Anna Cornelia decided it would be better not to repeat the things Kay had said; instead she put an egg on the stove.

“What time does that train leave Breda?”

“At ten-twenty.”

Vincent glanced at the blue kitchen clock.

“It’s that time now,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Come sit down here, dear. I have some nice fresh tongue this morning.”

She cleared away a space at the kitchen table, laid a napkin and spread breakfast for him. She hovered over him, urging him to eat; she had the feeling that if only he would put enough into his stomach, everything would come all right.

Vincent saw it pleased her, so he swallowed everything she placed on the table. But the taste of “No, never, never” was in his mouth to make bitter every sweet bite he ate.

7

HE KNEW THAT he loved his work far better than he did Kay. If he had been forced to choose between one and the other, there would have been not the slightest doubt in his mind. Yet his drawing suddenly went flat. He could no longer work with any interest. He looked over the sketches of the Brabant types on the wall and saw that he had made progress since his love for Kay had awakened. He knew that there was still something harsh and severe in his drawings, but he felt Kay’s love could soften that. His love was serious and passionate enough not to be chilled by many “No, never, nevers;” he considered her refusal as a block of ice that he would press to his heart to thaw.

It was the little germ of doubt in his mind that prevented him from working. Suppose he could never change her decision? She seemed to have conscientious scruples even at the idea of a possible new love. He wanted to cure her of the fatal disease of burying herself too much in the past. He wanted to join his draftsman’s fist with her lady’s hand, and work for their daily bread and happiness.

He spent his time in his room, writing passionate, imploring messages to Kay. It was several weeks before he learned she did not even read them. He wrote almost daily letters to Theo, his confidant, strengthening himself against the doubt in his own heart and the concerted attacks of his parents and the Reverend Stricker. He suffered, suffered bitterly, and he was not always able to hide it. His mother came to him with a face full of pity and many comforting words.

“Vincent,” she said, “you are only smashing your poor head against a stone dyke. Uncle Stricker says her ‘No!’ is quite decisive.”

“I’ll not take his word for anything.”

“But she told him, dear.”

“That she doesn’t love me?”

“Yes, and that she will never change her mind.”

“We shall see about that.”

“It’s all so hopeless. Vincent. Uncle Stricker says that even if Kay loved you, he would not consent to the marriage unless you earned at least a thousand francs a year. And you know you are a long way from that.”

“Well, Mother, he who loves lives, he who lives works, and he who works has bread.”

“Very pretty, my dear, but Kay was brought up in luxury. She has always had nice things.”

“Her nice things don’t make her happy now.”

“If you two were sentimental and married, great misery would come of it; poverty, hunger, cold, illness. For you know the family would not help with a single franc.”

“I’ve been through all those things before, Mother, and they don’t frighten me. It still would be better for us to be together than not to be together.”

“But my child, if Kay doesn’t love you!”

“If only I could go to Amsterdam, I tell you I could change that ‘No!’ to ‘Yes!’”

He considered it one of the worst petites miseres de la vie humaine that he could not go to see the woman he loved, that he could not earn a single franc to pay his railroad fare. His impotence put him in a rage. He was twenty-eight; for twelve years he had been working hard and denying himself everything but the bare necessities of life, yet in all the world, he had no way to command the pitifully small sum to buy a ticket to Amsterdam.

He considered walking the hundred kilometres, but he knew he would arrive dirty, hungry and worn. He did not mind the strain of it all, but if he should enter the Reverend Stricker’s house as he entered the Reverend Pietersen’s . . . ! After he had sent Theo a long letter in the morning, he sat down again in the evening and wrote another:

Dear Theo:

I am in desperate need of money for the trip to Amsterdam. If I have just enough I go.

I send along a few drawings; now tell me why they do not sell, and how I can make them salable. For I must earn some money for a railroad ticket to go and fathom that “No, never, never.”