“Of course. He’s just the man.”
“Rousseau, be a good fellow and run down to Pére Tanguy’s. Tell him he’s wanted on important business.”
“You can count me out of this scheme,” said Cezanne.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gauguin. “Afraid your lovely pictures will be soiled by the eyes of workingmen?”
“It isn’t that. I’m going back to Aix at the end of the month.”
“Try it just once, Cezanne,” urged Vincent. “If it doesn’t work, you’re nothing out.”
“Oh, very well.”
“When we get through with the restaurants,” said Lautrec, “we might start on the bordellos. I know most of the Madames on Montmartre. They have a better clientele, and I think we could get higher prices.”
Pére Tanguy came running in, all excited. Rousseau had been able to give him only a garbled account of what was up. His round straw hat was sitting at an angle, and his pudgy little face was lit up with eager enthusiasm.
When he heard the plan he exclaimed, “Yes, yes, I know the very place. The Restaurant Norvins. The owner is a friend of mine. His walls are bare, and he’ll be pleased. When we are through there, I know another one on the Rue Pierre. Oh, there are thousands of restaurants in Paris.”
“When is the first exhibition of the club of the Petit Boulevard to take place?” asked Gauguin.
“Why put it off?” demanded Vincent. “Why not begin tomorrow?”
Tanguy hopped about on one foot, took off his hat, then crammed it on his head again.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow! Bring me your canvases in the morning. I will hang them in the Restaurant Norvins in the afternoon. And when the people come for their dinner, we will cause a sensation. We will sell the pictures like holy candles on Easter. What’s this you’re giving me? A glass of beer? Good! Gentlemen, we drink to the Communist Art Club of the Petit Boulevard. May its first exhibition be a success.”
11
PÉRE TANGUY KNOCKED on the door of Vincent’s apartment the following noon.
“I’ve been around to tell all the others,” he said. “We can only exhibit at Norvins providing we eat our dinner there.”
“That’s all right.”
“Good. The others have agreed. We can’t hang the pictures until four-thirty. Can you be at my shop at four? We are all going over together.”
“I’ll be there.”
When they reached the blue shop on the Rue Clauzel, Pére Tanguy was already loading the canvases into a handcart. The others were inside, smoking and discussing Japanese prints.
“Alors,” cried Pére, “we are ready.”
“May I help you with the cart, Pére?” asked Vincent.
“No, no, I am the manager.”
He pushed the cart to the centre of the street and began the long climb upward. The painters walked behind, two by two. First came Gauguin and Lautrec; they loved to be together because of the ludicrous picture they made. Seurat was listening to Rousseau, who was all excited over a second perfumed letter he had received that afternoon. Vincent and Cezanne, who sulked and kept uttering words like dignity and decorum, brought up the rear.
“Here, Pére Tanguy,” said Gauguin, after they wound up the hill a way, “that cart is heavy, loaded down with immortal masterpieces. Let me push it for a while.”
“No, no,” cried Pére, running ahead. “I am the colour bearer of this revolution. When the first shot is fired, I shall fall.”
They made a droll picture, the ill-assorted, fantastically dressed men, walking in the middle of the street behind a common pushcart. They did not mind the stares of the amused passers-by. They laughed and talked in high spirits.
“Vincent,” cried Rousseau, “have I told you about the letter I got this afternoon? Perfumed, too. From the same lady.”
He ran along at Vincent’s side, waving his arms, telling the whole interminable story over again. When he finally finished and dropped back with Seurat, Lautrec called Vincent.
“Do you know who Rousseau’s lady is?” he asked.
“No. How should I?”
Lautrec snickered. “It’s Gauguin. He’s giving Rousseau a love affair. The poor fellow has never had a woman. Gauguin is going to feed him with perfumed letters for a couple of months and then make an assignation. He’ll dress up in women’s clothes and meet Rousseau in one of the Montmartre rooms with peepholes. We’re all going to be at the holes watching Rousseau make love for the first time. It should be priceless.”
“Gauguin, you’re a fiend.”
“Oh, come, Vincent,” said Gauguin. “I think it’s an excellent joke.”
At length they arrived at the Restaurant Norvins. It was a modest place, tucked away between a wine shop and a supply store for horses. The outside was painted a varnish-yellow, the walls of the inside a light blue. There were perhaps twenty square tables with red and white checked tablecloths. At the back, near the kitchen door, was a high booth for the proprietor.
For a solid hour the painters quarrelled about which pictures should be hung next to which. Pére Tanguy was almost distraught. The proprietor was getting angry, for the dinner hour was near and the restaurant was in chaos. Seurat refused to let his pictures go up at all because the blue of the walls killed his skies. Cezanne would not allow his still lifes to hang next to Lautrec’s “miserable posters,” and Rousseau was offended because they wanted to stick his things on the back wall near the kitchen. Lautrec insisted that one of his large canvases be hung in the lavabo.
“That is the most contemplative moment in a man’s day,” he said.
Pére Tanguy came to Vincent almost in despair. “Here,” he said, “take these two francs, add to it whatever you can, and hustle everyone across the street to a bar. If only I had fifteen minutes to myself, I could finish.”
The ruse worked. When they all trooped back to the restaurant, the exhibition was in order. They stopped quarrelling and sat down at a large table by the street door. Pére Tanguy had put signs up all over the walls: THESE PAINTINGS FOR SALE, CHEAP. SEE THE PROPRIETOR.
It was five-thirty. Dinner was not served until six. The men fidgeted like schoolgirls. Every time the front door opened, all eyes turned to it hopefully. The customers of Norvins never came until the dot of six.
“Look at Vincent,” whispered Gauguin to Seurat. “He’s as nervous as a prima donna.”
“Tell you what I’ll do, Gauguin,” said Lautrec, “I’ll wager you the price of dinner that I sell a canvas before you do.”
“You’re on.”
“Cezanne, I’ll give you three to one odds.” It was Lautrec.
Cezanne grew crimson at the insult, and everyone laughed at him.
“Remember,” said Vincent, “Pére Tanguy is to do all the selling. Don’t anyone try to bargain with the buyers.”
“Why don’t they come?” asked Rousseau. “It’s late.”
As the clock on the wall drew nearer six, the group became more and more jumpy. At length all bantering stopped. The men did not move their eyes from the door. A feeling of tension settled over them.
“I didn’t feel this way when I exhibited with the Independents, before all the critics of Paris,” murmured Seurat.
“Look, look!” whispered Rousseau, “that man, crossing the street. He’s coming this way. He’s a customer.”
The man walked past Norvins and disappeared. The clock on the wall chimed six times. On the last chime the door was opened and a labourer came in. He was shabbily dressed. Lines of fatigue were written inward and downward on his shoulders and back.