“Vincent,” cried Rousseau, “have I told you about the letter I got this afternoon? Perfumed, too. From the same lady.”
He ran along at Vincent’s side, waving his arms, telling the whole interminable story over again. When he finally finished and dropped back with Seurat, Lautrec called Vincent.
“Do you know who Rousseau’s lady is?” he asked.
“No. How should I?”
Lautrec snickered. “It’s Gauguin. He’s giving Rousseau a love affair. The poor fellow has never had a woman. Gauguin is going to feed him with perfumed letters for a couple of months and then make an assignation. He’ll dress up in women’s clothes and meet Rousseau in one of the Montmartre rooms with peepholes. We’re all going to be at the holes watching Rousseau make love for the first time. It should be priceless.”
“Gauguin, you’re a fiend.”
“Oh, come, Vincent,” said Gauguin. “I think it’s an excellent joke.”
At length they arrived at the Restaurant Norvins. It was a modest place, tucked away between a wine shop and a supply store for horses. The outside was painted a varnish-yellow, the walls of the inside a light blue. There were perhaps twenty square tables with red and white checked tablecloths. At the back, near the kitchen door, was a high booth for the proprietor.
For a solid hour the painters quarrelled about which pictures should be hung next to which. Pére Tanguy was almost distraught. The proprietor was getting angry, for the dinner hour was near and the restaurant was in chaos. Seurat refused to let his pictures go up at all because the blue of the walls killed his skies. Cezanne would not allow his still lifes to hang next to Lautrec’s “miserable posters,” and Rousseau was offended because they wanted to stick his things on the back wall near the kitchen. Lautrec insisted that one of his large canvases be hung in the
“That is the most contemplative moment in a man’s day,” he said.
Pére Tanguy came to Vincent almost in despair. “Here,” he said, “take these two francs, add to it whatever you can, and hustle everyone across the street to a bar. If only I had fifteen minutes to myself, I could finish.”
The ruse worked. When they all trooped back to the restaurant, the exhibition was in order. They stopped quarrelling and sat down at a large table by the street door. Pére Tanguy had put signs up all over the walls: THESE PAINTINGS FOR SALE, CHEAP. SEE THE PROPRIETOR.
It was five-thirty. Dinner was not served until six. The men fidgeted like schoolgirls. Every time the front door opened, all eyes turned to it hopefully. The customers of Norvins never came until the dot of six.
“Look at Vincent,” whispered Gauguin to Seurat. “He’s as nervous as a prima donna.”
“Tell you what I’ll do, Gauguin,” said Lautrec, “I’ll wager you the price of dinner that I sell a canvas before you do.”
“You’re on.”
“Cezanne, I’ll give you three to one odds.” It was Lautrec.
Cezanne grew crimson at the insult, and everyone laughed at him.
“Remember,” said Vincent, “Pére Tanguy is to do all the selling. Don’t anyone try to bargain with the buyers.”
“Why don’t they come?” asked Rousseau. “It’s late.”
As the clock on the wall drew nearer six, the group became more and more jumpy. At length all bantering stopped. The men did not move their eyes from the door. A feeling of tension settled over them.
“I didn’t feel this way when I exhibited with the Independents, before all the critics of Paris,” murmured Seurat.
“Look, look!” whispered Rousseau, “that man, crossing the street. He’s coming this way. He’s a customer.”
The man walked past Norvins and disappeared. The clock on the wall chimed six times. On the last chime the door was opened and a labourer came in. He was shabbily dressed. Lines of fatigue were written inward and downward on his shoulders and back.
“Now,” said Vincent, “we shall see.”
The labourer slouched to a table at the other side of the room, threw his hat on a rack, and sat down. The six painters strained forward, watching him. The man scanned the menu, ordered a
“
Two sheet-metal workers walked in. The proprietor bade them good evening. They grunted, dropped into the nearest chairs, and immediately plunged into a fierce quarrel about something that had happened during the day.
Slowly the restaurant filled. A few women came in with the men. It seemed as though everyone had his regular table. The first thing they looked at was the menu; when they were served, they were so intent upon their food that they never once glanced up. After dinner they lighted their pipes, chatted, unfolded their copies of the evening paper, and read.
“Would the gentlemen like to be served with their dinner now?” asked the waiter, about seven o’clock.
No one answered. The waiter walked away. A man and a woman entered.
