Rembrandt climbed down to go with him, hoping that something besides the shoes had brought him, but the man shook his head.
“No, stay where you are,” he said. “I want to see your mother alone.”
Again the uneasy feeling surged over the lad. After all, it must be those wooden shoes, and he felt very uncomfortable; and a little later, when both mother and uncle came from the house and hurried to the mill, he wished very much that he never had seen pigs and fowls—most of all that he had not drawn them on his cousin’s shoes. Then his father called to him, and although he wanted to creep away and hide, he went on the run.
“Here’s the young rascal,” the uncle said as the boy went in at the broad, low door. Rembrandt noticed that he held one of Wilhelmina’s shoes, and his heart sank. But a moment later he was as much amazed as he had been alarmed, for his mother spoke pleasantly and asked, “Would you really like to be a painter?”
“A painter?” he answered quickly. “More than anything else in the world.”
Then his father smiled, too, which seemed strange indeed, for he had declared that his son never should become an artist. Often Rembrandt had dreamed of being one, and when he spoke to his mother about it the idea seemed to please her. But the sturdy Dutch miller shook his head and announced that his boy must become a syndic, one of the wise lawgivers of Holland, or else a miller like himself. So, instead of being allowed to spend his days drawing the pictures that were constantly running through his fancy, Rembrandt had been sent to the Latin school to do sums and conjugations. It seemed impossible that the miller could have changed his mind; but he had changed it, for he said, “Very well. We will see about it.”
Then, while the mill sails whirred above them, and the voices of passing market folk came in through the open window, the merchant uncle told what seemed to Rembrandt a wonderful story.
“This morning, as I was opening the shop,” he began, “Speelburg, the schoolmaster, came to talk about the pictures on Wilhelmina’s shoes. He urged me not to be too hard on the lad because he had thought much about it during the night and had come to believe that perhaps Rembrandt cannot help drawing. He is a wise man, this Speelburg, and told me much of how the young masters Giotto, Cimabue, and Raphael had made pictures on stones, sand, and anything that would hold a drawing, and that their parents could no more prevent it than they could keep water from running downhill. He thinks our Rembrandt may be like them, and so he offered to tend the shop for me if I would come and ask you, his father, to let him study with Master Swannenburg.”
Those words were music to Rembrandt’s ears, for Swannenburg was the master painter of Leyden.
An hour later, miller and merchant went through the old White Gate into the city, and Rembrandt trudged along beside them, carrying a roll of paper. As they hurried along the highway his eyes gleamed, for it seemed to him like a dream come true, and the stern Dutch schoolmaster began to appear in the guise of a fairy godfather. He did not see the market folk they passed on the way, did not hear the murmur of the Rhine sweeping seaward just beyond them, for the thought that he might become a painter had crowded out all other things.