“Damned if I know. I lived in a brothel all last month up in Montmartre. Did portraits of the girls. That was real work. Sketching in a studio is child’s play.”
“I’d like to see your studies of those women.”
“Would you really?”
“Certainly. Why not?”
“Most people think Fm crazy because I paint dance hall girls and clowns and whores. But that’s where you find real character.”
“I know. I married one in The Hague.”
“
“Take them all, I’ve done four.”
Lautrec looked at the sketches for some moments and then said, “You and I will get along together, my friend. We think alike. Has Corman seen these yet?”
“No.”
“When he does, you’ll be through here. That is, as far as his criticism is concerned. He said to me the other day, ‘Lautrec, you exaggerate, always you exaggerate. One line in each of your studies is caricature.”’
“And you replied, ‘That, my dear Corman, is character, not caricature.”’
A curious light came into Lautrec’s black, needle-point eyes. “Do you still want to see those portraits of my girls?”
“I certainly do.”
“Then come along. This place is a morgue, anyway.”
Lautrec had a thick, squat neck, and powerful shoulders and arms. When he rose to his feet, Vincent saw that his new friend was a cripple. Lautrec, on his feet, stood no higher than when he was seated. His thick torso came forward almost to the apex of a triangle at the waist, then fell in sharply to the tiny shrivelled legs.
They walked down the Boulevard Clichy, Lautrec leaning heavily on his stick. Every few moments he would stop to rest. pointing out some lovely line in the juxtaposition of two buildings. Just one block this side of the Moulin Rouge they turned up the hill toward the Butte Montmartre. Lautrec had to rest more frequently.
“You’re probably wondering what’s wrong with my legs, Van Gogh. Everyone does. Well, I’ll tell you.”
“Oh. please! You don’t need to speak of it.”
“You might as well know.” He doubled over his stick, leaning on it with his shoulders. “I was born with brittle bones. When I was twelve, I slipped on a dance floor and broke my right thigh bone. The next year I fell into a ditch and broke the left one. My legs have never grown an inch since.”
“Does it make you unhappy?”
“No. If I had been normal I should never have been a painter. My father is a count of Toulouse. I was next in line for the title. If I had wanted to, I could have had a marshal’s baton and ridden alongside of the King of France. That is, providing there was a King of France . . .
“Yes, I’m afraid the days of the counts are over.”
“Shall we go on? Degas’s studio is just down this alley. They say I’m copying his work because he does ballet dancers and I do the girls from the Moulin Rouge. Let them say what they like. This is my place, 19
He threw open the door and bowed Vincent in.
“I live alone,” he said. “Sit down, if you can find a place to sit.”
Vincent looked about. In addition to the canvases, frames, easels, stools, steps, and rolls of drapery, two large tables encumbered the studio. One was laden with bottles of rare wines and decanters of multi-coloured liqueurs. On the other were piled up dancers’ slippers, periwigs, old books, women’s dresses, gloves, stockings, vulgar photographs, and precious Japanese prints. There was just one little space among all this litter where Lautrec could sit and paint.
“What’s the matter, Van Gogh?” he asked. “Can’t you find a place to sit? Just shove that junk on the floor and bring the chair over to the window. There were twenty-seven girls in the house. I slept with every one of them. Don’t you agree that it’s necessary to sleep with a woman before you can fully understand her?”
“Yes.”
“Here are the sketches. I took them down to a dealer on the Capucines. He said, ‘Lautrec, why have you a fixation on ugliness? Why do you always paint the most sordid and immoral people you can find? These women are repulsive, utterly repulsive. They have debauch and sinister evil written all over their faces. Is that what modern art means, to create ugliness? Have you painters become so blind to beauty that you can paint only the scum of the earth?’ I said ‘Pardon me, but I think I’m going to be sick, and I shouldn’t like to do it all over your lovely carpet.’ Is that light all right, Van Gogh? Will you have a drink? Speak up, what do you prefer? I have everything you could possibly want.”
He hobbled about the chairs, tables, and rolls of drapery with agile movements, poured a drink and passed it to Vincent.
“Here’s to ugliness, Van Gogh,” he cried. “May it never infect the Academy!”
