“They say it’s good.”
Christine stayed in bed all day. Vincent sketched the boy. At dinner time he walked Herman home to Christine’s mother and left him. Early in the morning they took the train to Leyden.
“Of course you’ve been feeling sick,” said the doctor after he had examined Christine and asked her innumerable questions. “The child is not in position.”
“Can anything be done, doctor?” asked Vincent.
“Oh, yes, we can operate.”
“Would that be serious?”
“Not at this time. The child would simply have to be turned with the forceps. However, that takes a little money. Not for the operation, but for the hospital expenses.” He turned to Christine. “Have you anything saved up?”
“Not a franc.”
The doctor almost allowed himself a sigh. “That’s usually the way,” he said.
“How much would it cost, doctor?” said Vincent.
“Not more than fifty francs.”
“And if she doesn’t have the operation?”
“There’s not a chance in the world of her pulling through.”
Vincent thought for a moment. The twelve water-colours for his Uncle Cor were almost done; that would be thirty francs. He would take the other twenty francs off Theo’s April allowance.
“I’ll take care of the money, doctor,” he said.
“Good. Bring her back on Saturday morning and I’ll operate myself. Now just one thing more; I don’t know what the relationship is between you two and I don’t care to be told. That’s not part of the doctor’s business. But I think you ought to be informed that if this little lady ever goes back to walking the streets, she will be dead within six months.”
“She’ll never return to that life, doctor. I give you my word.”
“Splendid. Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning.”
A few days later Tersteeg came in. “I see you are still at it,” he said.
“Yes, I am at work.”
“I received the ten francs you sent back in the mail. You might at least have come in to thank me for the loan personally.”
“It was a long walk, Mijnheer, and the weather was bad.”
“The walk was not too long when you wanted the money, eh?”
Vincent did not answer.
“It is just such lack of manners, Vincent, that turns me against you. It is why I have no faith in you and cannot buy your work.”
Vincent sat himself on the edge of the table and prepared for another struggle. “I should think that your buying would be a thing quite apart from personal disputes and difference,” he said. “I should think it would depend not on me but on my work. It is not exactly fair to let personal antipathy influence your judgement.”
“Certainly not. If you could only make something salable, with some charm in it, I would be only too glad to sell it in the Plaats.”
“Mijnheer Tersteeg, work on which one has plodded hard and into which one has put some character and sentiment, is neither unattractive nor unsalable, I think it is perhaps better for my work not to try to please everyone at first.”
Tersteeg sat down without unbuttoning his topcoat or taking off his gloves. He sat with both hands resting on the knob of his cane.
“You know, Vincent, I sometimes suspect that you prefer not to sell; that you would much rather live off someone else.”
“I would be very happy to sell a drawing, but I am happier still when a real artist like Weissenbruch says about a piece of work which you call unsalable, ‘That is true to nature; I could work from that myself.’ Although money is of great value to me, especially now, the principal thing is for me to make something serious.”
“That might apply to a rich man like De Bock, but it certainly does not apply to you.”
“The fundamentals of painting, my dear Mijnheer, have very little to do with a man’s income.”
Tersteeg put his stick across his knees and leaned back in his chair. “Your parents have written to me, Vincent, and asked me to do what I can to help you. Very well. If I cannot in full conscience buy your drawings I can at least give you a little practical advice. You are ruining yourself by going about in those unspeakable rags. You must buy yourself some new clothes and try to keep up appearances. You forget that you are a Van Gogh. Again, you should try to associate with the better people of The Hague, and not always go about with working people and the lower classes. You somehow have a penchant for the sordid and ugly; you have been seen in the most questionable of places and with the most questionable of companions. How can you ever hope to arrive at success if you behave that way?”
Vincent got off the corner of the table and stood over Tersteeg. If there was any chance to win back the man’s friendship, this was the time and place. He searched about within himself to find a soft and sympathetic voice.
“Mijnheer, it is good of you to try to help me, and I will answer as sincerely and truthfully as I know how. How can I dress better when I have not a single franc to spare for clothes, and no way of earning one?
“To stroll on wharves, and in alleys and markets, in waiting rooms and even saloons, that is not a pleasant pastime, except for an artist! As such, one would rather be in the dirtiest place, where there is something to draw, than at a tea party with charming ladies. The searching for subjects, the living among working people, the drawing from nature on the very spot is a rough work, even a dirty work at times. The manners and dress of a salesman are not suitable for me, or for anyone else who does not have to talk with fine ladies and rich gentlemen to sell them expensive things and make money.
“My place is drawing diggers in a hole on the Geest, as I have been doing all day. There, my ugly face and shabby coat perfectly harmonize with the surroundings, and I am myself and work with pleasure. When I wear a fine coat, the working people I want to sketch are afraid of me and distrust me. The purpose of my drawing is to make people see things worth observing and which not everyone knows. If I sometimes have to sacrifice social manners to get my work done, am I not justified? Do I lower myself by living with the people I draw? Do I lower myself when I go into the houses of labourers and poor people, and when I receive them in my studio? I think my profession requires it. Is that what you call ruining myself?”
“You are very headstrong, Vincent, and will not listen to older men who can help you. You failed before, and you will fail again. It will be the same story all over.”
“I have a draftsman’s fist, Mijnheer Tersteeg, and I cannot stop drawing no matter how much you advise me! I ask you, since the day I began to draw, have I ever doubted or hesitated or wavered? I think you know quite well that I pushed onward, and that little by little I am growing stronger in the battle.”
“Perhaps. But you are battling for a lost cause.”
He rose, buttoned the glove on his wrist, and placed the high silk hat on his head. “Mauve and I will take care that you do not receive any more money from Theo. That is the only way to bring you around to your senses.”
Vincent felt something crash in his breast. If they attacked him from the side of Theo, he was lost.
“My God!” he cried. “Why should you do this to me? What have I done to you that you should want to destroy me? Is it honest to kill a man just because he differs from your opinions? Can’t you let me go my own way? I promise never to bother you again. My brother is the only soul I have left in the world. How can you take him from me?”
“It is for your own good, Vincent,” said Tersteeg, and went out.
Vincent grabbed up his money purse and ran all the way downtown to buy a plaster foot. Jet answered the doorbell at the Uileboomen. She was surprised to see him.