A great inarticulate surge of grief welled up in his throat. He raised his left hand to his mouth to stifle the cry, that Amsterdam and all the world might never know that he had been judged, and deemed unworthy. On his lips he tasted the bitter, bitter ash of unrequited desire.
Book three
The Hague
1
MAUVE WAS STILL in Drenthe. Vincent searched the neighbourhood of the Uileboomen, and found a little place behind the Ryn station for fourteen francs a month. The studio—it had been known as a room until Vincent took it—was fairly large, with an alcove for cooking and a large window facing the south. There was a stove squatting low in one corner with a long black pipe disappearing in the wall up by the ceiling. The wallpaper was a clean, neutral shade; out of the window Vincent could see the lumber yard belonging to the owner of the house, a green meadow, and then a vast stretch of dune. The house was located on the Schenkweg, the last street between The Hague and the meadows to the southeast. It was covered with black soot from the engines that banged in and out of the Ryn station.
Vincent bought a strong kitchen table, two kitchen chairs, and a blanket to throw over himself while he slept on the floor. These expenditures exhausted his small fund of money, but the first of the month was not far off and Theo would send the hundred francs that had been agreed upon as his monthly allowance. The cold January weather would not permit him to work out of doors: since he had no money to pay models he had to sit by and wait for Mauve to return.
Mauve came back to the Uileboomen. Vincent went at once to his cousin’s studio. Mauve was setting up a big canvas excitedly, the swash of hair across his forehead falling into his eyes. He was about to begin the big project of the year, a canvas for the Salon, and had chosen for his subject a fishing smack being drawn up on the beach at Scheveningen by horses. Mauve and his wife Jet had thought it extremely doubtful that Vincent would ever come to The Hague; they knew that nearly everyone has a vague prompting to become an artist at some time or other during his life.
“So you’ve come to The Hague after all. Very well. Vincent, we shall make a painter of you. Have you found a place to live?”
“Yes, I’m over at 138 Schenkweg, just behind the Ryn station.”
“That’s close by. How are you fixed for funds?”
“Well, I haven’t the money to do a great deal. I bought a table and a couple of chairs.”
“And a bed,” said Jet.
“No, I’ve been sleeping on the floor.”
Mauve said something in an undertone to Jet who went into the house and returned in a moment with a wallet. Mauve took out a hundred guilder note. “I want you to take this as a loan, Vincent,” he said. “Buy yourself a bed; you must rest well at night. Is your rent paid?”
“Not yet.”
“Then get it off your mind. How about the light?”
“There’s plenty of it, but the only window has a southern exposure.”
“That’s bad; you had better get it fixed. The sun will change the light on your models every ten minutes. Buy yourself some drapes.”
“I don’t like to borrow money from you, Cousin Mauve. It’s enough that you should be willing to teach me.”
“Nonsense. Vincent; it happens once in every man’s life that he has to set up housekeeping. In the long run it’s cheaper to have things of your own.”
“Yes, that’s so. I hope to be able to sell a few drawings soon and then I’ll pay you back.”
“Tersteeg will help you. He bought my things when I was younger and just learning. But you must begin to work in water-colour and oil. There is no market for simple pencil sketches.”
Mauve, in spite of his bulk, had a nervous manner of darting about at great speed. As soon as his eyes lighted on something he was looking for he thrust one shoulder out before him and flung himself in that direction.
“Here, Vincent,” he said, “here’s a painting box with some water-colours, brushes, palette, palette knife, oil, and turpentine. Let me show you how to hold that palette and stand before your easel.”
He showed Vincent a few elements of technique. Vincent picked up the ideas very quickly.
“Good!” said Mauve. “I used to think you were a dullard, but I see it is not so. You may come here in the mornings and work on water-colours. I’ll propose your name for a special membership of Pulchri; you can draw there several evenings a week from the model. Besides, it will give you some intercourse with painters. When you begin to sell you can take out a regular membership.”
“Yes, I want to work from the model. I shall try to hire one to come in every day. Once I get the human figure, everything else will come of its own accord.”
“That’s so,” agreed Mauve. “The figure is the hardest to get, but once you have it, trees and cows and sunsets are simple. Men who neglect the figure do so because they find it too hard.”
Vincent bought a bed, drapes for the window, paid his rent, and tacked the Brabant sketches on the wall. He knew they were unsalable and he easily saw their defects, but there was something of nature in them; they had been made with a certain passion. He could not have pointed out just where the passion was, nor how it got there; he did not even realize its full value until he became friends with De Bock.
De Bock was a charming man. He was bien élevé, had pleasant manners and a permanent income. He had been educated in England. Vincent met him at Goupils. De Bock was the exact antithesis of Vincent in every way; he took life casually, nothing ruffled or excited him, and his entire make-up was delicate. His mouth was exactly as long as his nostrils were wide.
“Won’t you, come have a pot of tea with me?” he asked Vincent. “I’d like to show you some of my recent things. I think I have a new flair since Tersteeg has been selling me.”
His studio was located in Willemspark, the aristocratic section of The Hague. He had his walls draped off in neutral velvets. Lounging divans with luxurious cushions filled every corner. There were smoking tables, amply filled bookcases, and oriental rugs. When Vincent thought of his own studio, he felt like an anchorite.
De Bock lit the gas under a Russian samovar and sent his housekeeper for some cakes. Then he took a canvas out from a closet and placed it on the easel.
“This is my latest,” he said. “Will you have a cigar while you’re looking? It may help the picture; you never can tell.”
He spoke in a light, amused tone. Since Tersteeg had discovered him, his self-confidence had gone sky high. He knew Vincent would like the picture. He took out one of the long Russian cigarettes for which he was famous in The Hague, and studied Vincent’s face for a passing judgement.
Vincent scrutinized the canvas through the blue smoke of De Bock’s expensive cigar. He felt in De Bock’s attitude that horrible moment of suspense when the artist shows one of his creations to strange eyes for the first time. What was he to say? The landscape was not bad, but neither was it good. It was too much like De Bock’s character: casual. He remembered how furious and ill it made him when some young upstart dared condescend to his work. Although the picture was the sort that could be seen in its entirety with one glance, he continued to study it.
“You have a feeling for landscape, De Bock,” he said. “And you certainly know how to put charm in it.”
“Oh, thanks,” said De Bock, pleased at what he thought was a compliment. “Won’t you have a cup of tea?”
Vincent clutched the teacup with both hands, fearing that he might spill it on the rich rug. De Bock went to the samovar and drew himself a cup. Vincent wished desperately not to say anything against De Bock’s work. He liked the man and wanted him for a friend. But the objective craftsman arose within him and he could not put down his criticism.