“Do you know them all, Theo?”
“Yes, I’m getting acquainted slowly. I’ve been persuading les Messieurs to give them a smaller corner for exhibition at Goupils, but they wouldn’t touch an Impressionist canvas with a ten foot pole.”
“Those fellows sound like the sort I ought to meet. See here, Theo, you do absolutely nothing to procure me some distraction by meeting other painters.”
Theo went to the front window of the studio and stared out over the tiny grass plot that separated the caretaker’s house from the road to Eindhoven.
“Then come to Paris and live with me,” he said. “You’re sure to end up there eventually.”
“I’m not ready yet. I have some work to finish here, first.”
“Well, if you remain in the provinces you can’t hope to associate with your own kind.”
“That may be true. But, Theo, there is one thing I cannot understand. You have never sold a single drawing or painting for me; in fact you have never even tried. Now have you?
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve shown your work to the connoisseurs. They say . . .”
“Oh, the connoisseurs!” Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “I’m well acquainted with the banalities in which most connoisseurs indulge. Surely, Theo, you must know that their opinions have very little to do with the inherent quality of a piece of work.”
“Well, I shouldn’t say that. Your work is almost salable, but . . .”
“Theo, Theo, those are the identical words you wrote to me about my very first sketches from Etten.”
“They are true, Vincent; you seem constantly on the verge of coming into a superb maturity. I pick up each new sketch eagerly, hoping that at last it has happened. But so far. . .”
“As for being salable or unsalable,” interrupted Vincent, knocking out his pipe on the stove, “that is an old saw on which I do not intend to blunt my teeth.”
“You say you have work here. Then pitch in and finish it. The sooner you get to Paris, the better it will be for you. But if you want me to sell in the meantime, send me pictures instead of studies. Nobody wants studies.”
“Well, it’s rather difficult to say just where a study leave off and a picture begins. Let us paint as much as we can, Theo, and be ourselves with all our faults and qualities. I say ‘us’ because the money from you, which I know costs you trouble enough to procure for me, gives you the right to consider half of it your own creation.”
“Oh, as for that . . .” Theo walked to the rear of the room and toyed with an old bonnet that hung on the tree.
8
BEFORE HIS FATHER’S death Vincent had visited the parsonage only occasionally for supper or an hour of company. After the funeral his sister Elizabeth made it plain that he was entirely persona non grata; the family wished to keep up a certain position. His mother felt that he was responsible for his own life, and that it was her duty to stand by her daughters.
He was utterly alone in Nuenen now; in place of people, he put his study of nature. He began with a hopeless struggle to follow nature, and everything went wrong; he ended by calmly creating from his own palette and nature agreed with it and followed. When he was miserable in his aloneness, he thought of the scene in Weissenbruch’s studio and the sharp-tongued painter’s approval of pain. In his faithful Millet he found Weissenbruch’s philosophy expressed more cogently: “I do not ever wish to suppress suffering, because often it is that which makes the artists express themselves most forcibly.”
He became friends with a family of peasants by the name of De Groot. There were the mother, father, son, and two daughters, all of whom worked in the fields. The De Groots, like most of the peasants of the Brabant, had as much right to be called gueules noires as the miners of the Borinage. Their faces were negroid, with wide, dilated nostrils, humped noses, huge distended lips and long angular ears. The features thrust far forward from the forehead, the head was small and pointed. They lived in a hut of one room with holes in the walls for beds. There was a table in the centre of the room, two chairs, a number of boxes, and a suspension lamp that hung down from the rough, beamed ceiling.
The De Groots were potato eaters. With their supper they had a cup of black coffee and, perhaps once a week, a strip of bacon. They planted potatoes, dug up potatoes and ate potatoes; that was their life.
Stien de Groot was a sweet child of about seventeen. She wore a wide white bonnet to work, and a black jacket with a white collar. Vincent fell into the habit of going to visit them every evening. He and Stien laughed together a great deal.
“Look!” she would cry. “I’m a fine lady. I’m being drawed. Shall I put on my new bonnet for you, Mijnheer?”
“No, Stien, you’re beautiful just as you are.”
“Me, beautiful!”
She went off into gales of laughter. She had large cheerful eyes and a pretty expression. Her face was indigenous to the life. When she leaned over to dig potatoes in the field, he saw in the lines of her body a more authentic grace than even Kay had possessed. He had learned that the essential note in figure drawing was action, and that the great fault with the figures in the pictures of the old masters was that they did not work. He sketched the De Groots digging in the field, setting their table at home, eating steamed potatoes, and always Stien would peer over his shoulder and joke with him. Sometimes of a Sunday she would put on a clean bonnet and collar, and walk with him on the heath. It was the only amusement the peasants had.
“Did Margot Begeman like you?” she asked once.
“Yes.”
“Then why did she try to kill herself?”
“Because her family wouldn’t let her marry me.”
“She was foolish. Do you know what I would have done instead of killing myself? I would have loved you!”
She laughed up into his face and ran to a clump of pine woods. All day long they laughed and played among the pines. Other strolling couples saw them. Stien had a natural gift for laughter; the smallest things Vincent said or did brought unrestrained shouts from her lips. She wrestled with him and tried to throw him on the ground. When she did not like the things he drew at her house, she would pour coffee over them or toss them into the fire. She came often to his studio to pose, and when she left, the place would be in chaos.
And so the summer and fall passed and winter came again. Vincent was forced by the snow to work in his studio all the time. The people of Nuenen did not like to pose and if it were not for the money, nobody would have come to him. In The Hague he had drawn almost ninety seamstresses in order to do a group picture of three. He wanted to paint the De Groot family at its supper of potatoes and coffee, but in order to get them right, he felt he first had to draw every peasant in the vicinity.
The Catholic priest had never favoured renting room in the caretaker’s house to the man who was both heathen and artist, but since Vincent was quiet and courteous, he could find no reason to put him out. One day Adriana Schafrath came into the studio, all excited. “Father Pauwels wishes to see you immediately!”
Father Andreas Pauwels was a large man, red of face. He took a hurried look about the studio and decided he had never seen such mad confusion.
“What can I do for you, Father?” Vincent asked politely.
“You can’t do anything for me! But I can do something for you! I shall see you through this affair, providing you do as you are told.”