As he was throwing his hat on the rack, the man noticed a Rousseau tiger peering through a jungle. He pointed it out to his comrade. Everyone at the painters’ table stiffened. Rousseau half rose. The woman said something in a low tone and laughed. They sat down, and holding their heads close together, devoured the menu voraciously.
At a quarter to eight the waiter served the soup without asking. Nobody touched it. When it had grown cold, the waiter took it away. He brought the
One by one the customers paid their checks, returned the cursory
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said the waiter, “but it’s eight-thirty, and we are closing.”
Pére Tanguy took the pictures off the walls and carried them out into the street. He pushed the cart home through the slowly falling dusk.
THE SPIRIT OF old Goupil and Uncle Vincent Van Gogh had vanished forever from the galleries. In their place had come a policy of selling pictures as though they were any other commodity, such as shoes or herrings. Theo was constantly being harassed to make more money and sell poorer pictures.
“See here, Theo,” said Vincent, “why don’t you leave Goupils?”
“The other art dealers are just as bad,” replied Theo wearily. “Besides, I’ve been with them so long. I’d better not change.”
“You must change. I insist that you must. You’re becoming unhappier every day down there. Let go of me! I can walk around if I like. Theo, you’re the best known and best liked young art dealer in Paris. Why don’t you open a shop for yourself?”
“Oh, Lord, do we have to go over all that again?”
“Look, Theo, I’ve got a marvellous idea. We’ll open a communist art shop. We will all give you our canvases, and whatever money you take in, we’ll live on equally. We can scrape together enough francs to open a little shop in Paris, and we’ll take a house out in the country where we’ll all live and work. Portier sold a Lautrec the other day, and Pére Tanguy has sold several Cezannes. I’m sure we could attract the young art buyers of Paris. And we wouldn’t need much money to run that house in the country. We’d live together simply, instead of keeping up a dozen establishments in Paris.”
“Vincent, I have a frightful headache. Let me go to sleep now, will you?”
“No, you can sleep on Sunday. Listen, Theo . . . where are you going? All right, undress if you like, but I’m going to talk to you anyway. Here, I’ll sit by the head of your bed. Now if you’re unhappy at Goupils, and all the young painters of Paris are willing, and we can get a little money together . . .”
Pére Tanguy and Lautrec came in with Vincent the following night. Theo had hoped Vincent would be out for the evening. Pére Tanguy’s little eyes were dancing with excitement.
“Monsieur Van Gogh, Monsieur Van Gogh, it is a wonderful idea. You must do it. I will give up my shop and move to the country with you. I will grind the colours, stretch the canvas, and build the frames. I ask only for my food and shelter.”
Theo put down his book with a sigh.
“Where are we going to get the money to begin this enterprise? The money to open a shop, and rent a house, and feed the men?”
“Here, I brought it with me,” cried Pére Tanguy. “Two hundred and twenty francs. All I have saved up. Take it, Monsieur Van Gogh. It will help begin our colony.”
“Lautrec, you’re a sensible man. What do you say to all this nonsense?”
“I think it a damned good idea. As things go now, we are not only fighting all of Paris, but fighting among ourselves. If we could present a united front . . .”
“Very well, you are wealthy. Will you help us?”
“Ah, no. If it is to be a subsidized colony, it will lose its purpose. I will contribute two hundred and twenty francs, the same as Pére Tanguy.”
“It’s such a crazy idea! If you men knew anything about the business world . . .”
Pére Tanguy ran up to Theo and wrung his hand.
“My dear Monsieur Van Gogh, I beseech you, do not call it a crazy idea. It is a glorious idea. You must, you simply must . . .”
“There’s no crawling out now, Theo,” said Vincent. “We’ve got you! We’re going to raise some money and make you our master. You’ve said good-bye to Goupils. You’re through there. You’re now manager of the Communist Art Colony.”
Theo ran a hand over his eyes.
“I can just see myself managing you bunch of wild animals.”
When Theo got home the next night he found his house crammed to the doors with excited painters. The air was blue with foul tobacco smoke, and churned by loud, turbulent voices. Vincent was seated on a fragile table in the middle of the living room, master of ceremonies.
