“When were you at Durand-Ruel’s last?” he demanded, wearily.
“What does that matter?”
“Answer my question.”
“Well,” said Vincent sheepishly, “yesterday afternoon.”
“Do you know, Vincent, there are almost five thousand painters in Paris trying to imitate Edouard Manet? And most of them do it better than you.”
The battleground was too small for either of them to survive.
Vincent tried a new trick. He threw all the Impressionists into one lone canvas.
“Delightful,” murmured Theo that night. “We’ll name this one, Recapitulation. We’ll label everything on the canvas. That tree is a genuine Gauguin. The girl in the corner is undoubtedly a Toulouse-Lautrec. I would say that your sunlight on the stream is Sisley, the colour, Monet, the leaves, Pissarro, the air, Seurat, and the central figure, Manet.”
Vincent fought bitterly. He worked hard all day, and when Theo came home at night, he was chastised like a little child. Theo had to sleep in the living room, so Vincent could not paint there at night. His quarrels with Theo left him too excited and wrought up to sleep. He spent the long hours haranguing his brother. Theo battled with him until he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, the light still burning, and Vincent gesticulating excitedly. The only thing that kept Theo going was the thought that soon they would be in the Rue Lepic, where he would have a bedroom to himself and a good strong lock on the door.
When Vincent tired of arguing about his own canvases, he filled Theo’s nights, with turbulent discussions of art, the art business, and the wretched business of being an artist.
“Theo, I can’t understand it,” he complained. “Here you are the manager of one of the most important art galleries in Paris, and you won’t even exhibit one of your own brother’s canvases.”
“Valadon won’t let me.”
“Have you tried?”
“A thousand times.”
“All right, we’ll admit that my paintings are not good enough. But what about Seurat? And Gauguin? And Lautrec?”
“Every time they bring me new canvases, I beg Valadon to let me hang them on the entresol.”
“Are you master in that gallery, or is someone else?”
“Alas, I only work there.”
“Then you ought to get out. It’s degrading, simply degrading. Theo, I wouldn’t stand for it. I’d leave them.”
“Let’s talk it over at breakfast, Vincent. I’ve had a hard day and I want to go to sleep.”
“I don’t want to wait until breakfast. I want to talk about it right now. Theo, what good does it do to exhibit Manet and Degas? They’re already being accepted. They’re beginning to sell. It’s the younger men you have to fight for now.”
“Give me time! Perhaps in another three years . . .”
“No! We can’t wait three years. We’ve got to have action now. Oh, Theo, why don’t you throw up your job and open an art gallery of your own? Just think, no more Valadon, no more Bouguereau, no more Henner!”
“That would take money, Vincent. I haven’t saved anything.”
“We’d get the money somehow.”
“The art business is slow to develop, you know.”
“Let it be slow. We’ll work night and day until we’ve established you.”
“And what would we do in the meanwhile? We have to eat.”
“Are you reproaching me for not earning my own living?”
“For goodness’ sake, Vincent, go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“I won’t go to bed. I want to know the truth. Is that the only reason you don’t leave Goupils? Because you have to support me? Come on, tell the truth. I’m a millstone around your neck. I hold you down. I make you keep your job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be free.”
“If only I were a little bit bigger, or a little bit stronger, I’d hand you a sound thrashing. As it is, I think I’ll hire Gauguin to come in and do it. My job is with Goupils, Vincent, now and always. Your job is painting, now and always. Half of my work at Goupils belongs to you; half of your painting belongs to me. Now get off my bed and let me go to sleep, or I’ll call a gendarme!”
The following evening Theo handed Vincent an envelope and said, “If you’re not doing anything tonight, we might go to this party.”
“Who’s giving it?”
“Henri Rousseau. Take a look at the invitation.”
There were two verses of a simple poem and some hand-painted flowers on the card.
“Who is he?” asked Vincent.
“We call him le Douanier. He was a customs collector in the provinces until he was forty. Used to paint on Sundays, just as Gauguin did. He came to Paris a few years ago and settled in the labourers’ section around the Bastille. He’s never had a day of education or instruction in his life, yet he paints, writes poetry, composes music, gives lessons on the violin to the workers’ children, plays on the piano, and teaches drawing to a couple of old men.”
“What sort of things does he paint?”
“Fantastic animals, largely, peering out of even more fantastic jungles. The closest he ever got to a jungle is the Jardin d’Acclimation in the Bois de Boulogne. He’s a peasant and a natural primitive, even if Paul Gauguin does laugh at him.”
“What do you think of his work, Theo?”
“Well, I don’t know. Everyone calls him an imbecile and a madman.”
“Is he?”
“He’s something of a child, a primitive child. We’ll go to the party tonight and you’ll have a chance to judge for yourself. He has all his canvases up on the walls.”
“He must have money if he can give parties.”
“He’s probably the poorest painter in Paris today. He even has to rent the violin he gives lessons on, because he can’t afford to buy it. But he has a purpose in giving these parties. You’ll discover it for yourself.”
The house in which Rousseau lived was occupied by the families of manual labourers. Rousseau had a room on the fourth floor. The street was full of squalling children; the combined stench of cooking, washing, and latrines in the hallway was thick enough to strangle one.
Henri Rousseau answered Theo’s knock. He was a short, thickset man, built a good deal on Vincent’s lines. His fingers were short and stumpy, his head almost square. He had a stubby nose and chin, and wide, innocent eyes.
“You honour me by coming, Monsieur Van Gogh,” he said in a soft, affable tone.
Theo introduced Vincent. Rousseau offered them chairs. The room was colourful, almost gay. Rousseau had put up his peasant curtains of red and white checked cloth at the windows. The walls were filled solid with pictures of wild animals and jungles and incredible landscapes.
Four young boys were standing by the battered old piano in the corner, holding violins in their hands nervously. On the mantel over the fireplace were the homely little cookies that Rousseau had baked and sprinkled with caraway seed. A number of benches and chairs were scattered about the room.
“You are the first to arrive, Monsieur Van Gogh,” said Rousseau. “The critic, Guillaume Pille, is doing me the honour of bringing a party.”
A noise came up from the street; the cries of children’s voices and the rumble of carriage wheels over the cobblestones. Rousseau flung open his door. Pretty feminine voices floated up from the hall.
“Keep going. Keep going,” boomed a voice. “One hand on the banister and the other on your nose!”
A shout of laughter followed this witticism. Rousseau, who had heard it clearly, turned to Vincent and smiled. Vincent thought he had never seen such clear, innocent eyes in a man, eyes so free from malice and resentment.