He tore them all up and flung the pieces on the floor. “The same crudity the same amateurishness! Can’t you draw that cast the way it looks? Are you unable to make a positive statement about a line? Can’t you make an exact duplicate for once in your life?”
“You sound like a teacher at a drawing academy, Cousin Mauve.”
“If you had gone to more academies, you might know how to draw by now. Do that foot over again. And see if you can make it a foot!”
He went through the garden into the kitchen to get something to eat, and returned to work on his canvas by lamplight. The hours of the night went by. Vincent drew foot after foot. The more he drew, the more he detested the poisonous piece of plaster sitting before him. When dawn sneaked gloomily in the north window, he had a great number of copies before him. He rose, cramped and sick at heart. Once again Mauve looked at his sketches and crumpled them in his hand.
“They’re no good,” he said, “no good at all. You violate every elemental rule of drawing. Here, go home and take this foot with you. Draw it over and over and over again. And don’t come back until you get it right!”
“I’ll be damned if I will!” shouted Vincent.
He flung the foot into the coal bin, shattering it to a thousand pieces. “Do not speak to me again about plaster, for I cannot stand it. I will draw from casts only when there are no more hands and feet of living people to draw from.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it,” said Mauve icily.
“Cousin Mauve, I will not allow myself to be governed by a cold system, yours or anyone else’s. I’ve got to express things according to my own temperament and character. I must draw things the way I see them, not the way you see them!”
“I care to have nothing more to do with you,” said Mauve in the tone of a doctor speaking to a corpse.
When Vincent awoke at noon, he found Christine in the studio with her eldest son, Herman. He was a pale faced child of ten with fish-green, frightened eyes and a negligible chin. Christine had given him a piece of paper and pencil to keep him quiet. He had not been taught to read or write. He came to Vincent shyly, for he was wary of strangers. Vincent showed him how to hold the pencil and draw a cow. He was delighted and soon became friendly. Christine put out a little bread and cheese, and the three of them lunched at the table.
Vincent thought of Kay and beautiful little Jan. A lump arose in his throat.
“I ain’t feeling so good today, so you can draw Herman instead.”
“What’s the matter, Sien?”
“I dunno. My insides is all twisted.”
“Have you felt like this with all the other children?”
“I been sick, but not like this. This is worse.”
“You must see a doctor.”
“It ain’t no use seeing the doctor at the free ward. He only gives me medicine. Medicine don’t do no good.”
“You ought to go to the state hospital at Leyden.”
“. . . I guess I ought.”
“It’s only a short ride on the train. I’ll take you there tomorrow morning. People go from all over Holland to that hospital.”
“They say it’s good.”
Christine stayed in bed all day. Vincent sketched the boy. At dinner time he walked Herman home to Christine’s mother and left him. Early in the morning they took the train to Leyden.
“Of course you’ve been feeling sick,” said the doctor after he had examined Christine and asked her innumerable questions. “The child is not in position.”
“Can anything be done, doctor?” asked Vincent.
“Oh, yes, we can operate.”
“Would that be serious?”
“Not at this time. The child would simply have to be turned with the forceps. However, that takes a little money. Not for the operation, but for the hospital expenses.” He turned to Christine. “Have you anything saved up?”
“Not a franc.”
The doctor almost allowed himself a sigh. “That’s usually the way,” he said.
“How much would it cost, doctor?” said Vincent.
“Not more than fifty francs.”
“And if she doesn’t have the operation?”
“There’s not a chance in the world of her pulling through.”
Vincent thought for a moment. The twelve water-colours for his Uncle Cor were almost done; that would be thirty francs. He would take the other twenty francs off Theo’s April allowance.
“I’ll take care of the money, doctor,” he said.
“Good. Bring her back on Saturday morning and I’ll operate myself. Now just one thing more; I don’t know what the relationship is between you two and I don’t care to be told. That’s not part of the doctor’s business. But I think you ought to be informed that if this little lady ever goes back to walking the streets, she will be dead within six months.”
“She’ll never return to that life, doctor. I give you my word.”
“Splendid. Then I’ll see you on Saturday morning.”
A few days later Tersteeg came in. “I see you are still at it,” he said.
“Yes, I am at work.”
“I received the ten francs you sent back in the mail. You might at least have come in to thank me for the loan personally.”
“It was a long walk, Mijnheer, and the weather was bad.”
“The walk was not too long when you wanted the money, eh?”
Vincent did not answer.
