Christine came down the stairs at the rear of the studio. She had on a neat black dress, her hair was carefully combed back, and the touch of colour in her face almost obliterated the pock marks. She had become pretty in a homely sort of way. Vincent’s love had surrounded her with an aura of confidence and well being. She shook hands with Theo quietly, asked if he wouldn’t have a cup of tea, and insisted that he remain for supper. She sat in her easy chair by the window, sewing and rocking the cradle. Vincent ran excitedly back and forth across the studio, showing charcoal figures, street scenes in water-colour, group studies hammered on with a carpenter’s pencil. He wanted Theo to see the progress of his work.
Theo had faith that some day Vincent would become a great painter, but he was never quite sure he liked the things Vincent had done . . . as yet. Theo was a discriminating amateur, carefully trained in the art of judging, but he never could make up his mind just what he thought of his brother’s work. For him, Vincent was always in a state of becoming, never in the state of having arrived.
“If you begin to feel the need to work in oil,” he said, after Vincent had shown him all his studies and spoken of his craving, “why don’t you begin? What are you waiting for?”
“For the assurance that my drawing is good enough. Mauve and Tersteeg say I don’t know how . . .”
“. . . and Weissenbruch says you do. You’re the one who must be the final judge. If you feel that you’ve got to express yourself in deeper colour now, the time is ripe. Jump in!”
“But, Theo, the expense! Those confounded tubes cost their weight in gold.”
“Meet me at my hotel tomorrow morning at ten. The sooner you begin sending me oil canvases, the quicker I’ll get my money out of this investment.”
During supper Theo and Christine chatted animatedly. When Theo left, he turned to Vincent on the stairs and said in French, “She’s nice, really nice. I had no idea!”
They made a strange contrast, walking up the Wagenstraat the following morning; the younger brother carefully groomed, his boots polished, linen starched, suit pressed, necktie neatly in place, black bowler hat at a jaunty angle, soft brown beard carefully trimmed, walking along with a well poised, even pace; and the other, with worn out boots, patched trousers that did not match the tight coat, no necktie, an absurd peasant’s cap stuck on the top of his head, beard scrambling out in furious red whorls, hitching along with jerky, uneven steps, waving his arms and making excited gestures as he talked.
They were not conscious of the picture they made.
Theo took Vincent to Goupils to buy the tubes of paint, brushes, and canvas. Tersteeg respected and admired Theo; he wanted to like and understand Vincent. When he heard what they had come for, he insisted upon finding all the material himself and advising Vincent on the merits of the various pigments.
Theo and Vincent tramped the six kilometres across the dunes to Scheveningen. A fishing smack was just coming in. Near the monument there was a little wooden shed in which a man sat on the lookout. As soon as the boat came in view the fellow appeared with a large flag. He was followed by a crowd of children. A few minutes after he had waved his flag, a man on an old horse arrived to go and fetch the anchor. The group was joined by a number of men and women who came pouring over the sand hill from the village to welcome the crew. When the boat was near enough, the man on horseback went into the water and returned with the anchor. Then the fishermen were brought ashore on the backs of fellows with high rubber boots, and with each arrival there was a great cheer of welcome. When they were all ashore and the horses had dragged the bark up on the beach, the whole troop marched home over the sand hill in caravan style, with the man on the horse towering over them like a tall spectre.
“This is the sort of thing I want to do with my paints,” said Vincent.
“Let me have some canvases as soon as you become satisfied with your work. I might be able to find purchasers in Paris.”
“Oh, Theo, you must! You must begin to sell me!”
WHEN THEO LEFT, Vincent began experimenting with his pigments. He did three oil studies; one a row of pollard willows behind the Geest bridge, another of a cinder path, and a third of the vegetable gardens of Meerdervoort where a man in a blue smock was picking up potatoes. The field was of white sand, partly dug up, still covered with rows of dried stalks with green weeds between. In the distance there were dark green trees and a few roofs. When he looked at his work in the studio, he was elated; he was certain that no one could possibly know they were his first efforts. The drawing, the backbone of painting and the skeleton that supported all the rest, was accurate and true to life. He was surprised a little because he had thought his first things would be failures.
