“Perhaps, perhaps, but I’m busy now. I must be going!”

He darted forward, thrusting his body before him, nervously propelling himself down the street. Vincent stood staring after him.

What in the world had happened? Had he insulted his cousin? Had he in some way estranged him?

He was utterly amazed a few days later to have Weissenbruch walk into his studio. Weissenbruch never bothered with the younger painters, or for that matter the accepted ones, except to give their work a hearty damning now and then.

“Well, well,” he said, looking about, “this certainly is a palace. You’ll be doing portraits of the King and Queen here pretty soon.”

“If you don’t like it,” growled Vincent, “you can get out.”

“Why don’t you give up painting, Van Gogh? It’s a dog’s life.”

“You seem to thrive under it.”

“Yes, but I’m successful. You’ll never be.”

“Perhaps not. But I’ll paint far better pictures than you ever will.”

Weissenbruch laughed. “You won’t but you’ll probably come closer to it than anyone in The Hague. If your work is anything like your personality . . .”

“Why didn’t you say so?” demanded Vincent, taking out his portfolio. “Want to sit down?”

“I can’t see when I’m sitting.”

He pushed the water-colours aside with a “This is not your medium; water-colours are too insipid for the things you’ve got to say,” and concentrated on the pencil sketches of the Borains, the Brabantines, and the old people Vincent had drawn since coming to The Hague. He chuckled to himself gaily as he gazed at one figure after another. Vincent prepared for a stiff volley of abuse.

“You draw confoundedly well, Vincent,” said Weissenbruch, his sharp eyes twinkling. “I could work from these drawings myself!”

Vincent had set himself to catch a heavy weight; Weissenbruch’s words were so light they almost broke his back. He sat down abruptly.

“I thought you were called the ‘merciless sword.’”

“So I am. If I saw no good in your studies, I would tell you so.”

“Tersteeg has scolded me about them. He says they are too rough and crude.”

“Nonsense! That’s where their strength lies.”

“I want to go on with those pen sketches, but Tersteeg says I must learn to see things as water-colours.”

“So they can sell, eh? No, my boy, if you see things as pen drawings, you must put them down as pen drawings. And above all, never listen to anybody—not even me. Go your own way.”

“It looks like I’ll have to.”

‘When Mauve said you were a born painter, Tersteeg said no, and then Mauve took your part against him. I was there. If it happens again, I will take your part also, now that I have seen your work.”

“Mauve said I was a born painter?”

“Don’t let that turn your head. You’ll be lucky if you die one.”

“Then why has he been so cool to me?”

“He treats everyone the same, Vincent, when he’s finishing a picture. Don’t let it worry you; when the Scheveningen canvas is done he’ll come round. In the meanwhile you may drop in at my studio if you want any help.”

“May I ask you one question, Weissenbruch?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mauve send you here?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he do that?”

“He wanted to hear my opinion about your work.”

“But why should he want that? If he thinks I’m a born . . .”

“I don’t know. Perhaps Tersteeg put a doubt in his mind about you.”

6

IF TERSTEEG WAS losing faith in him and Mauve was growing cooler every day, Christine was taking their place, and bringing into his life the simple companionship for which he longed. She came to the studio early every morning, and brought with her a sewing basket so that her hands might keep company with his. Her voice was rough and her choice of words unfortunate, but she spoke quietly, and Vincent found it easy not to hear her when he wanted to concentrate. For the most part, she was content to sit quietly by the stove, looking out the window or sewing little things for the new baby. She was a clumsy model and learned slowly, but she was eager to please. She soon fell into the habit of preparing his dinner before she went home.

“You mustn’t bother about that, Sien,” he told her.

“It ain’t no bother. I can do it better than you.”

“Then of course you’ll join me?”

“Sure. Mother’s taking care of the kids. I like to stay here.”

Vincent gave her a franc every day. He knew it was more than he could afford, but he liked her company; the thought that he was saving her from the tubs pleased him. Sometimes, if he had to go out during the afternoon, he would sketch her until late at night, and then she would not bother to go home at all. He enjoyed waking to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of a friendly woman hovering over the stove. It was the first time he had ever had a ménage; he found it very comfortable.

“Sometimes Christine would stay over for no reason at all. “I think I’ll sleep here tonight, Vincent,” she would say. “Can I?”

“Of course, Sien. Stay as often as you like. You know I’m glad to have you.”

Although he never asked her to do anything, she acquired the habit of washing his linen, mending his clothes, and doing his little marketing.