“Never mind, pitch into your work and soon you’ll be able to afford something better. Mauve tells me that you’re beginning water-colours; there is a good market for those sketches. I should be able to sell some for you, and so should your brother.”
“That’s what I’m working toward, Mijnheer.”
“You seem in rather better spirits than when I saw you yesterday.”
“Yes, I was ill. But I recovered last night.”
He thought of the wine, the gin and bitters, and Christine; he shivered at what Tersteeg would say if he knew about them. “Will you look at some of my sketches, Mijnheer? Your reaction would be valuable to me.”
Tersteeg stood before the old woman in her white apron, standing out from the green soap background. His silence was not so eloquent as Vincent remembered it from the Plaats. He leaned on his walking stick for some moments, then hung it on his arm.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “you’re coming along. Mauve will make a water-colourist out of you, I can see that. It will take some time, but you will get there. You must hurry, Vincent, so that you can earn your own living. It is quite a strain on Theo to have to sent you a hundred francs a month; I saw that when I was in Paris. You must support yourself as quickly as possible. I should be able to buy some of the small sketches very soon now.”
“Thank you, Mijnheer. It is good of you to take an interest.”
“I want to make you successful, Vincent. It means business for Goupils. As soon as I begin to sell your work, you will be able to take a better studio, buy some good clothes, and go out a bit into society. That is necessary if you want to sell your oils, later. Well, I must run onto Mauve’s. I want to see that Scheveningen thing he is doing for the Salon.”
“You’ll look in again, Mijnheer?”
“Yes, of course. In a week or two. Mind you work hard and show me some improvement. You must make my visits pay, you know.”
He shook hands and departed. Vincent pitched into his work once more. If only he could make a living, the very simplest living out of his work. He asked for nothing more. He could be independent. He would not have to be a burden on anyone. And best of all there would be no hurry; he could let himself feel his way slowly and surely toward maturity and the expression he was seeking.
In the afternoon mail there was a note from De Bock, on pink stationery.
I’m bringing Artz’s model to your studio tomorrow morning so that we can sketch together.
Artz’s model proved to be a very beautiful young girl who charged one franc-fifty for posing. Vincent was delighted, as he would never have been able to hire her. There was a roaring fire in the little stove and the model undressed by it to keep warm. Only the professional models would pose naked in The Hague. This exasperated Vincent; the bodies he wanted to draw were those of old men and women, bodies that had tone and character.
“I’ve brought along my tobacco pouch,” said De Bock, “and a little lunch that my housekeeper put up. I thought we might not want to disturb ourselves to go out.”
“I’ll try some of your tobacco. Mine is a trifle strong for the morning.”
“I’m ready,” said the model. “Will you pose me?”
“Sitting or standing, De Bock?”
“Let’s try the standing first. I have some erect figures in my new landscape.” They sketched for about an hour and a half, and then the model tired.
“Let’s do her sitting down,” said Vincent. “The figure will be more relaxed.”
They worked until noon, each bent over his own drawing board, exchanging only an occasional grunt about the light or tobacco. Then De Bock unpacked the lunch, and all three gathered about the stove to eat it. They munched the thin slices of bread, cold meats and cheese, and studied their morning’s sketches.
“Queer, what an objective view you can get of your own work once you begin to eat,” remarked De Bock.
“May I see what you’ve done?”
“With pleasure.”
De Bock had put down a good likeness of the girl’s face, but there was not even a faint suggestion of the individual nature of her body. It was just a perfect body.
“I say,” exclaimed De Bock, looking at Vincent’s sketch, “what’s that thing you’ve got instead of her face? Is that what you mean by putting passion into it?”
“We weren’t doing a portrait,” replied Vincent. “We were doing a figure.”
“That’s the first time I ever heard a face doesn’t belong on a figure.”
“Take a look at your stomach,” said Vincent.
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It looks as though it were filled with hot air. I can’t see an inch of bowels.”
“Why should you? I didn’t notice any of the poor girl’s entrails hanging out.”
The model went on eating without even a smile. She thought all artists were crazy, anyhow. Vincent placed his sketch alongside of De Bock’s.
“If you will notice,” he said, “my stomach is full of guts. You can tell just by looking at it that many a ton of food has wended its weary way through the labyrinth.”
