Durtal, started on this theme, fell into a reverie over Rembrandt’s strange conception of Christian aesthetics.  It is evident that in his mode of depicting Gospel scenes this painter still exhales a breath of the Old Testament; his church, even if he had meant to paint it as it was in his day, would still be a synagogue, so strong is the odour of the Jew in all his work; he is possessed by the imagery, the prophecies, all the solemn and barbarous side of the East.  And this we can understand when we know that he was the companion of Rabbis, whose portraits he has left us, and the friend of Manasseh ben Israel, one of the most learned men of his age.  On the other hand, we may admit that this Protestant Dutchman engrafted on this stock of cabalistic learning and Mosaic ceremonial an attentive and assiduous study of the Old Testament, for he possessed a Bible, which was sold by auction with his furniture to pay his debts.

This would be enough to justify his choice of subjects and the composition of his pictures; but the riddle remains unsolved of the results achieved by an artist whom we cannot conceive of, after all, as praying before he would paint:  like Angelico and Roger van der Weyden.

Be this as it may, he, with the eye of a visionary, with his serious but fervid art, his genius for concentration, for getting a spot of the essence of sunlight into the heart of darkness, has accomplished great results; and in his Biblical scenes has spoken a language which no one before him had even attempted to lisp.

Is not this picture of the Pilgrims to Emmaus a typical instance of this?  Pull the work to pieces; it ought to seem dull, monotonous, voiceless.  As a composition it is utterly common:  we see a sort of cellar of stone-work, a table facing us, behind which sits Jesus, His feet bare, His lips colourless, His complexion muddy, His raiment of a pinkish grey; He is breaking the bread, while, to His right, an apostle, clutching his napkin, looks at Him, fancies he recognizes Him, and on the left another disciple, quite sure that he knows Him, clasps his hands—­and this one utters a cry of joy that we can hear!  A fourth figure, with an intelligent profile, sees nothing, but, attentive to his duties, waits on the guests.

It is a meal of humble folk in a prison; the colours are limited to a key of sad greys and browns, excepting in the case of the man who twists his napkin, whose sleeves are thick with a vermilion like red sealing-wax, while the others might be painted with dust and pitch.

These are the literal facts; but they are not the truth, for everything is transfigured.  The head of Christ is luminous merely by the way He looks up; a pale radiance fills the room.  This Jesus, ugly as He is, with lips like death, asserts Himself by a gesture, a look of ineffable beauty, as the murdered Son of a God!

We stand dumfounded, not even trying to understand; for this work, stamped with transcendent naturalism, is beyond and apart from painting; no one can copy or reproduce it.