But admiration did not spoil Rembrandt.  His temperature was too low for ebullition—­he took it all quite as a matter of course.  His work was done with such ease that he was not aware it was extraordinary in quality; and when Swanenburch sold several of his sketches at goodly prices and put the silver in the lad’s hand, he asked who the blockheads were who had invested.

Swanenburch taught his pupils the miracle of spreading a thin coat of wax on a brass plate, and drawing a picture in the wax with a sharp graver; then acid was poured over it and the acid ate into the brass so as to make a plate from which you could print.  Etching was a delight to Rembrandt.  Expert illustrators of books were in demand at Leyden, for it was then the bookmaking center of Northern Europe.  The Elzevirs were pushing the Plantins of Antwerp hard for first place.

So skilfully did Rembrandt sketch, that one of the great printers made a proposition to his father to take the boy until he was twenty-one, and pay the father a thousand florins a year for the lad’s services as an illustrator.  The father accepted the proposition; and the next day brought around another Harmenszoon, who he declared was just as good.  But the bookmaker was stubborn and insisted on having a certain one or none.  So the bargain fell through.

It was getting near four years since Swanenburch had taken Rembrandt into his keeping, and now he went to the boy’s parents and said:  “I have given all I have to offer to your son.  He can do all I can, and more.  There is only one man who can benefit him and that is Pieter Lastman, of Amsterdam.  He must go and study with the great Lastman—­I myself will take him.”

Lastman had spent four years in Italy, and had come back full to overflowing with classic ideas.  His family was one of the most aristocratic in Amsterdam, and whatever he said concerning art was quoted as final.  He was the court of last appeal.  His rooms were filled with classic fragments, and on his public days visitors flocked to hear what he might have to say about the wonders of Venice, Florence and Rome.  For in those days men seldom traveled out of their own countries, and those who did had strange tales to tell the eager listeners when they returned.

Lastman was handsome, dashing, popular.  His pictures were in demand, principally because they were Lastman’s.  Proud ladies came from afar and begged the privilege of sitting as his model.  In Italy, Lastman had found that many painters employed ’prentice talent.  The great man would sketch out the pictures, and the boys would fill in the color.  Lastman would go off about his business, and perhaps drop in occasionally during the day to see how the boys got on, adding a few touches here and there, and gently rebuking those who showed too much genius.  Lastman believed in genius, of course; but only his own genius filled his ideal.  As a consequence all of Lastman’s pictures are alike—­they are all equally bad.  They represent neither the Italian school nor the Dutch, being hybrids:  Italian skies and Holland backgrounds; Dutchmen dressed as dagoes.