“Now,” said Vincent, “we shall see.”
The labourer slouched to a table at the other side of the room, threw his hat on a rack, and sat down. The six painters strained forward, watching him. The man scanned the menu, ordered a plat du jour, and within a moment was scooping up his soup with a large spoon. He did not raise his eyes from his plate.
“Tiens,” said Vincent, “c’est curleux.”
Two sheet-metal workers walked in. The proprietor bade them good evening. They grunted, dropped into the nearest chairs, and immediately plunged into a fierce quarrel about something that had happened during the day.
Slowly the restaurant filled. A few women came in with the men. It seemed as though everyone had his regular table. The first thing they looked at was the menu; when they were served, they were so intent upon their food that they never once glanced up. After dinner they lighted their pipes, chatted, unfolded their copies of the evening paper, and read.
“Would the gentlemen like to be served with their dinner now?” asked the waiter, about seven o’clock.
No one answered. The waiter walked away. A man and a woman entered.
As he was throwing his hat on the rack, the man noticed a Rousseau tiger peering through a jungle. He pointed it out to his comrade. Everyone at the painters’ table stiffened. Rousseau half rose. The woman said something in a low tone and laughed. They sat down, and holding their heads close together, devoured the menu voraciously.
At a quarter to eight the waiter served the soup without asking. Nobody touched it. When it had grown cold, the waiter took it away. He brought the plat du jour. Lautrec drew pictures in the gravy with his fork. Only Rousseau could eat. Everyone, even Seurat, emptied his carafe of sour red wine. The restaurant was hot with the smell of food, with the odours of people who had laboured and perspired in the heat of the sun.
One by one the customers paid their checks, returned the cursory bonsoir of the proprietor and filed out.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said the waiter, “but it’s eight-thirty, and we are closing.”
Pére Tanguy took the pictures off the walls and carried them out into the street. He pushed the cart home through the slowly falling dusk.
12
THE SPIRIT OF old Goupil and Uncle Vincent Van Gogh had vanished forever from the galleries. In their place had come a policy of selling pictures as though they were any other commodity, such as shoes or herrings. Theo was constantly being harassed to make more money and sell poorer pictures.
“See here, Theo,” said Vincent, “why don’t you leave Goupils?”
“The other art dealers are just as bad,” replied Theo wearily. “Besides, I’ve been with them so long. I’d better not change.”
“You must change. I insist that you must. You’re becoming unhappier every day down there. Let go of me! I can walk around if I like. Theo, you’re the best known and best liked young art dealer in Paris. Why don’t you open a shop for yourself?”
“Oh, Lord, do we have to go over all that again?”
“Look, Theo, I’ve got a marvellous idea. We’ll open a communist art shop. We will all give you our canvases, and whatever money you take in, we’ll live on equally. We can scrape together enough francs to open a little shop in Paris, and we’ll take a house out in the country where we’ll all live and work. Portier sold a Lautrec the other day, and Pére Tanguy has sold several Cezannes. I’m sure we could attract the young art buyers of Paris. And we wouldn’t need much money to run that house in the country. We’d live together simply, instead of keeping up a dozen establishments in Paris.”
“Vincent, I have a frightful headache. Let me go to sleep now, will you?”
“No, you can sleep on Sunday. Listen, Theo . . . where are you going? All right, undress if you like, but I’m going to talk to you anyway. Here, I’ll sit by the head of your bed. Now if you’re unhappy at Goupils, and all the young painters of Paris are willing, and we can get a little money together . . .”
Pére Tanguy and Lautrec came in with Vincent the following night. Theo had hoped Vincent would be out for the evening. Pére Tanguy’s little eyes were dancing with excitement.
“Monsieur Van Gogh, Monsieur Van Gogh, it is a wonderful idea. You must do it. I will give up my shop and move to the country with you. I will grind the colours, stretch the canvas, and build the frames. I ask only for my food and shelter.”
Theo put down his book with a sigh.
“Where are we going to get the money to begin this enterprise? The money to open a shop, and rent a house, and feed the men?”
“Here, I brought it with me,” cried Pére Tanguy. “Two hundred and twenty francs. All I have saved up. Take it, Monsieur Van Gogh. It will help begin our colony.”
“Lautrec, you’re a sensible man. What do you say to all this nonsense?”
“I think it a damned good idea. As things go now, we are not only fighting all of Paris, but fighting among ourselves. If we could present a united front . . .”
“Very well, you are wealthy. Will you help us?”
“Ah, no. If it is to be a subsidized colony, it will lose its purpose. I will contribute two hundred and twenty francs, the same as Pére Tanguy.”
“It’s such a crazy idea! If you men knew anything about the business world . . .”
Pére Tanguy ran up to Theo and wrung his hand.
“My dear Monsieur Van Gogh, I beseech you, do not call it a crazy idea. It is a glorious idea. You must, you simply must . . .”
“There’s no crawling out now, Theo,” said Vincent. “We’ve got you! We’re going to raise some money and make you our master. You’ve said good-bye to Goupils. You’re through there. You’re now manager of the Communist Art Colony.”
Theo ran a hand over his eyes.
“I can just see myself managing you bunch of wild animals.”
When Theo got home the next night he found his house crammed to the doors with excited painters. The air was blue with foul tobacco smoke, and churned by loud, turbulent voices. Vincent was seated on a fragile table in the middle of the living room, master of ceremonies.
“No, no,” he cried, “there will be no pay. Absolutely no money. We will never see money from one year to the next. Theo will sell the pictures and we will receive our food, shelter, and materials.”
“What about the men whose work never sells?” demanded Seurat. “How long are we going to support them?”
“As long as they want to stay with us and work.”
“Wonderful,” grunted Gauguin. “We’ll have all the amateur painters in Europe on our doorstep.”
“Here’s Monsieur Van Gogh!” shouted Pére Tanguy, catching a sight of Theo as he stood leaning against the door. “Three cheers for our manager.”
“Hurrah for Theo! Hurrah for Theo! Hurrah for Theo!”
Everyone was enormously excited. Rousseau wanted to know if he could still give violin lessons at the colony. Anquetin said he owed three months rent, and that they’d better find the country house very soon. Cezanne insisted that a man be allowed to spend his own money, if he had any. Vincent cried, “No, that would kill our communism. We must all share and share alike.” Lautrec wanted to know if they could have women at the house. Gauguin insisted that everyone be forced to contribute at least two canvases a month.
“Then I won’t come in!” shouted Seurat. “I finish only one big canvas a year.”
“What about materials?” demanded Pére Tanguy. “Do I give everyone the same amount of colour and canvas each week?”