Theo came home in the gloaming and found Vincent sitting dully on the floor. He knelt beside his brother. The last vestiges of daylight were blotted out of the room. Theo was silent for some time.
“Vincent,” he said, “I know how you feel. Stunned. It’s tremendous, isn’t it? We’re throwing overboard nearly everything that painting has held sacred.”
Vincent’s small, hurt eyes caught Theo’s and held them.
“Theo, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t you bring me here sooner? You’ve let me waste six long years.”
“Waste them? Nonsense. You’ve worked out your craft for yourself. You paint like Vincent Van Gogh, and nobody else in the world. If you had come here before you crystallized your own particular expression, Paris would have moulded you to suit itself.”
“But what am I to do? Look at this junk!” He kicked his foot through a large, dark canvas. “It’s all dead, Theo. And worthless.”
“You ask me what you are to do? I’ll tell you. You are to learn about light and colour from the Impressionists. That much you must borrow from them. But nothing more. You must not imitate. You must not get swamped. Don’t let Paris submerge you.”
“But, Theo, I must learn everything all over. Everything I do is wrong.”
“Everything you do is right . . . except your light and colour. You were an Impressionist from the day you picked up a pencil in the Borinage. Look at your drawing! Look at your brushwork! No one ever painted like that before Manet. Look at your lines! You almost never make a definite statement. Look at your faces, your trees, your figures in the fields! They are your impressions. They are rough, imperfect, filtered through your own personality. That’s what it means, to be an Impressionist; not to paint like everyone else, not to be a slave to rules and regulations. You belong to your age, Vincent, and you’re an Impressionist whether you like it or not.”
“Oh, Theo, do I like it!”
“Your work is known in Paris among the young painters who count. Oh, I don’t mean those who sell, but those who are making the important experiments. They want to know you. You’ll learn some marvellous things from them.”
“They know my work? The young Impressionists know my work?”
Vincent got on his knees so that he could see Theo more clearly. Theo thought of the days in Zundert, when they used to play together on the floor of the nursery.
“Of course. What do you think I’ve been doing in Paris all these years? They think you have a penetrating eye and a draftsman’s fist. Now all you need to do is lighten your palette and learn how to paint living, luminous air. Vincent, isn’t it wonderful to be living in a time when such important things are happening?”
“Theo, you old devil, you grand old devil!”
“Come on, get off your knees. Make a light. let’s get all dressed up and go out for dinner. I’ll take you to the Brasserie Universelle. They serve the most delicious
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Vincent took his drawing materials and went to Corman’s. The studio was a large room on the third floor, with a strong north light coming in from the street. There was a nude male model posed at one end, facing the door. About thirty chairs and easels were scattered about for the students. Vincent registered with Corman and was assigned an easel.
After he had been sketching about an hour, the door to the hall opened and a woman stepped in. There was a bandage wrapped around her head and she was holding one hand to her jaw. She took one horrified look at the naked model, exclaimed “
Vincent turned to the man sitting beside him.
“What do you suppose was the matter with her?”
“Oh, that happens every day. She was looking for the dentist next door. The shock of seeing a naked man usually cures their toothache. If the dentist doesn’t move he’ll probably go bankrupt. You’re a newcomer, aren’t you?”
“Yes. This is only my third day in Paris.”
“What’s your name?”
“Van Gogh. What’s yours?”
“Henri Toulouse-Lautrec. Are you any relation to Theo Van Gogh?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Then you must be Vincent! Well, I’m glad to know you. Your brother is the best art dealer in Paris. He’s the only one who will give the young men a chance. Not only that, he fights for us. If we are ever accepted by the Parisian public, it will be due to Theo Van Gogh. We all think he’s mighty fine.”
“So do I.”
Vincent looked closely at the man. Lautrec had a squashed down head; his features, the nose, lips, and chin, stuck far out from the flat head. He wore a full black beard, which grew outward from his chin instead of downward.
“What makes you come to a beastly place like Corman’s?” asked Lautrec.
“I must have some place to sketch. What about you?”
