The “Exercises au Fusain” arrived from The Hague and Vincent spent the next two weeks copying the sixty studies, working from early morning to night. Tersteeg also sent the “Cours de Dessin” by Bargue; Vincent tackled this with tremendous vitality.
All five of the former failures were wiped completely from his mind. Not even serving God had brought such sheer ecstasy and constant, lasting satisfaction as creative art could give him. When for eleven days he had not one centime in his pocket and had to live off the few loaves he could borrow from Madame Denis, he did not once complain—even to himself—of his hunger. What did the hunger of his belly matter, when his spirit was being so well fed?
Every morning for a week he went to the gate of Marcasse at two-thirty and made a large drawing of the miners: men and women going to the shaft, through the snow by a path along a hedge of thorns; shadows that passed, dimly visible in the crepuscule. In the background he drew the large constructions of the mine, with the heaps of clinkers standing out vaguely against the sky. He made a copy of the sketch when it was finished and sent it in a letter to Theo.
Two full months passed this way, drawing from dawn to dark and then copying by the light of the lamp. Once again there came over him the desire to see and talk to another artist, to find out how he was getting on, for although he thought he had made some progress, achieved a little more plasticity of hand and judgment, he could not be sure. But this time he wanted a master, someone who would take him under his wing and teach him slowly and carefully the rudiments of the great craft. There was nothing he would not do in return for such instruction; he would black the man’s boots and sweep the floor of his studio ten times a day.
Jules Breton, whose work he had admired since the early days, lived in Courrieres, a distance of a hundred and seventy kilometres. Vincent rode on the train until his money ran out, and then walked for five days, sleeping in hay ricks and begging his bread in exchange for a drawing or two. When he stood among the trees of Courrieres and saw that Breton had just built a fine new studio of red brick and generous proportion, his courage fled. He hung about the town for two days, but in the end, the chilly and inhospitable appearance of the studio defeated him. Then, weary, abysmally hungry, without a centime in his pocket, and the Reverend Pietersen’s shoes wearing dangerously thin beneath him, he began the hundred and seventy kilometre walk back to the Borinage.
He arrived at the miner’s cabin ill and despondent. There was no money or mail waiting for him. He went to bed. The miners’ wives nursed him and gave him what tiny portions of food they could spare from the mouths of their husbands and children.
He had lost many pounds on the trip, the hollows were in his cheeks again, and fever ignited the bottomless pools of his green-black eyes. Sick as he was, his mind retained its clarity, and he knew that he had reached the point where a decision was imminent.
What was he to do with his life? Become a school teacher, book-seller, art dealer, mercantile clerk? Where was he to live? Etten, with his parents? Paris, with Theo? Amsterdam, with his uncles? Or just in the great void wherever chance might dump him down, working at whatever fortune dictated?
One day, when his strength had returned a little and he was sitting propped up in bed copying “Le Four dans les Landes” by Theodore Rousseau, and wondering how much longer he would have to indulge in this harmless little pastime of drawing, someone opened the door without knocking and walked in.
It was his brother Theo.
21
THE PASSAGE OF the years had improved Theo. Only twenty-three he was already a successful art dealer in Paris, respected by his confreres and family. He knew and practised all the social amenities of dress, manners and conversation. He wore a good black coat, crossing high on his chest with satin piping on the broad lapels, a high stiff collar, and a white tie with a huge knot.
He had the tremendous Van Gogh forehead. His hair was dark brown, his features delicate, almost feminine. His eyes were soft and wistful and his face tapered in a beautiful oval.
Theo leaned against the door of the shack and gazed at Vincent in horror. He had just left Paris a few hours before. In his apartment there was lovely Louis Philippe furniture to sit upon, a wash bowl with towels and soap, curtains on the windows, rugs on the floor, a writing desk, bookcases, soft lamps and pleasant wallpaper. Vincent was lying on a dirty, bare mattress, covered by an old blanket. The walls and floor were of rough plank, the only furnishings a battered table and chair. He was unwashed and unkempt, his coarse, red beard splashed all over his face and neck.
“Well, Theo,” said Vincent.
Theo crossed hastily and leaned over the bed. “Vincent, what in God’s name is wrong? What have you done to yourself?”
“Nothing. I’m all right now. I was sick a while.”
“But this . . . this . . . hole! Surely you don’t live here . . . this isn’t your home?”
“Yes. What’s the matter with it? I’ve been using it for a studio.”
“Oh, Vincent!” He ran his hand over his brother’s hair; the lump in his throat prevented him from speaking.
“It’s good to have you here, Theo.”
“Vincent, please tell me what has been the matter with you. Why have you been sick? What was it?”
Vincent told him about Courrieres.
“You’ve exhausted yourself, that’s what. Have you been eating properly since you’re back? Have you been taking care of yourself?”
“The miners’ wives have been nursing me.”
“Yes, but what have you been eating?” Theo looked around him. “Where do you keep your stores? I don’t see any.”
“The women bring me in a little something every day. Whatever they can spare; bread, coffee, a little cheese, or rabbit.”
“But, Vincent, surely you know you can’t get your strength back on bread and coffee? Why don’t you buy yourself some eggs and vegetables and meat?”
“Those things cost money here in the Borinage, the same as anywhere else.”
Theo sat down on the bed.
“Vincent, for the love of God, forgive me! I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.”
“That’s all right, boy, you did all you could. I’m getting along fine. In a few days I’ll be up and about again.”
Theo ran his hand across his eyes as though to clear away some misty cobweb. “No. I didn’t realize. I thought that you. . . I didn’t understand, Vincent, I just didn’t understand.”
“Oh, come. It’s all right. How are things in Paris? Where are you bound for? Have you been to Etten?”
Theo jumped up. “Are there stores in this forsaken town? Can I buy things here?”
“Yes, there are places down the hill in Wasmes. But draw up that chair. I want to talk to you. Lord, Theo, it’s been almost two years!”
Theo ran his fingers lightly over his brother’s face, and said, “First of all I’m going to load you full of the best food I can find in Belgium. You’ve been starved, that’s what’s the matter with you. And then I’m going to give you a dose of something for that fever and put you to sleep on a soft pillow. It’s a good thing I got here when I did. If I had only had the slightest idea . . . Don’t move until I get back.”