At a short distance from Leyden may still be seen a flour-mill with
a quaint old dwelling-house attached, which bears, on a brick in a
corner of the wide chimney, the date 1550. Here, in 1606, was born
Paul Rembrandt. At an early age he manifested a stubborn,
independent will, which his father tried in vain to subdue. He
caused his son to work in the mill, intending that he should succeed
him in its management; but the boy shewed so decided a distaste for
the employment, that his father resolved to make him a priest, and
sent him to study at Leyden. Every one knows, however, that few lads
of fifteen, endowed with great muscular vigour and abundance of
animal spirits, will take naturally and without compulsion to the
study of Latin grammar. Rembrandt certainly did not; and his
obstinacy proving an overmatch for his teachers' patience, he was
sent back to the mill, when his father beat him so severely, that
next morning he ran off to Leyden, without in the least knowing how
he should live there. Fortunately he sought refuge in the house of
an honest artist, Van Zwaanenberg, who was acquainted with his
father.
'Tell me, Paul,' asked his friend, 'what do you mean to do with
yourself, if you will not be either a priest or a miller? They are
both honourable professions: one gives food to the soul, the other
prepares it for the body.'
'Very likely,' replied the boy; 'but I don't fancy either; for in
order to be a priest, one must learn Latin; and to be a miller, one
must bear to be beaten. How do _you_ earn your bread?'
'You know very well I am a painter.'
'Then I will be one too, Herr Zwaanenberg; and if you will go
to-morrow and tell my father so, you will do me a great service.'
The good-natured artist willingly undertook the mission, and
acquainted the old miller with his son's resolution.
'I want to know one thing,' said Master Rembrandt; 'will he be able
to gain a livelihood by painting?'
'Certainly, and perhaps make a fortune.'
'Then if you will teach him, I consent.'
Thus Paul became the pupil of Van Zwaanenberg, and made rapid
progress in the elementary parts of his profession. Impatient to
produce some finished work, he did not give himself time to acquire
purity of style, but astonished his master by his precocious skill
in grouping figures, and producing marvellous effects of light and
shade. The first lessons which he took in perspective having wearied
him, he thought of a shorter method, and _invented_ perspective for
himself.
One of his first rude sketches happened to fall into the hands of a
citizen of Leyden who understood painting. Despite of its evident
defects, the germs of rare talent which it evinced struck the
burgomaster; and sending for the young artist, he offered to give
him a recommendation to a celebrated painter living at Amsterdam,
under whom he would have far more opportunity of improvement than
with his present instructor.
Rembrandt accepted the offer, and during the following year toiled
incessantly. Meantime his finances were dreadfully straitened; for
his father, finding that the expected profits were very tardy,
refused to give money to support his son, as he said, in idleness.
Paul, however, was not discouraged. Although far from possessing an
amiable or estimable disposition, he held a firm and just opinion of
his own powers, and resolved to make these subservient first to
fortune and then to fame. Thus while some of his companions, having
finished their preliminary studies, repaired to Florence, to
Bologna, or to Rome, Paul, determined, as he said, not to lose his
own style by becoming an imitator of even the mightiest masters,
betook himself to his paternal mill. At first his return resembled
that of the Prodigal Son. His father believed that he had come to
resume his miller's work; and bitter was his disappointment at
finding his son resolved not to renounce painting.
With a very bad grace he allowed Paul to displace the flour-sacks on
an upper loft, in order to make a sort of studio, lighted by only
one narrow window in the roof. There Paul painted his first finished
picture. It was a _portrait_ of the mill. There, on the canvas, was
seen the old miller, lighted by a lantern which he carried in his
hand, giving directions to his men, occupied in ranging sacks in the
dark recesses of the granary. One ray falls on the fresh, comely
countenance of his mother, who has her foot on the last step of a
wooden staircase.[3] Rembrandt took this painting to the Hague, and
sold it for 100 florins. In order to return with more speed, he took
his place in the public coach. When the passengers stopped to dine,
Rembrandt, fearing to lose his treasure, remained in the carriage.
The careless stable-boy who brought the horses their corn forgot to
unharness them, and as soon as they had finished eating, excited
probably by Rembrandt, who cared not for his fellow-passengers, the
animals started off for Leyden, and quietly halted at their
accustomed inn. Our painter then got out, and repaired with his
money to the mill.
Great was his father's joy. At length these silly daubs, which had
so often excited his angry contempt, seemed likely to be transmuted
into gold, and the old man's imagination took a rapturous flight.
'Neither he nor his old horse,' he said, 'need now work any longer;
they might both enjoy quiet during the remainder of their lives.
Paul would paint pictures, and support the whole household in
affluence.'
Such was the old man's castle in the air; his clever, selfish son
soon demolished it. 'This sum of money,' he said, 'is only a lucky
windfall. If you indeed wish it to become the foundation of my
fortune, give me one hundred florins besides, and let me return to
Amsterdam: there I must work and study hard.'
It would be difficult to describe old Rembrandt's disappointment.
Slowly, reluctantly, and one by one, he drew forth the 100 florins
from his strong-box. Paul took them, and with small show of
gratitude, returned to Amsterdam. In a short time his fame became
established as the greatest and most original of living artists. He
had a host of imitators, but all failed miserably in their attempts
at reproducing his marvellous effects of light and shade. Yet
Rembrandt prized the gold which flowed into him far more than the
glory. While mingling the colours which were to flash out on his
canvas in real living light, he thought but of his dingy coffers.
When in possession of a yearly income equal to L.2000 sterling, he
would not permit the agent who collected his rents to bring them in
from the country to Amsterdam, lest he should be obliged to invite
him to dinner. He preferred setting out on a fine day, and going
himself to the agent's house. In this way he saved two dinners--the
one which he got, and the one, he avoided giving. 'So that's well
managed!' he used to say.
This sordid disposition often exposed him to practical jokes from
his pupils; but he possessed a quiet temper, and was not easily
annoyed. One day a rich citizen came in, and asked him the price of
a certain picture.
'Two hundred florins,' said Rembrandt.
'Agreed,' said his visitor. 'I will pay you to-morrow, when I send
for the picture.'
About an hour afterwards a letter was handed to the painter. Its
contents were as follow: 'MASTER REMBRANDT--During your absence a
few days since, I saw in your studio a picture representing an old
woman churning butter. I was enchanted with it; and if you will let
me purchase it for 300 florins, I pray you to bring it to my house,
and be my guest for the day.' The letter was signed with some
fictitious name, and bore the address of a village several leagues
distant from Amsterdam.
Tempted by the additional 100 florins, and caring little for
breaking his engagement, Rembrandt set out early next morning with
his picture. He walked for four hours without finding his obliging
correspondent, and at length, worn out with fatigue, he returned
home. He found the citizen in his studio, waiting for the picture.
As Rembrandt, however, did not despair of finding the man of the 300
florins, and as a falsehood troubled but little his blunted
conscience, he said: 'Alas! an accident has happened to the picture;
the canvas was injured, and I felt so vexed that I threw it into the
fire. Two hundred florins gone! However, it will be my loss, not
yours, for I will paint another precisely similar, and it shall be
ready for you by this time to-morrow.'
'I am sorry,' replied the amateur, 'but it was the picture you have
burned which I wished to have; and as that is gone, I shall not
trouble you to paint another.'
So he departed, and Rembrandt shortly afterwards received a second
letter to the following effect: 'MASTER REMBRANDT--You have broken
your engagement, told a falsehood, wearied yourself to death, and
lost the sale of your picture--all by listening to the dictates of
avarice. Let this lesson be a warning to you in future.'
'So,' said the painter, looking round at his pupils, 'one of you
must have played me this pretty trick. Well, well, I forgive it. You
young varlets do not know the value of a florin as I know it.'
Sometimes the students nailed small copper coins on the floor, for
the mischievous pleasure of seeing their master, who suffered much
from rheumatism in the back, stoop with pain and difficulty, and try
in vain to pick them up.
Rembrandt married an ignorant peasant who had served him as cook,
thinking this a more economical alliance than one with a person of
refined mind and habits. He and his wife usually dined on brown
bread, salt herrings, and small beer. He occasionally took portraits
at a high price, and in this way became acquainted with the
Burgomaster Six, a man of enlarged mind and unblemished character,
who yet continued faithfully attached to the avaricious painter. His
friendship was sometimes put to a severe test by such occurrences as
the following:--
Rembrandt remarked one day that the price of his engravings had
fallen.
'You are insatiable,' said the burgomaster.
'Perhaps so. I cannot help thirsting for gold.'
'You are a miser.'
'True: and I shall be one all my life.'
''Tis really a pity,' remarked his friend, 'that you will not be
able after death to act as your own treasurer, for whenever that
event occurs, all your works will rise to treble their present
value.'
A bright idea struck Rembrandt. He returned home, went to bed,
desired his wife and his son Titus to scatter straw before the door,
and give out, first, that he was dangerously ill, and then
dead--while the simulated fever was to be of so dreadfully
infectious a nature that none of the neighbours were to be admitted
near the sick-room. These instructions were followed to the letter;
and the disconsolate widow proclaimed that, in order to procure
money for her husband's interment, she must sell all his works, any
property that he left not being available on so short a notice.
The unworthy trick succeeded. The sale, including every trivial
scrap of painting or engraving, realised an enormous sum, and
Rembrandt was in ecstasy. The honest burgomaster, however, was
nearly frightened into a fit of apoplexy at seeing the man whose
death he had sincerely mourned standing alive and well at the door
of his studio. Meinherr Six obliged him to promise that he would in
future abstain from such abominable deceptions. One day he was
employed in painting in a group the likenesses of the whole family
of a rich citizen. He had nearly finished it, when intelligence was
brought him of the death of a tame ape which he greatly loved. The
creature had fallen off the roof of the house into the street.
Without interrupting his work, Rembrandt burst into loud
lamentations, and after some time announced that the piece was
finished. The whole family advanced to look at it, and what was
their horror to see introduced between the heads of the eldest son
and daughter an exact likeness of the dear departed ape. With one
voice they all exclaimed against this singular relative which it had
pleased the painter to introduce amongst them, and insisted on his
effacing it.
'What!' exclaimed Rembrandt, 'efface the finest figure in the
picture? No, indeed; I prefer keeping the piece for myself.' Which
he did, and carried off the painting.
Of Rembrandt's style it may be said that he painted with light, for
frequently an object was indicated merely by the projection of a
shadow on a wall. Often a luminous spot suggested, rather than
defined, a hand or a head. Yet there is nothing vague in his
paintings: the mind seizes the design immediately. His studio was a
circular room, lighted by several narrow slits, so contrived that
rays of sunshine entered through only one at a time, and thus
produced strange effects of light and shade. The room was filled
with old-world furniture, which made it resemble an antiquary's
museum. There were heaped up in the most picturesque confusion
curious old furniture, antique armour, gorgeously-tinted stuffs; and
these Rembrandt arranged in different forms and positions, so as to
vary the effects of light and colour. This he called 'making his
models sit to him.' And in this close adherence to reality consisted
the great secret of his art. It is strange that his favourite
amongst all his pupils was the one whose style least resembled his
own--Gerard Douw--he who aimed at the most excessive minuteness of
delineation, who stopped key-holes lest a particle of dust should
fall on his palette, who gloried in representing the effects of
fresh scouring on the side of a kettle.
Rembrandt died in 1674, at the age of sixty-eight. He passed all his
life at Amsterdam. Some of his biographers have told erroneously
that he once visited Italy: they were deceived by the word
_Venetiis_ placed at the bottom of several of his engravings. He
wrote it there with the intention of deluding his countrymen into
the belief that he was absent, and about to settle in Italy--an
impression which would materially raise the price of his
productions. Strange and sad it is to see so much genius united with
so much meanness--the head of fine gold with the feet of clay.[4]
* * * * *
[Footnote 3: This picture is believed to be no longer in existence. I have
found its description in the work of the historian Decamps.]
[Footnote 4: Abridged from the French of J. de Chatillon.]