“Just the same,” said C.M. sipping the tea for which Vincent had offered him no sugar, “the mere fact that a man works with a paint brush, instead of a plough or a salesbook, does not give him the right to live licentiously. I don’t think we ought to buy the pictures of artists who don’t behave properly.”
“I think it even more improper for a critic to dig up a man’s private life, when his work is beyond reproach. The work of an artist and his private life are like a woman in childbirth and her baby. You may look at the child, but you may not lift her chemise to see if it is blood-stained. That would be very indelicate.”
C.M. had just put a small bit of bread and cheese into his mouth. He spat it out hastily into the cup of his hand, rose, and flung it into the stove.
“Well, well,” he commented. “Well well well well!”
Vincent was afraid that C.M. was going to be angry, but luckily things took a turn for the better. Vincent brought out his portfolio of smaller sketches and studies. He placed a chair by the light for his uncle. C.M. did not say anything at first, but when he came to a little drawing of the Paddemoes as seen from the peat market, that Vincent had sketched at twelve o’clock one night while strolling about with Breitner, he stopped.
“This is rather good,” he remarked. “Could you make me more of these views of the city?”
“Yes, I make them for a change sometimes when I am tired of working from the model. I have some more. Would you care to see them?”
He leaned over his uncle’s shoulder and searched through the uneven papers. “This is the Vleersteeg . . . this the Geest. This one is the fish market.”
“Will you make twelve of them for me?”
“Yes, but this is business, so we must set a price.”
“Very well, how much do you ask?”
“I have fixed the price for a small drawing of this size, either in pencil or pen, at two-francs-fifty. Do you think that unreasonable?”
C.M. had to smile to himself. It was such a humble sum.
“No, but if they turn out well, I will ask you to make twelve of Amsterdam. Then I shall fix the price myself so that you will get a little more for them.”
“Uncle Cor, this is my first order! I can’t tell you how happy it makes me!”
“We all want to help you, Vincent. Just bring your work up to standard, and between us we’ll buy everything you make.” He took up his hat and gloves. “Give my compliments to Theo when you write.”
Intoxicated with his success, Vincent snatched up his new water-colour and ran all the way to the Uileboomen. Jet answered the door. She seemed rather worried.
“I wouldn’t go into the studio if I were you, Vincent. Anton is in a state.”
“What’s the trouble? Is he ill?”
Jet sighed. “The usual thing.”
“Then I don’t suppose he’ll want to see me.”
“You’d better wait until another time, Vincent. I’ll tell him you were here. When he calms down a bit he’ll come round to see you.”
“You won’t forget to tell him?”
“I won’t forget.”
Vincent waited many days, but Mauve did not come. In his place came Tersteeg, not once but twice. Each time the report was the same.
“Yes, yes, you have made a little progress, perhaps. But they are not right yet. I still could not sell them in the Plaats. I’m afraid you don’t work hard enough or fast enough, Vincent.”
“My dear, Mijnheer, I get up at five o’clock and work until eleven and twelve at night. The only time I stop is for a bite of food now and then.”
Tersteeg shook his head uncomprehendingly. He looked at the water-colours again. “I don’t understand it. The same element of roughness and crudeness that I saw the first time you came to the Plaats is still in your work. You ought to be getting over that by now. Hard work usually does it, if a man has any ability at all.”
“Hard work I” said Vincent.
“Goodness knows I want to buy your things, Vincent. I want to see you begin earning your own living. I don’t think it right that Theo should have to . . . But I can’t buy until your work is right, now can I? You’re not looking for charity.”
“No.”
“You must hurry, that’s all, you must hurry. You must begin to sell and make your own living.”
When Tersteeg repeated this formula for the fourth time Vincent wondered if the man were playing some game on him. “You must earn your own living . . . but I can’t buy anything!” How in the devil was he going to earn his living if no one would buy?
He met Mauve on the street one day. Mauve was walking at a furious clip with his head down, going nowhere, shoving his right shoulder out in front of him as he walked. He almost seemed not to recognize Vincent.
“I have not seen you for a long time, Cousin Mauve.”
“I’ve been busy.” Mauve’s voice was cool, indifferent.
“I know; the new canvas. How is it coming?”
“Oh . . .” He made a vague gesture.
“May I drop into your studio some time for a moment? I’m afraid I’m not making progress with my water-colours.”
“Not now! I’m busy, I tell you. I can’t be wasting my time.”
“Won’t you come in to see me some time when you’re out for a walk? Just a few words from you would set me right.”
