Numbers of critics have racked their brains about the meaning of
different details. But if Rembrandt could have heard them, he would have
answered with a laugh, "Don't you see that I only wanted this child as a
focus for the light, and a contrast with all the downward lines and dark
colours?"
The man with the banner in the background, the dog running away, all
these details help each other to carry out the effect of line and
colour. There is not a square inch in this canvas which does not betray
a rare talent. This is a case in which the assertion, "Cut me a piece
out of a picture and I will tell you if it is by an artist," could
successfully be applied.
Now, I hope my readers won't object to accompanying me a little further,
and stopping with me before the "Syndics." There it hangs, the great
simple canvas, quite different in character from the "Night Patrol."
Everything here is dignified and stately. The whole picture is a
glorious witness to the consummate knowledge the master possessed of
expressing the individual soul in the human face. Here they sit, those
old Dutch fathers, assembled in solemn conclave, debating about their
trade, with the books on the table in front of them; and Rembrandt has
painted these heads so true to life that in the course of years they
have become like old friends; yes, old friends, though they lived
hundreds of years before we were dreamt of.
How long have I known that man on the left, with his hand on the knob of
his arm-chair, and the fine grey hair on his broad wrinkled brow showing
from under the high steeple-hat? The flesh tints in the face, whether
catching the full light, or partly veiled by shadows, display an endless
variety of shades, and the neutral greens and reds, greys and yellows,
are put against each other in such a wonderful manner that an effect
has been attained which strikes us dumb with admiration. The way in
which he is made to stand out from the background is in itself
marvellous, but just look at the man! how full of life and understanding
is the look in those eyes. It is something quite unique, something
Rembrandt himself has never surpassed.
And then there are the other figures; the man who is leaning forward;
the one sitting right in front of the book, his neighbour; even the
fifth merchant on the right, with his servant behind him--one and all
are full of life and light.
The background is such as Rembrandt only, with his understanding of
lines, could have devised. The wall and the panelling shut in the
composition in such a way that one cannot possibly imagine it ever
having been otherwise. And even this skilful touch is made subordinate
to the warm red colour of the tablecloth, which lends the picture an
additional depth.
I don't know whether this picture was very much discussed by Rembrandt's
contemporaries when it was finished. But to us, who have seen so much of
the art of the great Italians, Germans, and Spaniards, these heads are
the highest achievement of the art of painting.
When I was in Madrid, where I was charmed by Velasquez' work, our party
was one day walking through the broad streets of the capital. Passing a
large, picturesque building, our attention was attracted by a gaudy
poster informing us that an exhibition of the works of modern Spanish
artists was being held within. Our curiosity being aroused, we entered,
and found that in this country, where so many famous artists lived and
worked, there are among the modern artists many studious, highly
talented men, who serve their art with true love and devotion. But
suddenly it seemed as if we had been carried by magic from Spain back to
Amsterdam. We had come face to face with a copy of the "Syndics,"
painted by a Spanish artist during a stay in Amsterdam.
Was it national prejudice, or was it conviction? I don't know; but this
copy spoke to us of a spirit of greater simplicity, of a truer
conception of the nature and dignity of mankind than anything we had
admired in the Prado. Yes; this picture even kills its own Dutch
brothers. It makes Van der Helst look superficial, and Franz Hals
unfinished and flat. So much thoroughness and depth combined with such
freedom and grace of movement is not to be found anywhere else.
These people have lived on the canvas for centuries, and they will
outlive us all. And the man who achieved this masterpiece was at the
time of its production a poor, struggling burgher living in an obscure
corner of the town where his tercentenary festival was lately
celebrated.