“Go on, Georges,” said Gauguin, “and don’t ask foolish questions.”
“Now we come to sadness. We make all our lines run in a descending direction, like this. We make the cold tones dominant, so; and the dark colours dominant, so. There! The essence of sadness! A child could draw it. The mathematical formulae for apportioning space on a canvas will be set down in a little book. I have already worked them out. The painter need only read the book, go to the chemist’s shop, buy the specified pots of colour, and obey the rules. He will be a scientific and perfect painter. He can work in sunlight or gaslight, be a monk or a libertine, seven years old or seventy, and all the paintings will achieve the same architectural, impersonal perfection.”
Vincent blinked. Gauguin laughed.
“He thinks you’re crazy, Georges.”
Seurat mopped up the last drawing with his smock, then flung it into a dark corner.
“Do you, Monsieur Van Gogh?” he asked.
“No, no,” protested Vincent, “I’ve been called crazy too many times myself to like the sound of the word. But I must admit this; your ideas are very queer!”
“He means yes, Georges,” said Gauguin.
There was a sharp knock on the door.
“Mon Dieu!” groaned Gauguin, “we’ve awakened your mother again! She told me if I didn’t stay away from here nights, she’d take the hairbrush to me!”
Seurat’s mother came in. She had on a heavy robe and nightcap.
“Georges, you promised me you wouldn’t work all night any more. Oh, it’s you, is it, Paul? Why don’t you pay your rent? Then you’d have a place to sleep at nights.”
“If you’d only take me in here, Mother Seurat, I wouldn’t have to pay any rent at all.”
“No, thanks, one artist in the family is enough. Here, I’ve brought you coffee and brioches. If you must work, you have to eat, I suppose. I’ll have to go down and get your bottle of absinthe, Paul.”
“You haven’t drunk it all up, have you, Mother Seurat?”
“Paul, remember what I told you about the hairbrush.”
Vincent came out of the shadows.
“Mother,” said Seurat, “this is a new friend of mine, Vincent Van Gogh.”
Mother Seurat took his hand.
“Any friend of my son’s is welcome here, even if it is four in the morning. What will you have to drink, Monsieur?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll have a glass of Gauguin’s absinthe.”
“You will not!” exclaimed Gauguin. “Mother Seurat keeps me on rations. Only one bottle a month. Take something else. Your heathen palate doesn’t know the difference between absinthe and chartreuse jaune.”
The three men and Mother Seurat sat chatting over their coffee and brioches until the dawning sun struck a tiny triangle of yellow light on the north window.
“I may as well dress for the day,” said Mother Seurat. “Come to dinner with Georges and me some evening, Monsieur Van Gogh. We shall be happy to have you.”
At the front door Seurat said to Vincent, “I have explained my method rather crudely, I’m afraid. Come back often as you like, and we will work together. When you come to understand my method you will see that painting can never be the same again. Well, I must return to my canvas. I have another small space to hollow out before I go to sleep. Please present my compliments to your brother.”
Vincent and Gauguin walked down the deserted stone canyons and climbed the hill to Montmartre. Paris had not yet awakened. The green shutters were closed tight, the blinds were drawn in the shops, and the little country carts were on their way home again after having dropped their vegetables, fruits, and flowers at the Halles.
“Let’s go up to the top of the Butte and watch the sun awaken Paris.” said Gauguin.
“I’d like that.”
After gaining the Boulevard Clichy, they took the Rue Lepic which wound by the Moulin de la Galette and made its tortuous way up the Montmartre hill. The houses became fewer and fewer; open plains of flowers and trees appeared. The Rue Lepic stopped short. The two men took a winding path through the brush.
“Tell me frankly, Gauguin,” said Vincent, “what do you think of Seurat?”
“Georges? I thought you’d ask that. He knows more about colour than any man since Delacroix. He has intellectual theories about art. That’s wrong. Painters should not think about what they are doing. Leave the theories to the critics. Georges will make a definite contribution to colour, and his Gothic architecture will probably hasten the primitive reaction in art. But he’s fou, completely fou, as you saw for yourself.”
It was a stiff climb, but when they reached the summit, all of Paris spread out before them, the lake of black roofs and the frequent church spires emerging from the mist of night. The Seine cut the city in half like a winding stream of light. The houses flowed down the hill of Montmartre to the valley of the Seine, then struggled up again on Montparnasse. The sun broke clear and lit up the Bois de Vincennes beneath it. At the other end of the city the green verdure of the Bois de Boulogne was still dark and somnolent. The three landmarks of the city, the Opera in the centre, Notre Dame in the east and the Arc de Triomphe in the west, stood up in the air like mounds of variegated stone.
6
PEACE DESCENDED UPON the tiny apartment in the Rue Laval. Theo thanked his lucky stars for the moment of calm. But it did not last long. Instead of working his way slowly and minutely through his antiquated palette, Vincent began to imitate his friends. He forgot everything he had ever learned about painting in his wild desire to be an Impressionist. His canvases looked like atrocious copies of Seurats, Toulouse-Lautrecs, and Gauguins. He thought he was making splendid progress.
“Listen, old boy,” said Theo one night, “what’s your name?”
“Vincent Van Gogh.”
“You’re quite certain it’s not Georges Seurat, or Paul Gauguin?”
“What the devil are you driving at, Theo?”
“Do you really think you can become a Georges Seurat? Don’t you realize that there has only been one Lautrec since the beginning of time? And only one Gauguin . . . thank God! It’s silly for you to try to imitate them.”
“I’m not imitating them. I’m learning from them.”
“You’re imitating. Show me any one of your new canvases, and I’ll tell you who you were with the night before.”
“But I’m improving all the time, Theo. Look how much lighter these pictures are.”
“You’re going downhill every day. You paint less like Vincent Van Gogh with each picture. There’s no royal road for you, old boy. It’s going to take years of hard labour. Are you such a weakling that you have to imitate others? Can’t you just assimilate what they have to offer?”
“Theo, I tell you these canvases are good!”
“And I tell you they’re awful.”
The battle was on.
Each night that he came home from the gallery, exhausted and nervously on edge, Theo found Vincent waiting for him impatiently with a new canvas. He would leap savagely upon Theo before his brother had a chance to take off his hat and coat.
“There! Now tell me this one isn’t good! Tell me that my palette isn’t improving! Look at that sunlight effect! Look at this . . .”
Theo had to choose between telling a lie and spending a pleasant evening with an affable brother, or telling the truth and being pursued violently about the house until dawn. Theo was frightfully tired. He could not afford to tell the truth. But he did.