Читаем Lust for Life полностью

If it was a hard week for Vincent, it was a thousand times worse for Theo. Theo was a gentle soul, mild in his manners and delicate in his habits of life. He was an extremely fastidious person, in his dress, in his decorum, in his home and place of business. He had only a small fraction of Vincent’s bruising vitality and power.

The little apartment on the Rue Laval was just large enough for Theo and his fragile Louis Philippes. By the end of the first week Vincent had turned the place into a junk shop. He paced up and down the living room, kicked furniture out of the way, threw canvases, brushes, and empty colour tubes all over the floor, adorned the divans and tables with his soiled clothing, broke dishes, splashed paint, and upset every last punctilious habit of Theo’s life.

“Vincent, Vincent,” cried Theo, “don’t be such a Tartar!”

Vincent had been pacing about the tiny apartment, biting his knuckles and muttering to himself. He threw himself heavily into a fragile chair.

“It’s no use,” he groaned. “I began too late. I’m too old to change. God, Theo, I’ve tried! I’ve started twenty canvases this week. But I’m set in my technique, and I can’t begin all over again I tell you, I’m done for! I can’t go back to Holland and paint sheep after what I’ve seen here. And I came too late to get in the main swing of my craft. God, what will I do?”

He jumped up, lurched to the door for some fresh air, slammed it shut, pried open a window, stared at the Restaurant Bataille for a moment, shut the window so hard he almost smashed the glass, strode to the kitchen for a drink, spilled half the water on the floor, and came back into the living room with a trickle of water running down each side of his chin.

“Well, what do you say, Theo? Must I give it up? Am I through? It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“Vincent, you’re behaving like a child. Do quiet down for a moment and listen to me. No, no, don’t pace the floor I I can’t talk to you that way. And for goodness sake take off those heavy boots if you’re going to kick that gilt chair every time you pass it!”

“But, Theo, I’ve let you support me for six long years. And what do you get out of it? A lot of brown-gravy pictures, and a hopeless failure on your hands.”

“Listen, old boy, when you wanted to draw the peasants, did you catch the entire trick in a week? Or did it take you five years?”

“Yes, but I was just beginning then.”

“You’re just beginning with colour today! And it will probably take you another five years.”

“Is there no end to this, Theo? Must I go to school all my life? I’m thirty-three; when in God’s name do I reach maturity?”

“This is your last job, Vincent. I’ve seen everything that is being painted in Europe; the men on my entresol are the last word. Once you lighten your palette . . .”

“Oh, Theo, do you really think I can? You don’t think I’m a failure?”

“I’m more inclined to think you’re a jackass. The greatest revolution in the history of art, and you want to master it in a week! Let’s go take a walk on the Butte and cool our heads. If I stay in this room with you another five minutes I shall probably explode.”

The following afternoon Vincent sketched at Corman’s until late, and then called for Theo at Goupils. An early April dusk had fallen, the long rows of six-storey stone buildings were bathed in a coral-pink glow of dying colour. All of Paris was having its apéritif. The sidewalk cafés on the Rue Montmartre were crowded with men chatting with their friends. From inside the cafés came the sound of soft music, playing to refresh the Parisians after their day of toil. The gas lamps were being lit, the garçons were laying table cloths in the restaurants, the clerks in the department stores were pulling down the corrugated iron shutters and emptying the sidewalk bins of merchandise.

Theo and Vincent strolled along leisurely. They crossed the Place Chateaudun, with its flurry of carriages from the six converging streets, passed Notre Dame de Lorette, and wound up the hill to the Rue Laval.

“Shall we have an apéritif, Vincent?”

“Yes. Let’s sit where we can watch the crowd.”

“We’ll go up to Bataille’s, on the Rue des Abbesses. Some of my friends will probably drop by.”

The Restaurant Bataille was frequented largely by painters. There were only four or five tables out in front, but the two rooms inside were comfortably large. Madame Bataille always led the artists to one room and the bourgeois to the other; she could tell at first glance to which class a man belonged.

“Garçon!” called Theo. “Bring me a Kummel Eckau OO.”

“What do you suggest for me, Theo?”

“Try a cointreau. You’ll have to experiment for a while to find your permanent drink.”