Jet sighed. “The usual thing.”
“Then I don’t suppose he’ll want to see me.”
“You’d better wait until another time, Vincent. I’ll tell him you were here. When he calms down a bit he’ll come round to see you.”
“You won’t forget to tell him?”
“I won’t forget.”
Vincent waited many days, but Mauve did not come. In his place came Tersteeg, not once but twice. Each time the report was the same.
“Yes, yes, you have made a little progress, perhaps. But they are not right yet. I still could not sell them in the Plaats. I’m afraid you don’t work hard enough or fast enough, Vincent.”
“My dear, Mijnheer, I get up at five o’clock and work until eleven and twelve at night. The only time I stop is for a bite of food now and then.”
Tersteeg shook his head uncomprehendingly. He looked at the water-colours again. “I don’t understand it. The same element of roughness and crudeness that I saw the first time you came to the Plaats is still in your work. You ought to be getting over that by now. Hard work usually does it, if a man has any ability at all.”
“Hard work!” said Vincent.
“Goodness knows I want to buy your things, Vincent. I want to see you begin earning your own living. I don’t think it right that Theo should have to . . . But I can’t buy until your work is right, now can I? You’re not looking for charity.”
“No.”
“You must hurry, that’s all, you must hurry. You must begin to sell and make your own living.”
When Tersteeg repeated this formula for the fourth time Vincent wondered if the man were playing some game on him. “You must earn your own living . . . but I can’t buy anything!” How in the devil was he going to earn his living if no one would buy?
He met Mauve on the street one day. Mauve was walking at a furious clip with his head down, going nowhere, shoving his right shoulder out in front of him as he walked. He almost seemed not to recognize Vincent.
“I have not seen you for a long time, Cousin Mauve.”
“I’ve been busy.” Mauve’s voice was cool, indifferent.
“I know; the new canvas. How is it coming?”
“Oh . . .” He made a vague gesture.
“May I drop into your studio some time for a moment? I’m afraid I’m not making progress with my water-colours.”
“Not now! I’m busy, I tell you. I can’t be wasting my time.”
“Won’t you come in to see me some time when you’re out for a walk? Just a few words from you would set me right.”
“Perhaps, perhaps, but I’m busy now. I must be going!”
He darted forward, thrusting his body before him, nervously propelling himself down the street. Vincent stood staring after him.
What in the world had happened? Had he insulted his cousin? Had he in some way estranged him?
He was utterly amazed a few days later to have Weissenbruch walk into his studio. Weissenbruch never bothered with the younger painters, or for that matter the accepted ones, except to give their work a hearty damning now and then.
“Well, well,” he said, looking about, “this certainly is a palace. You’ll be doing portraits of the King and Queen here pretty soon.”
“If you don’t like it,” growled Vincent, “you can get out.”
“Why don’t you give up painting, Van Gogh? It’s a dog’s life.”
“You seem to thrive under it.”
“Yes, but I’m successful. You’ll never be.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ll paint far better pictures than you ever will.”
Weissenbruch laughed. “You won’t but you’ll probably come closer to it than anyone in The Hague. If your work is anything like your personality . . .”
“Why didn’t you say so?” demanded Vincent, taking out his portfolio. “Want to sit down?”
“I can’t see when I’m sitting.”
He pushed the water-colours aside with a “This is not your medium; water-colours are too insipid for the things you’ve got to say,” and concentrated on the pencil sketches of the Borains, the Brabantines, and the old people Vincent had drawn since coming to The Hague. He chuckled to himself gaily as he gazed at one figure after another. Vincent prepared for a stiff volley of abuse.
“You draw confoundedly well, Vincent,” said Weissenbruch, his sharp eyes twinkling. “I could work from these drawings myself!”
Vincent had set himself to catch a heavy weight; Weissenbruch’s words were so light they almost broke his back. He sat down abruptly.
“I thought you were called the ‘merciless sword.’”
“So I am. If I saw no good in your studies, I would tell you so.”
“Tersteeg has scolded me about them. He says they are too rough and crude.”
“Nonsense! That’s where their strength lies.”
“I want to go on with those pen sketches, but Tersteeg says I must learn to see things as water-colours.”
“So they can sell, eh? No, my boy, if you see things as pen drawings, you must put them down as pen drawings. And above all, never listen to anybody—not even me. Go your own way.”
“It looks like I’ll have to.”
‘When Mauve said you were a born painter, Tersteeg said no, and then Mauve took your part against him. I was there. If it happens again, I will take your part also, now that I have seen your work.”
“Mauve said I was a born painter?”
“Don’t let that turn your head. You’ll be lucky if you die one.”
“Then why has he been so cool to me?”
“He treats everyone the same, Vincent, when he’s finishing a picture. Don’t let it worry you; when the Scheveningen canvas is done he’ll come round. In the meanwhile you may drop in at my studio if you want any help.”
“May I ask you one question, Weissenbruch?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mauve send you here?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he do that?”
“He wanted to hear my opinion about your work.”
“But why should he want that? If he thinks I’m a born . . .”
“I don’t know. Perhaps Tersteeg put a doubt in his mind about you.”
6
IF TERSTEEG WAS losing faith in him and Mauve was growing cooler every day, Christine was taking their place, and bringing into his life the simple companionship for which he longed. She came to the studio early every morning, and brought with her a sewing basket so that her hands might keep company with his. Her voice was rough and her choice of words unfortunate, but she spoke quietly, and Vincent found it easy not to hear her when he wanted to concentrate. For the most part, she was content to sit quietly by the stove, looking out the window or sewing little things for the new baby. She was a clumsy model and learned slowly, but she was eager to please. She soon fell into the habit of preparing his dinner before she went home.
“You mustn’t bother about that, Sien,” he told her.
“It ain’t no bother. I can do it better than you.”
“Then of course you’ll join me?”
“Sure. Mother’s taking care of the kids. I like to stay here.”
Vincent gave her a franc every day. He knew it was more than he could afford, but he liked her company; the thought that he was saving her from the tubs pleased him. Sometimes, if he had to go out during the afternoon, he would sketch her until late at night, and then she would not bother to go home at all. He enjoyed waking to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of a friendly woman hovering over the stove. It was the first time he had ever had a ménage; he found it very comfortable.
“Sometimes Christine would stay over for no reason at all. “I think I’ll sleep here tonight, Vincent,” she would say. “Can I?”