“Then what good does it do to have him exhibit your work?”
“Well, Pére Tanguy is a strange fellow. All he knows about art is how to grind colours. And yet he has an infallible sense of the authentic. If he asks for one of your canvases, give it to him. It will be your formal initiation into Parisian art. Here’s the Rue Clauzel; let’s turn in.”
The Rue Clauzel was a one block street connecting the Rue des Martyres and the Rue Henri Monnier. It was filled with small shops, on top of which were two of three storeys of white-shuttered dwellings. Pére Tanguy’s shop was just across the street from an école primaire de filles.
Pére Tanguy was looking over some Japanese prints that were just becoming fashionable in Paris.
“Pére, I’ve brought a friend, Vincent Van Gogh. He’s an ardent communist.”
“I am happy to welcome you to my shop,” said Pére Tanguy in a soft, almost feminine voice.
Tanguy was a little man with a pudgy face and the wistful eyes of a friendly dog. He wore a wide brimmed straw hat which he pulled down to the level of his brows. He had short arms, stumpy hands, and a rough beard. His right eye opened half again as far as the left one.
“You are really a communist, Monsieur Van Gogh?” he asked shyly.
“I don’t know what you mean by communism, Pére Tanguy. I think everyone should work as much as he can, at the job he likes best, and in return get everything he needs.”
“Just as simply as that,” laughed Gauguin.
“Ah, Paul,” said Pére Tanguy, “you worked on the Stock Exchange. It is money that makes men animals, is it not?”
“Yes, that, and lack of money.”
“No, never lack of money, only lack of food and the necessities of life.”
“Quite so, Pére Tanguy,” said Vincent.
“Our friend, Paul,” said Tanguy, “despises the men who make money, and he despises us because we can’t make any. But I would rather belong to the latter class. Any man who lives on more than fifty centimes a day is a scoundrel.”
“Then virtue,” said Gauguin, “has descended upon me by force of necessity. Pére Tanguy, will you trust me for a little more colour? I know I owe you a large bill, but I am unable to work unless . . .”
“Yes, Paul, I will give you credit. If I had a little less trust in people, and you had a little more, we would both be better off. Where is the new picture you promised me? Perhaps I can sell it and get back the money for my colours.”
Gauguin winked at Vincent. “I’ll bring you two of them, Pére, to hang side by side. Now if you will let me have one tube of black, one of yellow . . .”
“Pay your bill and you’ll get more colour!”
The three men turned simultaneously. Madame Tanguy slammed the door to their living quarters and stepped into the shop. She was a wiry little woman with a hard, thin face and bitter eyes. She stormed up to Gauguin.
“Do you think we are in business for charity? Do you think we can eat Tanguy’s communism? Settle up that bill, you rascal, or I shall put the police on you!”
Gauguin smiled in his most winning manner, took Madame Tanguy’s hand and kissed it gallantly.
“Ah, Xantippe, how charming you look this morning.”
Madame Tanguy did not understand why this handsome brute was always calling her Xantippe, but she liked the sound of it and was flattered.
“Don’t think you can get around me, you loafer. I slave my life away to grind those filthy colours, and then you come and steal them.”
“My precious Xantippe, don’t be so hard on me. You have the soul of an artist. I can see it spread all over your lovely face.”
Madame Tanguy lifted her apron as though to wipe the soul of the artist off her face. “Phaw!” she cried. “One artist in the family is enough. I suppose he told you he wants to live on only fifty centimes a day. Where do you think he would get that fifty centimes if I didn’t earn it for him?”
“All Paris speaks of your charm and ability, dear Madame.”
He leaned over and once again brushed his lips across her gnarled hand. She softened.
“Well, you are a scoundrel and a flatterer, but you can have a little colour this time. Only see that you pay your bill.”
“For this kindness, my lovely Xantippe, I shall paint your portrait. One day it will hang in the Louvre and immortalize us both.”
The little bell on the front door jingled. A stranger walked in. “That picture you have in the window,” he said. “That still life. Who is it by?”
“Paul Cezanne.”
“Cezanne? Never heard of him. Is it for sale?”
“Ah, no, alas, it is already . . .”
Madame Tanguy threw off her apron, pushed Tanguy out of the way, and ran up to the man eagerly.
“But of course it is for sale. It is a beautiful still life, is it not, Monsieur? Have you ever seen such apples before? We will sell it to you cheap, Monsieur, since you admire it.”
“How much?”
“How much, Tanguy?” demanded Madame, with a threat in her voice.
Tanguy swallowed hard. “Three hun . . .”
“Tanguy!”
“Two hun. . .”
“TANGUY!”
“Well, one hundred francs.”
“A hundred francs?” said the stranger. “For an unknown painter? I’m afraid that’s too much. I was only prepared to spend about twenty-five.”
Madame Tanguy took the canvas out of the window.
“See, Monsieur, it is a big picture. There are four apples. Four apples are a hundred francs. You only want to spend twenty-five. Then why not take one apple?”
The man studied the canvas for a moment and said, “Yes, I could do that. Just cut this apple the full length of the canvas and I’ll take it.”
Madame ran back to her apartment, got a pair of scissors, and cut off the end apple. She wrapped it in a piece of paper, handed it to the man, and took the twenty-five francs. He walked out with the bundle under his arm.
“My favourite Cezanne,” moaned Tanguy. “I put it in the window so people could see it for a moment and go away happy.”
Madame put the mutilated canvas on the counter.
“Next time someone wants a Cezanne, and hasn’t much money, sell him an apple. Take anything you can get for it. They’re worthless anyway, he paints so many of them. And you needn’t laugh, Paul Gauguin, the same goes for you. I’m going to take those canvases of yours off the wall and sell every one of your naked heathen females for five francs apiece.”
“My darling Xantippe,” said Gauguin, “we met too late in life. If only you had been my partner on the Stock Exchange, we would have owned the Bank of France by now.”
When Madame retired to her quarters at the rear Pére Tanguy said to Vincent, “You are a painter, Monsieur? I hope you will buy your colours here. And perhaps you will let me see some of your pictures?”
“I shall be happy to. These are lovely Japanese prints. Are they for sale?”
“Yes. They have become very fashionable in Paris since the Goncourt brothers have taken to collecting them. They are influencing our young painters a great deal.”
“I like these two. I want to study them. How much are they?”
“Three francs apiece.”
“I’ll take them. Oh, Lord, I forgot. I spent my last franc this morning. Gauguin, have you six francs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”