“He didn’t die unhappy, though,” said Vincent.
“No,” replied Mendes, “he had expressed himself fully and he knew the worth of what he had done. He was the only one in his time who did.”
“Then did that make it all right with him, the fact that he knew? Suppose he had been wrong? What if the world had been right in neglecting him?”
“What the world thought made little difference. Rembrandt had to paint. Whether he painted well or badly didn’t matter; painting was the stuff that held him together as a man. The chief value of art, Vincent, lies in the expression it gives to the artist. Rembrandt fulfilled what he knew to be his life purpose; that justified him. Even if his work had been worthless, he would have been a thousand times more successful than if he had put down his desire and become the richest merchant in Amsterdam.”
“I see.”
“The fact that Rembrandt’s work brings joy to the whole world today,” continued Mendes, as though following his own line of thought, “is entirely gratuitous. His life was complete and successful when he died, even though he was hounded into his grave. The book of life closed then, and it was a beautifully wrought volume. The quality of his perseverance and loyalty to his idea is what was important, not the quality of his work.”
They stopped to watch men working with sand carts near the Y, and then passed through many narrow streets with gardens full of ivy.
“But how is a young man to know he is choosing rightly, Mijnheer? Suppose he thinks there is something special he must do with his life, and afterwards he finds out he wasn’t suited to that at all?”
Mendes drew his chin out of the collar of the coat, and his black eyes brightened. “Look, Vincent,” he cried, “how the sunset is throwing a ruddy glow on those grey clouds.”
They had reached the harbour. The masts of the ships and the row of old houses and trees on the waterfront were standing out against the colour and everything was reflected in the Zee. Mendes filled his pipe and passed the paper sack to Vincent.
“I am already smoking, Mijnheer,” said Vincent.
“Oh yes, so you are. Shall we walk along the dyke to Zeeburg? The Jewish churchyard is there and we can sit for a moment where my people are buried.”
They walked along in friendly silence, the wind carrying the smoke over their shoulders. “You can never be sure about anything for all time, Vincent,” said Mendes. “You can only have the courage and strength to do what you think is right. It may turn out to be wrong, but you will at least have done it, and that is the important thing. We must act according to the best dictates of our reason, and then leave God to judge of its ultimate value. If you are certain at this moment that you want to serve Our Maker in one way or another, then that faith is the only guide you have to the future. Don’t be afraid to put your trust in it.”
“Suppose I am qualified?”
“To serve God?” Mendes looked at him with a shy smile.
“No, I mean qualified to become the sort of academic clergyman that the University turns out.”
Mendes did not wish to say anything about Vincent’s specific problem; he wanted only to discuss its more general phases and let the boy come to his own decision. By now they had reached the Jewish churchyard. It was very simple, full of old headstones with Hebrew inscriptions, and elderberry trees, and covered here and there with a high, dark grass. There was a stone bench near the plot reserved for the da Costa family, and here the two men sat down. Vincent put away his pipe. The churchyard was deserted at this hour of the evening; not a sound was to be heard.
“Every person has an integrity, a quality of character, Vincent,” said Mendes, looking at the graves of his father and mother lying side by side, “and if he observes it, whatever he does will turn out well in the end. If you had remained an art dealer, the integrity that makes you the sort of man you are would have made you a good art dealer. The same applies to your teaching. Some day you will express yourself fully, no matter what medium you may choose.”
“And if I do not remain in Amsterdam to become a professional minister?”
“It does not matter. You will return to London as an evangelist, or work in a shop, or become a peasant in the Brabant. Whatever you will do, you will do well. I have felt the quality of the stuff that goes to make you a man, and I know that it is good. Many times in your life you may think you are failing, but ultimately you will express yourself and that expression will justify your life.”
“Thank you, Mijnheer da Costa. What you say helps me.”
Mendes shivered a little. The stone bench under him was cold and the sun had gone down behind the sea. He rose. “Shall we go, Vincent?” he asked.
6
THE FOLLOWING DAY, as twilight was falling, Vincent stood at the window overlooking the Yard. The little avenue of poplars with their slender forms and thin branches stood out delicately against the grey evening sky.
“Because I am no good at formal studying,” said Vincent to himself, “does that mean I can’t be of any use in the world? What, after all, have Latin and Greek to do with the love of our fellow men?”
Uncle Jan passed in the Yard below, making the rounds. In the distance Vincent could see the masts of the ships in the docks, in front the Atjeh, quite black, and the red and grey monitors surrounding it.
“The thing I wanted to do all along was God’s practical work, not draw triangles and circles. I never wanted to have a big church and preach polished sermons. I belong with the humble and suffering Now, Not Five Years From Now!”
Just then the bell rang and the whole stream of workmen began pouring toward the gate. The lamplighter came to light the lantern in the Yard. Vincent turned away from the window.
He realized that his father and Uncle Jan and Uncle Stricker had spent a great deal of time and money on him in the past year. They would consider it entirely wasted if he gave up.
Well, he had tried honestly. He could not work more than twenty hours a day. He was obviously unfitted for the life of the study. He had begun too late. If he went out tomorrow as an evangelist, working for His people, would that be failure? If he cured the sick, comforted the weary, consoled the sinner, and converted the unbeliever, would that still be failure?
The family would say it was. They would say he could never succeed, that he was worthless and ungrateful, the black sheep of the Van Gogh family.
“Whatever you do,” Mendes had said, “you will do well. Ultimately you will express yourself and that expression will justify your life.”
Kay, who understood everything, had already surmised in him the seeds of a narrow-minded clergyman. Yes, that was what he would become if he remained in Amsterdam where the true voice grew fainter and fainter every day. He knew where his place was in the world, and Mendes had given him the courage to go. His family would scorn him, but that no longer seemed to matter. His own position was little enough to give up for God.
He packed his bag quickly and walked out of the house without saying good-bye.
7
THE BELGIAN COMMITTEE of Evangelization, composed of the Reverends van den Brink, de Jong and Pietersen, was opening a new school in Brussels, where instruction was to be free and the students had to pay only a small sum for their board and lodging. Vincent visited the Committee and was accepted as a pupil.