“He saved a few francs and opened this little shop in the Rue Clauzel. Lautrec painted the front of it blue for him. He was the first man in Paris to exhibit a Cezanne canvas. Since then we’ve all had our stuff there. Not that he ever sells a canvas. Ah, no! You see, Pére is a great lover of art, but since he is poor, he can’t afford to buy pictures. So he exhibits them in his little shop, where he can live among them all day.”
“You mean he wouldn’t sell a painting even if he got a good offer?”
“Decidedly not. He takes only pictures that he loves, and once he gets attached to a canvas, you can’t get it out of the shop. I was there one day when a well-dressed man came in, admired a Cezanne and asked how much it was. Any other dealer in Paris would have been delighted to sell it for sixty francs. Pére Tanguy looked at the canvas for a long time and then said, ‘Ah, yes, this one. It is a particularly good Cezanne. I cannot let it go under six hundred francs.’ When the man ran out, Pére took the painting off the wall and held it before him with tears in his eyes.”
“Then what good does it do to have him exhibit your work?”
“Well, Pére Tanguy Is a strange fellow. All he knows about art is how to grind colours. And yet he has an infallible sense of the authentic. If he asks for one of your canvases, give it to him. It will be your formal initiation into Parisian art. Here’s the Rue Clauzel; let’s turn in.”
The Rue Clauzel was a one block street connecting the Rue des Martyres and the Rue Henri Monnier. It was filled with small shops, on top of which were two of three storeys of white-shuttered dwellings. Pére Tanguy’s shop was just across the street from an
Pére Tanguy was looking over some Japanese prints that were just becoming fashionable in Paris.
“Pére, I’ve brought a friend, Vincent Van Gogh. He’s an ardent communist.”
“I am happy to welcome you to my shop,” said Pére Tanguy in a soft, almost feminine voice.
Tanguy was a little man with a pudgy face and the wistful eyes of a friendly dog. He wore a wide brimmed straw hat which he pulled down to the level of his brows. He had short arms, stumpy hands, and a rough beard. His right eye opened half again as far as the left one.
“You are really a communist, Monsieur Van Gogh?” he asked shyly.
“I don’t know what you mean by communism, Pére Tanguy. I think everyone should work as much as he can, at the job he likes best, and in return get everything he needs.”
“Just as simply as that,” laughed Gauguin.
“Ah, Paul,” said Pére Tanguy, “you worked on the Stock Exchange. It is money that makes men animals, is it not?”
“Yes, that, and lack of money.”
“No, never lack of money, only lack of food and the necessities of life.”
“Quite so, Pére Tanguy,” said Vincent.
“Our friend, Paul,” said Tanguy, “despises the men who make money, and he despises us because we can’t make any. But I would rather belong to the latter class. Any man who lives on more than fifty centimes a day is a scoundrel.”
“Then virtue,” said Gauguin, “has descended upon me by force of necessity. Pére Tanguy, will you trust me for a little more colour? I know I owe you a large bill, but I am unable to work unless . . .”
“Yes, Paul, I will give you credit. If I had a little less trust in people, and you had a little more, we would both be better off. Where is the new picture you promised me? Perhaps I can sell it and get back the money for my colours.”
Gauguin winked at Vincent. “I’ll bring you two of them, Pére, to hang side by side. Now if you will let me have one tube of black, one of yellow . . .”
“Pay your bill and you’ll get more colour!”
The three men turned simultaneously. Madame Tanguy slammed the door to their living quarters and stepped into the shop. She was a wiry little woman with a hard, thin face and bitter eyes. She stormed up to Gauguin.
“Do you think we are in business for charity? Do you think we can eat Tanguy’s communism? Settle up that bill, you rascal, or I shall put the police on you!”
Gauguin smiled in his most winning manner, took Madame Tanguy’s hand and kissed it gallantly.
“Ah, Xantippe, how charming you look this morning.”
Madame Tanguy did not understand why this handsome brute was always calling her Xantippe, but she liked the sound of it and was flattered.
“Don’t think you can get around me, you loafer. I slave my life away to grind those filthy colours, and then you come and steal them.”
“My precious Xantippe, don’t be so hard on me. You have the soul of an artist. I can see it spread all over your lovely face.”
Madame Tanguy lifted her apron as though to wipe the soul of the artist off her face. “Phaw!” she cried. “One artist in the family is enough. I suppose he told you he wants to live on only fifty centimes a day. Where do you think he would get that fifty centimes if I didn’t earn it for him?”
“All Paris speaks of your charm and ability, dear Madame.”
He leaned over and once again brushed his lips across her gnarled hand. She softened.
