“Now I see where I went wrong!” he exclaimed.
He picked up a drawing pencil, adjusted the light and made a few rapid strokes, his eyes on Vincent’s sketch all the time.
“That’s better,” he said stepping back. “Now the beggar looks as though he belongs on the land.”
He walked to Vincent’s side and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re on the road. Your sketches are clumsy, but they’re authentic. They have a certain vitality and rhythm I haven’t found very often. Throw away your copy books, Vincent; buy yourself a paint box. The sooner you begin working in colour, the better it will be for you. Your drawing is only half bad now, and you can keep improving it as you go along.”
Vincent thought the moment auspicious.
“I am going to move to The Hague, cousin Mauve,” he said, “and continue my work. Would you be kind enough to help me sometimes? I need help from a man like you. Just little things, such as you showed me about your studies this afternoon. Every young artist needs a master, Cousin Mauve, and I will be grateful if you will let me work under you.”
Mauve looked carefully at all the unfinished canvases in his studio. Whatever little time he took away from his work he liked to spend with the family. The warm aura of praise in which he had engulfed Vincent evaporated. In its place came withdrawal. Vincent, always highly sensitive to the changes in people’s attitude, felt it instantly.
“I’m a busy man, Vincent,” said Mauve, “and I have little opportunity to help others. An artist must be selfish; he must guard every second of his working time. I doubt if I could teach you much.”
“I don’t ask for a great deal,” said Vincent. “Just let me work with you here sometimes and watch you build up a canvas. Talk to me about your work as you did this afternoon, so I’ll see how a whole project is completed. And occasionally, when you are resting, you might look over my drawings and point out my mistakes. That’s all I ask.”
“You think you are asking only a little. But believe me, it is a serious matter, to take an apprentice.”
“I wouldn’t be a burden to you, I can promise that.”
Mauve considered for a long time. He had never wanted an apprentice; he disliked having people about when he worked. He did not often feel communicative about his own creations, and he had never received anything but abuse for the advice he offered beginners. Still, Vincent was his cousin, Uncle Vincent Van Gogh and Goupils bought his canvases, and there was something about the crude, intense passion of the boy—the same crude, intense passion he had felt in the drawings—that appealed to him.
“Very well, Vincent,” he said, “we’ll have a try at it.”
“Oh, Cousin Mauve!”
“I’m not promising anything, mind you. It may turn out very badly. But when you settle in The Hague, you come to the studio and we’ll see if we can help each other. I am going to Drenthe for the fall; suppose you come at the beginning of winter.”
“That is just when I wanted to come. I still need a few months more of work in the Brabant.”
“Then it is settled.”
A crooning voice sang inside of Vincent all the way home on the train. “I have a master. I have a master. In a few months I shall be studying with a great painter, and then I shall learn to paint, too. I will work, oh how I will work during the next few months, and then he shall see what progress I have made.”
When he got home to Etten he found Kay Vos there.
6
KAY’S GREAT GRIEF had spiritualized her. She had loved her husband devotedly and his death had killed something within her. The tremendous vitality of the woman, her high spirits, her enthusiasm and verve were completely gone. Even her warm, live hair seemed to have lost its sparkle. Her face had tapered down to an ascetic oval, her blue eyes had deep pools of brooding blackness in them, and the superb lustre of her skin had paled to a monotone. If she had less vitality than when Vincent knew her in Amsterdam, she now had in its place a more mellow beauty, a seasoned sadness which gave her depth and substance.
“It’s nice to have you here at last, Kay,” said Vincent.
“Thank you, Vincent.”
It was the first time they had called each other by their Christian names without attaching the “Cousin.” Neither knew quite how it had happened, nor for that matter did they even think about it.
“You’ve brought Jan with you, of course?”
“Yes, he’s in the garden.”
“It’s the first time you’ve visited the Brabant. I’m glad I’m here to show it to you. We must take long walks over the heath.”
“I would like that, Vincent.”
She spoke kindly, but without enthusiasm. He noticed that her voice had deepened, become more vibrant. He remembered how sympathetic she had been to him in the house on the Keizersgracht. Should he speak to her about the death of her husband, offer his condolence? He knew that it was his duty to say something but he felt it would be more delicate not to throw her grief into her face again.
Kay appreciated his tact. Her husband was sacred to her and she could not discuss him with people. She, too, remembered those pleasant winter evenings on the Keizersgracht when she had played cards with Vos and her parents by the fire, while Vincent sat under a lamp in a far corner. Mute pain welled up within her and a mistiness covered her now black eyes. Vincent put his hand softly over hers and she looked up at him with a deeply pulsating gratitude. He saw how exquisite suffering had made her. Before, she had been only a happy girl; now she was a passionately suffering woman with all the richness that emotional misery can bring. Once again there flashed into his mind the old saying:
“From out of pain, beauty.”
“You’ll like it here, Kay,” he said quietly. “I spend all day out in the fields sketching; you must come with me and bring Jan.”
“I would only be in your way.”
“Oh, no! I enjoy company. I can show you many interesting things as we walk.”
“Then I’ll be happy to come.”
“It will be good for Jan. The air will make him sturdy.”
She pressed his hand ever so lightly.
“And we’ll be friends, won’t we, Vincent?”
“Yes, Kay.”
She released his hand and stared across the road at the Protestant Church, without seeing it.
Vincent went out into the garden, placed a bench nearby for Kay, and helped Jan make a little house of sand. He forgot for the moment the great news he had brought home from The Hague.
At dinner that night he told the family that Mauve had accepted him as a pupil. Ordinarily he would not have repeated any word of praise that either Tersteeg or Mauve might have given him, but the presence of Kay at the table made him want to appear in his best light. His mother was greatly pleased.
“You must do everything Cousin Mauve tells you,” she said. “He is a successful man.”
The following morning, Kay, Jan, and Vincent set out very early for the Liesbosch, where Vincent wanted to sketch. Although he never bothered to take anything with him to eat at midday, his mother packed a nice lunch for the three of them. She had an idea that it was some sort of picnic. On the way they passed a magpie’s nest in the high acacia in the churchyard; Vincent promised to find an egg for the excited boy. They walked through the pine woods with its crunchy bed of needles, then across the yellow, white, and grey sand of the heath. At one spot Vincent saw an abandoned plough and wagon standing in the field. He set up his small easel, lifted Jan into the wagon, and made a quick sketch. Kay stood a little way off to one side, watching Jan romp. She was silent. Vincent did not wish to intrude upon her; he was glad enough just to have her company. He had never known it could be so pleasant to have a woman at his side while he worked.