“Very well,” said Vincent, shooting the hard, round yolk of an egg into his mouth, “I will tell you. I’ve been working out a plan. We’re a lot of nobodies. Manet, Degas, Sisley, and Pissarro paved the way for us. They’ve been accepted and their work is exhibited in the big galleries. All right, they’re the painters of the Grande Boulevard. But we have to go into the side streets. We’re the painters of the Petit Boulevard. Why couldn’t we exhibit our painting in the little restaurants of the side streets, the workingman’s restaurants? Each of us would contribute, say, five canvases. Every afternoon we would put them up in a new place. We’d sell the pictures for whatever the workers could afford. In addition to having our work constantly before the public, we would be making it possible for the poor people of Paris to see good art, and buy beautiful pictures for almost nothing.”
“
“It takes me a year to finish a canvas,” grumbled Seurat. “Do you think I’m going to sell it to some filthy carpenter for five sous?”
“You could contribute your little studies.”
“Yes, but suppose the restaurants won’t take our pictures?”
“Of course they will.”
“Why not? It costs them nothing, and makes their places beautiful.”
“How would we handle it. Who would find the restaurants?”
“I have that all figured out,” cried Vincent. “We’ll make Pére Tanguy our manager. He’ll find the restaurants, hang the pictures, and take in the money.”
“Of course. He’s just the man.”
“Rousseau, be a good fellow and run down to Pére Tanguy’s. Tell him he’s wanted on important business.”
“You can count me out of this scheme,” said Cezanne.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gauguin. “Afraid your lovely pictures will be soiled by the eyes of workingmen?”
“It isn’t that. I’m going back to Aix at the end of the month.”
“Try it just once, Cezanne,” urged Vincent. “If it doesn’t work, you’re nothing out.”
“Oh, very well.”
“When we get through with the restaurants,” said Lautrec, “we might start on the bordellos. I know most of the Madames on Montmartre. They have a better clientele, and I think we could get higher prices.”
Pére Tanguy came running in, all excited. Rousseau had been able to give him only a garbled account of what was up. His round straw hat was sitting at an angle, and his pudgy little face was lit up with eager enthusiasm.
When he heard the plan he exclaimed, “Yes, yes, I know the very place. The Restaurant Norvins. The owner is a friend of mine. His walls are bare, and he’ll be pleased. When we are through there, I know another one on the Rue Pierre. Oh, there are thousands of restaurants in Paris.”
“When is the first exhibition of the club of the Petit Boulevard to take place?” asked Gauguin.
“Why put it off?” demanded Vincent. “Why not begin tomorrow?”
Tanguy hopped about on one foot, took off his hat, then crammed it on his head again.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow! Bring me your canvases in the morning. I will hang them in the Restaurant Norvins in the afternoon. And when the people come for their dinner, we will cause a sensation. We will sell the pictures like holy candles on Easter. What’s this you’re giving me? A glass of beer? Good! Gentlemen, we drink to the Communist Art Club of the Petit Boulevard. May its first exhibition be a success.”
PéRE TANGUY KNOCKED on the door of Vincent’s apartment the following noon.
“I’ve been around to tell all the others,” he said. “We can only exhibit at Norvins providing we eat our dinner there.”
“That’s all right.”
“Good. The others have agreed. We can’t hang the pictures until four-thirty. Can you be at my shop at four? We are all going over together.”
“I’ll be there.
When they reached the blue shop on the Rue Clauzel, Pére Tanguy was already loading the canvases into a handcart. The others were inside, smoking and discussing Japanese prints.
“
“May I help you with the cart, Pére?” asked Vincent.
“No, no, I am the manager.”
He pushed the cart to the centre of the street and began the long climb upward. The painters walked behind, two by two. First came Gauguin and Lautrec; they loved to be together because of the ludicrous picture they made. Seurat was listening to Rousseau, who was all excited over a second perfumed letter he had received that afternoon. Vincent and Cezanne, who sulked and kept uttering words like dignity and decorum, brought up the rear.
“Here, Pére Tanguy,” said Gauguin, after they wound up the hill a way, “that cart is heavy, loaded down with immortal masterpieces. Let me push it for a while.”
“No, no,” cried Pére, running ahead. “I am the colour bearer of this revolution. When the first shot is fired, I shall fall.”
They made a droll picture, the ill-assorted, fantastically dressed men, walking in the middle of the street behind a common pushcart. They did not mind the stares of the amused passers-by. They laughed and talked in high spirits.
