Читаем Lust for Life полностью

“We call him le Douanier. He was a customs collector in the provinces until he was forty. Used to paint on Sundays, just as Gauguin did. He came to Paris a few years ago and settled in the labourers’ section around the Bastille. He’s never had a day of education or instruction in his life, yet he paints, writes poetry, composes music, gives lessons on the violin to the workers’ children, plays on the piano, and teaches drawing to a couple of old men.”

“What sort of things does he paint?”

“Fantastic animals, largely, peering out of even more fantastic jungles. The closest he ever got to a jungle is the Jardin d’Acclimation in the Bois de Boulogne. He’s a peasant and a natural primitive, even if Paul Gauguin does laugh at him.”

“What do you think of his work, Theo?”

“Well, I don’t know. Everyone calls him an imbecile and a madman.”

“Is he?”

“He’s something of a child, a primitive child. We’ll go to the party tonight and you’ll have a chance to judge for yourself. He has all his canvases up on the walls.”

“He must have money if he can give parties.”

“He’s probably the poorest painter in Paris today. He even has to rent the violin he gives lessons on, because he can’t afford to buy it. But he has a purpose in giving these parties. You’ll discover it for yourself.”

The house in which Rousseau lived was occupied by the families of manual labourers. Rousseau had a room on the fourth floor. The street was full of squalling children; the combined stench of cooking, washing, and latrines in the hallway was thick enough to strangle one.

Henri Rousseau answered Theo’s knock. He was a short, thickset man, built a good deal on Vincent’s lines. His fingers were short and stumpy, his head almost square. He had a stubby nose and chin, and wide, innocent eyes.

“You honour me by coming, Monsieur Van Gogh,” he said in a soft, affable tone.

Theo introduced Vincent. Rousseau offered them chairs. The room was colourful, almost gay. Rousseau had put up his peasant curtains of red and white checked cloth at the windows. The walls were filled solid with pictures of wild animals and jungles and incredible landscapes.

Four young boys were standing by the battered old piano in the corner, holding violins in their hands nervously. On the mantel over the fireplace were the homely little cookies that Rousseau had baked and sprinkled with caraway seed. A number of benches and chairs were scattered about the room.

“You are the first to arrive, Monsieur Van Gogh,” said Rousseau. “The critic, Guillaume Pille, is doing me the honour of bringing a party.”

A noise came up from the street; the cries of children’s voices and the rumble of carriage wheels over the cobblestones. Rousseau flung open his door. Pretty feminine voices floated up from the hall.

“Keep going. Keep going,” boomed a voice. “One hand on the banister and the other on your nose!”

A shout of laughter followed this witticism. Rousseau, who had heard it clearly, turned to Vincent and smiled. Vincent thought he had never seen such clear, innocent eyes in a man, eyes so free from malice and resentment.

A party of some ten or twelve people burst into the room. The men were dressed in evening clothes, the women in sumptuous gowns, dainty slippers, and long white gloves. They brought into the room the fragrance of costly perfume, of delicate powders, of silk and old lace.

“Well, Henri,” cried Guillaume Pille in his deep, pompous voice, “you see we have come. But we cannot stay long. We are going to a ball at the Princess de Broglie’s. Meanwhile you must entertain my guests.”

“Oh, I want to meet him,” gushed a slim, auburn-haired girl in an Empire gown cut low across the breasts. “Just think, this is the great painter of whom all Paris is talking. Will you kiss my hand, Monsieur Rousseau?”

“Take care, Blanche,” someone said. “You know . . . these artists . . .”

Rousseau smiled and kissed her hand. Vincent shrank into a corner. Pille and Theo chatted for a moment. The rest of the party walked about the room in pairs, commenting on the different canvases with gales of laughter, fingering Rousseau’s curtains, his ornaments, ransacking every corner of the room for a new joke.

“If you will sit down, ladies and gentlemen,” said Rousseau, “my orchestra will play one of my own compositions. I have dedicated it to Monsieur Pille. It is called Chanson Raval.”

“Come, come everybody!” shouted Pille. “Rousseau is going to entertain us. Jeanie! Blanche! Jacques! Come sit down. This will be precious.”

The four trembling boys stood before a lone music rack and tuned their violins. Rousseau sat at his piano and closed his eyes. After a moment he said, “Ready,” and began to play. The composition was simple pastoral. Vincent tried to listen, but the snickers of the crowd drowned out the music. At the end they all applauded vociferously. Blanche went to the piano, put her hands on Rousseau’s shoulders and said, “That was beautiful. Monsieur, beautiful. I have never been so deeply stirred.”