De Bock was a charming man. He was
“Won’t you, come have a pot of tea with me?” he asked Vincent. “I’d like to show you some of my recent things. I think I have a new flair since Tersteeg has been selling me.”
His studio was located in Willemspark, the aristocratic section of The Hague. He had his walls draped off in neutral velvets. Lounging divans with luxurious cushions filled every corner. There were smoking tables, amply filled bookcases, and oriental rugs. When Vincent thought of his own studio, he felt like an anchorite.
De Bock lit the gas under a Russian samovar and sent his housekeeper for some cakes. Then he took a canvas out from a closet and placed it on the easel.
“This is my latest,” he said. “Will you have a cigar while you’re looking? It may help the picture; you never can tell.”
He spoke in a light, amused tone. Since Tersteeg had discovered him, his self-confidence had gone sky high. He knew Vincent would like the picture. He took out one of the long Russian cigarettes for which he was famous in The Hague, and studied Vincent’s face for a passing judgement.
Vincent scrutinized the canvas through the blue smoke of De Bock’s expensive cigar. He felt in De Bock’s attitude that horrible moment of suspense when the artist shows one of his creations to strange eyes for the first time. What was he to say? The landscape was not bad, but neither was it good. It was too much like De Bock’s character: casual. He remembered how furious and ill it made him when some young upstart dared condescend to his work. Although the picture was the sort that could be seen in its entirety with one glance, he continued to study it.
“You have a feeling for landscape, De Bock,” he said. “And you certainly know how to put charm in it.”
“Oh, thanks,” said De Bock, pleased at what he thought was a compliment. “Won’t you have a cup of tea?”
Vincent clutched the teacup with both hands, fearing that he might spill it on the rich rug. De Bock went to the samovar and drew himself a cup. Vincent wished desperately not to say anything against De Bock’s work. He liked the man and wanted him for a friend. But the objective craftsman arose within him and he could not put down his criticism.
“There’s only one thing I’m not sure I like about this canvas.”
De Bock took the tray from his housekeeper and said, “Have a cake, old fellow.”
Vincent refused because he did not see how he was going to eat a cake and hold a cup of tea on his lap at the same time.
“What was it you didn’t care for?” asked De Bock lightly.
“Your figures. They don’t seem authentic.”
“You know,” confided De Bock, stretching out leisurely on a comfortable divan, “I’ve often meant to plug away at the figure. But I never seem to get around to it. I take a model and work a few days, and then I suddenly become interested in some landscape or other. After all, landscape is very definitely my medium, so I needn’t let the figure bother me much, need I?”
“Even when I do landscapes,” said Vincent, “I hope to get something of the figure into them. Your work is years ahead of mine; besides, you’re an accepted artist. But will you permit me to offer just one word of friendly criticism?”
“Love to have you.”
“Well then, I should say your painting lacks passion.”
“Passion?” inquired De Bock, cocking one eye at Vincent as he leaned over the samovar. “Which one of the numerous passions are you referring to?”
“It’s rather hard to explain. But your sentiment seems a trifle vague. In my opinion it could stand a little more intensity.”
“But see here, old chap,” said De Bock, straightening up and regarding one of his canvases closely. “I can’t spew emotion all over the canvas just because people tell me to, can I? I paint what I see and feel. If I don’t feel any bloody passion, how am I to get it on my brush? One can’t buy it at the greengrocer’s by the pound, now can one?”
Vincent’s studio looked almost mean and sordid after De Bock’s, but he knew there were compensations for its austerity. He pushed the bed back into one corner and hid his cooking utensils; he wanted the place to be a painter’s studio, not living quarters. Theo’s money for the month had not yet arrived but he still had a few francs left from Mauve’s loan. He used them to hire models. He had been in his studio only a short time when Mauve came to visit him.
“It took me only ten minutes to walk over,” he said, looking about. “Yes, this will do. You should have north light, but this will do. It will make a favourable impression on those people who have suspected you of amateurism and idleness. I see you’ve been working from the model today?”
“Yes. Every day. But it’s expensive.”
