But Rembrandt took few play-spells; he broke off entirely from his tavern companions and lived the life of an ascetic and recluse, seeing no society except the society that came to his studio.  His heart was in his art, and he was intent on working while it was called the day.

About this time there came to him Cornelis Sylvius, the eminent preacher, to sit for a picture that was to adorn the Seaman’s Orphanage, of which Sylvius was director.

It took a good many sittings to bring out a Rembrandt portrait.  On one of his visits the clergyman was accompanied by a young woman—­his ward—­by name, Saskia van Ulenburgh.

The girl was bright, animated and intelligent, and as she sat in the corner the painter sort of divided his attention between her and the clergyman.  Then the girl got up, walked about a bit, looking at the studio properties, and finally stood behind the young painter, watching him work.  This was one of the things Rembrandt could never, never endure.  It paralyzed his hand, and threw all his ideas into a jumble.  It was the law of his studio that no one should watch him paint—­he had secrets of technique that had cost him great labor.

“You do not mind my watching you work?” asked the ingenuous girl.

“Oh, not in the least!”

“You are quite sure my presence will not make you nervous, then?”

Rembrandt said something to the effect that he rather liked to have some one watch him when he worked; it depended, of course, on who it was—­and asked the sitter to elevate his chin a little and not look so cross.

Next day Saskia came again to watch the transfer of the good uncle’s features to canvas.

The young artist was first among the portrait-painters of Amsterdam, and had a long waiting-list on his calendar, but we find he managed to paint a portrait of Saskia about that time.  We have the picture now and we also have four or five other pictures of her that Rembrandt produced that year.  He painted her as a queen, as a court lady and as a flower-girl.  The features may be disguised a little, but it is the same fine, bright, charming, petite young woman.

Before six months had passed he painted several more portraits of Saskia; and in one of these she has a sprig of rosemary—­the emblem of betrothal—­held against her heart.

And then we find an entry at the Register’s to the effect that they were married on June Twenty-fourth, Sixteen Hundred Thirty-four.

Rembrandt’s was a masterly nature:  strong, original and unyielding.  But the young woman had no wish that was not his, and her one desire was to make her lover happy.  She was not a great woman, but she was good, which is better, and she filled her husband’s heart to the brim.  Those first few years of their married life read like a fairy-tale.

He bought her jewels, laces, elegant costumes, and began to fill their charming home with many rare objects of art.  All was for Saskia—­his life, his fortune, his work, his all.