“There’s only one thing I’m not sure I like about this canvas.”
De Bock took the tray from his housekeeper and said, “Have a cake, old fellow.”
Vincent refused because he did not see how he was going to eat a cake and hold a cup of tea on his lap at the same time.
“What was it you didn’t care for?” asked De Bock lightly.
“Your figures. They don’t seem authentic.”
“You know,” confided De Bock, stretching out leisurely on a comfortable divan, “I’ve often meant to plug away at the figure. But I never seem to get around to it. I take a model and work a few days, and then I suddenly become interested in some landscape or other. After all, landscape is very definitely my medium, so I needn’t let the figure bother me much, need I?”
“Even when I do landscapes,” said Vincent, “I hope to get something of the figure into them. Your work is years ahead of mine; besides, you’re an accepted artist. But will you permit me to offer just one word of friendly criticism?”
“Love to have you.”
“Well then, I should say your painting lacks passion.”
“Passion?” inquired De Bock, cocking one eye at Vincent as he leaned over the samovar. “Which one of the numerous passions are you referring to?”
“It’s rather hard to explain. But your sentiment seems a trifle vague. In my opinion it could stand a little more intensity.”
“But see here, old chap,” said De Bock, straightening up and regarding one of his canvases closely. “I can’t spew emotion all over the canvas just because people tell me to, can I? I paint what I see and feel. If I don’t feel any bloody passion, how am I to get it on my brush? One can’t buy it at the greengrocer’s by the pound, now can one?”
Vincent’s studio looked almost mean and sordid after De Bock’s, but he knew there were compensations for its austerity. He pushed the bed back into one corner and hid his cooking utensils; he wanted the place to be a painter’s studio, not living quarters. Theo’s money for the month had not yet arrived but he still had a few francs left from Mauve’s loan. He used them to hire models. He had been in his studio only a short time when Mauve came to visit him.
“It took me only ten minutes to walk over,” he said, looking about. “Yes, this will do. You should have north light, but this will do. It will make a favourable impression on those people who have suspected you of amateurism and idleness. I see you’ve been working from the model today?”
“Yes. Every day. But it’s expensive.”
“And the cheapest way in the end. Are you short of funds, Vincent?”
“Thank you, Cousin Mauve. I can get along.”
He did not think it wise to become a financial burden on Mauve. He had just a franc left in his pocket, enough to eat on for a day, but he wanted Mauve to give freely of his instruction; money was not really important.
Mauve spent an hour showing him how to daub in water-colours, and how to wash out again. Vincent made rather a mess of things.
“Don’t let that disturb you,” said Mauve cheerfully. “You will spoil at least ten drawings before you come to handle the brush well. Let me see some of your latest Brabant sketches.”
Vincent brought them out. Mauve was such a master of technique that he could penetrate to the essential weakness of a piece of work in a very few words. He never said, “This is wrong,” and then stopped. He always added “Try it this way.” Vincent listened closely, for he knew that Mauve spoke to him just as he would have spoken to himself if he had gone wrong in one of his own canvases.
“You can draw,” said Mauve. “That year with your pencil will be of great value to you. I shouldn’t be surprised to see Tersteeg buying your water-colours in a short time.”
This magnificent consolation did Vincent little good two days later when he had not a centime in his pocket. It was already several days past the first of the month and the hundred francs had not yet arrived from Theo. What could be wrong? Was Theo angry with him? Could it be possible that Theo would go back on him now, at the very moment when he was on the threshold of a career? He found a stamp in his coat pocket; that enabled him to write to his brother and beg him to send on at least a part of the allowance so that he might eat and hire a model occasionally.
For three days he went without a bite of food, working at water-colours at Mauve’s in the morning, sketching in the soup kitchens and third-class waiting rooms in the afternoons, and going either to Pulchri or Mauve’s to work again at night. He was afraid that Mauve would discover his situation and become discouraged with him. Vincent realized that although Mauve had come to like him, his cousin would cast him aside without a second thought if his troubles began to have an effect upon Mauve’s painting. When Jet invited him to dinner, he refused.
The low, dull ache at the pit of his stomach turned his mind back to the Borinage. Was he to be hungry all his life? Was there never to be a moment of comfort or peace for him anywhere?
The next day he swallowed his pride and went to see Tersteeg. Perhaps he could borrow ten francs from the man who supported half the painters of The Hague.
Tersteeg was in Paris on business.
Vincent developed a fever and could no longer hold the pencil. He went to bed. The following day he dragged himself back to the Plaats and found the dealer in. Tersteeg had promised Theo that he would look after Vincent. He lent him twenty-five francs.
“I have been meaning to look in at your studio for some time, Vincent,” he said. “I shall drop around shortly.”
It was all Vincent could do to answer politely. He wanted to get away and eat. He had thought on his way to Goupils, “If only I can get some money, I will be all right again.” But now that he had the money he was more miserable than ever. He felt utterly and forlornly alone.
“Dinner will cure all that,” he said to himself.
Food removed the pain in his stomach but not the pain of aloneness that lodged in some intangible spot within him. He bought some cheap tobacco, went home, stretched out on the bed and smoked his pipe. The hunger for Kay came back to him with terrific force. He felt so desperately miserable he could not breathe. He jumped up from the bed, opened the window and stuck his head out into the snow covered January night. He thought of the Reverend Stricker. A chill ran through him, as though he had been leaning too long against the cold stone wall of a church. He closed the window, snatched up his hat and coat, and ran out to a wine café that he had seen in front of the Ryn station.
2
THE WINE CAFÉ had an oil lamp hanging at the entrance and another over the bar. The middle of the shop was in semi-darkness. There were a few benches against the wall with mottled, stone topped tables before them. It was a workingman’s shop with faded walls and a cement floor; a place of refuge rather than joy.
Vincent sat down at one of the tables. He leaned his back against the wall wearily. It was not so bad when he was working, when there was money for food and models. But to whom could he turn for simple companionship, for a casual and friendly word about the time of day? Mauve was his master, Tersteeg a busy and important dealer, De Bock a wealthy man of society. Perhaps a glass of wine would help him over the bad spot. Tomorrow he would be able to work, and things would look better.
He sipped the sour red wine slowly. There were few people in the shop. Opposite him sat a labourer of some sort. In the corner near the bar sat a couple, the woman in gaudy clothes. At the table next to him was a woman alone. He did not look at her.