“You won’t have to work at Corman’s any longer, Vincent,” said Theo. They were arranging and rearranging the furniture in the living room.
“No, thank heavens. Still, I needed to do a few female nudes.”
Theo placed the sofa across the room from the cabinet and surveyed the room critically. “You haven’t done a complete canvas in colour for some time, have you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What would be the use? Until I can mix the right colours . . . where do you want this armchair, Theo? Under the lamp or next to the window? But now that I’ve got a studio of my own . . .”
The following morning Vincent got up with the sun, arranged the easel in his new studio, put a piece of canvas on a frame, laid out the shining new palette that Theo had bought him, and softened up his brushes. When it was time for Theo to rise, he put on the coffee and went down to the
Theo could feel Vincent’s turbulent excitement across the breakfast table.
“Well, Vincent,” he said, “you’ve been to school for three months. Oh, I don’t mean Corman’s, I mean the school of Paris! You’ve seen the most important painting that has been done in Europe in three hundred years. And now you’re ready to . . .”
Vincent pushed aside his half-eaten breakfast and jumped to his feet. “I think I’ll begin . . .”
“Sit down. Finish your breakfast. You have plenty of time. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll buy your paints and canvas wholesale, so you’ll always have plenty on hand. You’d better have your teeth operated on, too; I want to get you into perfect health. But for goodness sake, go about your work slowly and carefully!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Theo. Have I ever gone about anything slowly and carefully?”
When Theo came home that night he found that Vincent had lashed himself into a fury. He had been working progressively at his craft for six years under the most heartbreaking conditions; now that everything was made easy for him, he was faced with a humiliating impotence.
It was ten o’clock before Theo could get him quieted down. When they went out to dinner, some of Vincent’s confidence had returned. Theo looked pale and worn.
The weeks that followed were torture for both of them. When Theo returned from the gallery he would find Vincent in any one of his hundred different kinds of tempests. The strong lock on his door did him absolutely no good. Vincent sat on his bed until the early hours of the morning, arguing with him. When Theo fell asleep, Vincent shook him by the shoulder and woke him up.
“Stop pacing the floor and sit still for a moment,” begged Theo one night. “And stop drinking that damned absinthe. That’s not how Gauguin developed his palette. Now listen to me, you infernal idiot, you must give yourself at least a year before you even begin to look at your work with a critical eye. What good is it going to do to make yourself sick? You’re getting thin and nervous. You know you can’t do your best work in that condition.”
The hotness of a Parisian summer came on. The sun burned up the streets. Paris sat in front of its favourite cafe until one and two in the morning, sipping cold drinks. The flowers on the Butte Montmartre burst into a riot of colour. The Seine wound its glistening way through the city, through banks of trees and cool patches of green grass.
Every morning Vincent strapped his easel to his back and went looking for a picture. He had never known such hot, constant sun in Holland, nor had he ever seen such deep, elemental colour. Nearly every evening he returned from his painting in time to join the heated discussions on the
One day Gauguin came in to help him mix some pigments.
“From whom do you buy these colours?” he asked.
“Theo gets them wholesale.”
“You should patronize Pére Tanguy. His prices are the lowest in Paris, and he trusts a man when he’s broke.”
“Who is this Pére Tanguy? I’ve heard you mention him before.”
“Haven’t you met him yet? Good Lord, you mustn’t hesitate another moment. You and Pére are the only two men I’ve ever met whose communism really comes from the heart. Put on that beautiful rabbit-fur bonnet of yours. We’re going down to the Rue Clauzel.”
As they wound down the Rue Lepic, Gauguin told Pére Tanguy’s story. “He used to be a plasterer before he came to Paris. He worked as a colour-grinder in the house of Edouard, then took the job of
