The first portfolio that was brought to him contained the Christ Healing the Sick, known as The Hundred Guilder Print, in several states.  It was the first large etching by Rembrandt that he had seen, and he gazed with astonishment, admiration, and awe at the almost miraculous characterisation of the figures, at the depth and richness of the blacks, and the nobility of the conception.  He passed from that to The Three Crosses, and was even more moved by the dramatic intensity and realism of those burdened crosses against the profound gloom, and the dim, poignantly realised figures in the foreground.  He saw the Christ before Pilate and The Death of the Virgin, lingering before them, studying every detail, realising to the full, through these splendid impressions, the height and significance of Rembrandt’s genius.  He compared the four prints he had purchased with their originals, and understood why collectors were eager to pay enormous prices for fine states, probably printed by the master himself.

As soon as he had finished one portfolio, the watchful attendant carried it away, and substituted another.  It was so easy, so restful, and so invigorating to study a master under these conditions, that he wondered the public did not flock to the Print Room as to a first night at a popular theatre.

On another day he studied the drawings and landscape etchings—­that dark, spacious design called The Three Trees, and a perfect little drawing of Joseph Consoling the Prisoners.  The large plates inspired him with reverence and profound admiration for Rembrandt’s genius as an etcher, but it was the smaller etchings that won his love and held it.  He promised himself, when he came into certain family monies of which there was some prospect, that instead of buying an automobile, he would make himself the proud owner of The Three Trees, The Prodigal Son, Abraham’s Sacrifice, and Tobit Blind—­perhaps one, perhaps two, perhaps three, perhaps all four.

CHAPTER IV

EPOCHS IN REMBRANDT’S LIFE

Suppose the admiration of our enthusiast for Rembrandt had been noted in the select suburb where he lived:  suppose his mother was one of those estimable ladies who hold monthly Dorcas meetings in their drawing-rooms:  suppose that while the ladies were working at useful garments for the poor, she persuaded her son to discourse on Rembrandt:  suppose, because the petition came from his mother that he, very much against his will, consented.

It was not an easy task, as he took little or no interest in the life of Rembrandt; his interests were entirely with the aesthetic appeal of his work.  What, he asked himself, can one say about the life of a man when that life was wholly one with his art—­mingling with it, ministering to it at every point.  A boy, the fifth child of a miller living at Leyden, is born into the world, takes to art as a duck to water, becomes one of the greatest painters of the world, dies in obscurity, is forgotten, and long after his death is placed among his peers.  What is there to say about such a life?  He made the attempt.