene very closely represents the
actual event it illustrates. The painter Rembrandt knew nothing about
the architecture of the old Jewish temple destroyed many centuries
before. A Gothic cathedral was the finest house of worship known to
him, so he thought out the scene as it would look in such
surroundings. The people coming and going were such as he saw about
him daily; the beggars looking at the Christ-child were the beggars of
Amsterdam, and the men seated in the wooden settle at the right were
like the respectable Dutch burghers of his acquaintance. It was like
translating the story from Aramaic to Dutch, but in the process
nothing is lost of its original touching beauty.
In studying the picture, you must notice how carefully all the figures
are painted, even the very small ones in the darkest parts of the
composition. The beautiful contrast, between the light on the central
group and the soft dimness of the remoter parts of the cathedral,
illustrates a style of work for which Rembrandt was very famous, and
which we shall often see in his pictures.
VIII
CHRIST PREACHING
We read in the evangelists' record of the life of Jesus that he went
about the country preaching the gospel (or the good news) of the
kingdom of Heaven. Sometimes he preached in the synagogue on the
Sabbath day; but more often he talked to the people in the open air,
sometimes on the mountain-side, sometimes on the shore of the lake
Gennesaret, or again in the streets of their towns.
The scribes and Pharisees were jealous of his popularity, and angry
because he exposed their hypocrisy. The proud and rich found many of
his sayings too hard to accept. So it was the poor and unhappy who
were most eager to hear him, and they often formed a large part of his
audience. Jesus himself rejoiced in this class of followers, and when
John the Baptist's messengers came to him to inquire into his mission,
he sent back the message, "The poor have the gospel preached to them."
In this picture of Christ Preaching, we see that his hearers are of
just the kind that the preacher's message is intended for,--the weary
and heavy-laden whom he called to himself. There are a few dignitaries
in the gathering, it is true, standing pompously by in the hope of
finding something to criticise. But Jesus pays no attention to them
as he looks down into the faces of the listeners who most need his
words. His pulpit is a square coping-stone in a courtyard, and the
people gather about him in a circle in the positions most convenient
to them.
There is no formality here, no ceremony; each one may come and go as
he pleases. Here is a mother sitting on the ground directly in front
of the speaker, holding a babe in her arms, while a little fellow
sprawls out on the ground beside her, drawing on the sand with his
finger. Though we cannot see her face, we know that she is an absorbed
listener, and Jesus seems to speak directly to her.
A pathetic-looking man beyond her is trying to take in the message in
a wondering way, and a long-bearded man behind him is so aroused that
he leans eagerly forward to catch every word. There are others, as is
always the case, who listen very stolidly as if quite indifferent.
Again there are two who ponder the subject thoughtfully. One of these
is in the rear,--a young man, perhaps one of Jesus' disciples; the
other sits in front, crossing his legs, and supporting his chin with
his hand. In the group at the right of Jesus we can easily pick out
the scoffers and critics, listening intently, some of them more
interested, perhaps, than they had expected to be.
[Illustration: CHRIST PREACHING
_Museum of Fine Arts, Boston_]
As we look at Jesus himself, so gentle and tender, raising both hands
as if to bless the company, we feel sure that he is speaking some
message of comfort. One day when he was reading the Scriptures in
the synagogue at Capernaum, he selected a passage which described his
own work, and which perfectly applies to this picture. We can imagine
that he is saying: "The spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the
Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath
sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the
captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; to
proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of
our God; to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in
Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning,
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."
It is a noticeable fact that the figures in this picture of Christ
preaching are Dutch types. If you think that this is a strange way to
illustrate scenes which took place in Palestine many centuries ago,
you must remember that the picture was drawn by a Dutchman who knew
nothing of Palestine, and indeed little of any country outside his own
Holland. He wished to make the life of Christ seem real and vivid to
his own countrymen; and the only way he could do this was to represent
the scenes in the surroundings most familiar to himself and to them.
The artist was simply trying to imagine what Jesus would do if he had
come to Amsterdam in the seventeenth century, instead of to Jerusalem
in the first century; somewhat as certain modern writers have tried to
think what would take place "If Jesus came to Chicago," or "If Jesus
came to Boston," in the nineteenth century. The sweet gentleness in
the face of Christ and the eager attention of the people show how well
Rembrandt understood the real meaning of the New Testament.
This picture is worthy of very special study because it is reckoned by
critics one of the best of Rembrandt's etchings. One enthusiastic
writer[8] says that "the full maturity of his genius is expressed in
every feature." One must know a great deal about the technical
processes of etching to appreciate fully all these excellencies; but
even an inexperienced eye can see how few and simple are the lines
which produce such striking effects of light and shadow: a scratch or
two here, a few parallel lines drawn diagonally there; some coarse
cross-hatching in one place, closer hatching in another; now and then
a spot of the black ink itself,--and the whole scene is made alive,
with Jesus standing in the midst, the light gleaming full upon his
figure.
[Footnote 8: Michel.]
IX
CHRIST AT EMMAUS
The picture of Christ at Emmaus illustrates an event in the narrative
of Christ's life which took place on the evening of the first Easter
Sunday. It was now three days since the Crucifixion of Christ just
outside Jerusalem, and the terrible scene was still very fresh in the
minds of his disciples. It happened that late in the day two of them
were going to a village called Emmaus, not very far from Jerusalem.
They made the journey on foot, and as they walked along the way, "they
talked together," says the evangelist[9] who tells the story, "of all
those things which had happened. And it came to pass, that, while they
communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with
them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him. And he
said unto them, 'What manner of communications are these that ye have
one to another, as ye walk, and are sad?' And the one of them, whose
name was Cleopas, answering said unto him, 'Art thou only a stranger
in Jerusalem, and hast not known the things which are come to pass
there in these days?' And he said unto them, 'What things?' And they
said unto him, 'Concerning Jesus of Nazareth.'" Then followed a
conversation in which they told the stranger something of Jesus, and
he in turn explained to them many things about the life and character
of Jesus which they had never understood.
[Footnote 9: St. Luke, chapter xxiv. verses 13-32.]
"And they drew nigh unto the village, whither they went: and he made
as though he would have gone further. But they constrained him,
saying, 'Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far
spent.' And he went in to tarry with them.
"And it came to pass, as he sat at meat with them, he took bread, and
blessed it, and brake, and gave to them. And their eyes were opened
and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight. And they said
one to another, 'Did not our hearts burn within us, while he talked
with us by the way?'"
The picture suggests vividly to us that wonderful moment at Emmaus
when the eyes of the disciples were opened, and they recognized their
guest as Jesus, whom they had so recently seen crucified. The table is
laid in a great bare room with the commonest furnishings, and the
disciples appear to be laboring men, accustomed to "plain living and
high thinking." They are coarsely dressed, and their feet are bare, as
are also the feet of Jesus. One seems to have grasped the situation
more quickly than the other, for he folds his hands together,
reverently gazing directly into the face of Jesus. His companion,
an older man, at the other end of the table, looks up astonished and
mystified. The boy who is bringing food to the table is busy with his
task, and does not notice any change in Jesus.
[Illustration: CHRIST AT EMMAUS
_The Louvre, Paris_]
In the midst is Christ, "pale, emaciated, sitting facing us, breaking
the bread as on the evening of the Last Supper, in his pilgrim robe,
with his blackened lips, on which the torture has left its traces, his
great brown eyes soft, widely opened, and raised towards heaven, with
his cold nimbus, a sort of phosphorescence around him which envelops
him in an indefinable glory, and that inexplicable look of a breathing
human being who certainly has passed through death."
This description is by a celebrated French critic,[10] himself a
painter, who knows whereof he speaks. He says that this picture alone
is enough to establish the reputation of a man.
[Footnote 10: Fromentin, in _Old Masters of Belgium and Holland._]
There is one artistic quality in the picture to which we must pay
careful attention, as it is particularly characteristic of Rembrandt.
This is the way in which the light and shadow are arranged, or what a
critic would call the chiaroscuro of the picture. The heart of the
composition glows with a golden light which comes from some unseen
source. It falls on the white tablecloth with a dazzling brilliancy as
if from some bright lamp. It gleams on the faces of the company,
bringing out their expressions clearly. The arched recess behind the
table is thrown into heavy shadow, against which the centrally lighted
group is sharply contrasted.
This singular manner of bringing light and darkness into striking
opposition makes the objects in a picture stand out very vividly. Some
one has defined chiaroscuro as the "art of rendering the atmosphere
visible and of painting an object enveloped in air." The art was
carried to perfection by Rembrandt. You will notice it more or less in
every picture of this collection, but nowhere is it more appropriate
than here, where the appearance of Christ, as the source of light,
emphasizes the mystery of the event and makes something sacred of this
common scene.
As we compare this picture with the etching of Christ Preaching, we
get a better idea of Rembrandt's aim in representing Christ. He did
not try to make his face beautiful with regular classical features,
after the manner of the old Italian painters. He did not even think it
necessary to make his figure grand and imposing. Something still
better Rembrandt sought to put into his picture, and this was a gentle
expression of love.
X
PORTRAIT OF SASKIA
We should have but a very imperfect idea of Rembrandt's work if we did
not learn something about the portraits he painted. It was for these
that he was most esteemed in his own day, being the fashionable
portrait painter of Amsterdam at a time when every person of means
wished to have his likeness painted. A collection of his works of this
kind would almost bring back again the citizens of Amsterdam in the
seventeenth century, so life-like are these wonderful canvases. Among
them we should find the various members of his family, his father and
mother, his sister, his servant, his son, and most interesting of all,
his beloved wife, Saskia.
Saskia was born in Friesland, one of nine children of a wealthy
patrician family. Her father, Rombertus van Uylenborch, was a
distinguished lawyer, who had had several important political missions
intrusted to him. At one time he was sent as a messenger to William of
Orange, and was sitting at table with that prince just before his
assassination. He died in 1624, leaving Saskia an orphan, as she had
lost her mother five years before. The little girl of twelve now began
to live in turn with her married sisters. At the age of twenty she
came to Amsterdam to live for a while with her cousin, the wife of a
minister, Jan Cornelis Sylvius, whose face we know from one of
Rembrandt's etchings. Saskia had also another cousin living in
Amsterdam, Hendrick van Uylenborch, a man of artistic tastes, who had
not succeeded as a painter, and had become a dealer in bric-a-brac and
engravings. He was an old friend of Rembrandt; and when the young
painter came to seek his fortune in the great city in 1631, he had
made his home for a while with the art dealer.
It was doubtless Hendrick who introduced Rembrandt to Saskia. Probably
the beginning of their acquaintance was through Rembrandt's painting
Saskia's portrait in 1632. The relation between them soon grew quite
friendly, for in the same year the young girl sat two or three times
again to the painter. The friendship presently ended in courtship, and
when Rembrandt pressed his suit the marriage seemed a very proper one.
Saskia was of a fine family and had a sufficient dowry.
Rembrandt, though the son of a miller, was already a famous painter,
much sought after for portraits, and with a promising career before
him. The engagement was therefore approved by her guardians, but
marriage being deferred till she came of age, the courtship lasted two
happy years. During this time Rembrandt painted his lady love over and
over again. It was one of his artistic methods to paint the same
person many times. He was not one of the superficial painters who
turn constantly from one model to another in search of new effects. He
liked to make an exhaustive study of a single face in many moods, with
many expressions and varied by different costumes.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SASKIA
_Cassel Gallery_]
Saskia had small eyes and a round nose, and was not at all beautiful
according to classical standards. Rembrandt, however, cared less for
beauty than for expression, and Saskia's face was very expressive, at
times merry and almost roguish, and again quite serious. She had also
a brilliant complexion and an abundance of silky hair, waving from her
forehead. The painter had collected in his studio many pretty and
fantastic things to use in his pictures,--velvets and gold embroidered
cloaks, Oriental stuffs, laces, necklaces, and jewels. With these he
loved to deck Saskia, heightening her girlish charms with the play of
light upon these adornments.
One of the most famous of the many portraits of Saskia at this time is
the picture we have here. Because it is not signed and dated, after
Rembrandt's usual custom, it is thought that it was intended as a gift
for Saskia herself, and thus it has a romantic interest for us. Also
it is painted with extreme care, as the work of a lover offering the
choicest fruit of his art.
The artist has arranged a picturesque costume for his sitter,--a
broad-brimmed hat of red velvet with a sweeping white feather, an
elaborate dress with embroidered yoke and full sleeves, a rich mantle
draped over one shoulder, necklace, earrings, and bracelets of
pearls. Her expression is more serious here than usual, though very
happy, as if she was thinking of her lover; and in her hand she
carries a sprig of rosemary, which in Holland is the symbol of
betrothal, holding it near her heart.
The marriage finally took place in June, 1634, in the town of Bildt.
The bridal pair then returned to Amsterdam to a happy home life.
Rembrandt had no greater pleasure than in the quiet family circle, and
Saskia had a simple loving nature, entirely devoted to her husband's
happiness. A few years later Rembrandt moved into a fine house in the
Breestraat, which he furnished richly with choice paintings and works
of art.