Vincent took the water-colours and looked at them. He supposed they were crude, but like every other artist, he was unable to see the imperfections in his own work.
“I would like nothing better than to support myself, Mijnheer.”
“Then you must work harder. You must speed things up. I would like to have you do some things soon that I can buy.”
“Yes, Mijnheer.”
“At any event, I am glad to see you happy and at work. Theo has asked me to keep an eye on you. Do some good work, Vincent; I want to establish you in the Plaats.”
“I try to make good things. But my hand doesn’t always obey my will. However, Mauve complimented me on one of these.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘It almost begins to look like a water-colour.’”
Tersteeg laughed, wrapped his wool scarf about his neck, said “Plug on, Vincent, plug on; that is how great pictures are produced,” and was gone.
Vincent had written to his Uncle Cor that he was established in The Hague, and had invited his uncle to visit him. Uncle Cor came often to The Hague to buy supplies and pictures for his art shop, which was the most important one in Amsterdam. One Sunday afternoon Vincent gave a party for some children with whom he had become acquainted. He had to keep them amused while he sketched, so he bought a bag of sweets and told them stories as he bent over his drawing board. When he heard a sharp knock on the door and a deep, booming voice, he knew that his uncle had arrived.
Cornelius Marinus Van Gogh was well known, successful and wealthy. For all that, there was a touch of melancholy about his wide, dark eyes. His mouth was a little less full than the other Van Gogh mouths. He had the family head; square across the wide, high brow, square across the strong jawbones, with a huge, rounded chin and a powerful nose.
Cornelius Marinus took in every last detail of the studio while giving the impression that he had not even glanced at it. He had probably seen the inside of more artists’ studios than any man in Holland.
Vincent gave the children the rest of the sweets and sent them home.
“Will you have a cup of tea with me, Uncle Cor? It must be very cold out.”
“Thank you, Vincent.”
Vincent served him and marvelled at how unconcernedly his uncle balanced the cup on his knee while chatting lightly about news of the day.
“So you are going to be an artist, Vincent,” he said. “It’s about time we had one in the Van Gogh family. Hein and Vincent and I have been buying canvases from strangers for the past thirty years. Now we’ll be able to keep a little of the money in the family!”
Vincent smiled. “I have a running start.” he said. “with three uncles and a brother in the picture selling business. Will you have a bit of cheese and bread, Uncle Cor? Perhaps you’re hungry?”
C.M. knew that the easiest way to insult a poor artist was to refuse his food. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “I had an early breakfast.”
Vincent put several slices of thick, black bread on a chipped plate and then took out some coarse cheese from a paper. C.M. made an effort to eat a little.
“Tersteeg tells me that Theo is sending you a hundred francs a month?”
“Yes.”
“Theo is young, and he should save his money. You ought to be earning your own bread.”
Vincent’s gorge was still high from what Tersteeg had said on the subject only the day before. He answered quickly, without thinking.
“Earn bread, Uncle Cor? How do you mean that? Earn bread . . . or deserve bread? Not to deserve one’s bread, that is to say, to be unworthy of it, that certainly is a crime, for every honest man is worthy of his bread. But unluckily, not being able to earn it, though deserving it, that is a misfortune, and a great one.”
He toyed with the black bread before him, rolling a piece of the inside into a round, hard pill.
“So, if you say to me, Uncle Cor, ‘You are unworthy of your bread,’ you insult me. But if you make the rather just remark that I do not earn it always, that certainly is so. But what is the use in making the remark? It certainly does not get me any further, if you say no more than that.”
C.M. spoke no more about earning bread. They got along pleasantly enough until, quite by chance, Vincent mentioned the name of De Groux in speaking about expression.
“But don’t you know, Vincent,” said C.M., “that in private life De Groux has no good reputation?”
Vincent could not sit there and hear that said of the brave Father De Groux. He knew it would be far better to “Yes” his uncle, but he never seemed able to find a “Yes” when he was with the Van Goghs.
“It has always seemed to me, Uncle Cor, that when an artist shows his work to the public he has the right to keep to himself the inward struggle of his own private life, which is directly and fatally connected with the peculiar difficulties involved in producing a work of art.”
“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?”