Lust for Life

VINCENT AROSE JUST before sunrise each morning to read his Bible. When the sun came up about five o’clock he went to the window which overlooked the Navy Yard and watched the gangs of workmen come through the gate, a long uneven line of black figures. Little steamers sailed to and fro in the Zuider Zee and in the distance, near the village across the Y, he saw the swiftly moving, brown sails.

When the sun had fully risen and sponged the mist from the pile of lumber, Vincent turned from his window, breakfasted on a piece of dry bread and a glass of beer, and then sat down for a seven hour siege with his Latin and Greek.

After four or five hours of concentration his head became heavy; often it burned and his thoughts were confused. He did not see how he was going to persevere in simple, regular study after all those emotional years. He pounded rules into his head until the sun was already sliding down the other side of the heavens and it was time for him to go to Mendes da Costa for his lesson. On the way there he would walk along the Buitenkant, around the Oudezyds Chapel and the Old and South Church, through crooked streets with forges and coopers and lithograph shops.

Mendes reminded Vincent of the Imitation of Jesus Christ by Ruyperez; he was the classical type of Jew with profound, cavernous eyes, a thin, hollowed out, spiritual face, and the soft, pointed beard of the early rabbis. It was very close and sultry in mid-afternoon in the Jewish quarter; Vincent, gorged with seven hours of Greek and Latin, and more hours of Dutch History and Grammar, would talk to Mendes about lithographs. One day he brought his teacher the study of A Baptism by Maris.

Mendes held A Baptism in his bony, tapering fingers, letting the sharp stream of dusted sunlight from the high window fall upon it.

“It is good,” he said in his throaty, Jewish voice. “It catches something of the spirit of universal religion.”

Vincent’s fatigue left him instantly. He launched into an enthusiastic description of Maria’s art. Mendes shook his head imperceptibly. The Reverend Stricker was paying him a high price to instruct Vincent in Latin and Greek.

“Vincent,” he said quietly, “Maris is very fine, but the time grows short and we had better get on with our studies, yes?”

Vincent understood. On the way home, after a two hour lesson, he would pause before the interiors of houses where the wood-choppers, carpenters, and ships’ victuallers were at work. The doors stood open before a big wine cellar, and men with lights were running to and fro in the dark vault.

Uncle Jan went to Helvoort for a week; knowing that he was alone in the big house behind the Navy Yard, Kay and Vos walked over late one afternoon to fetch Vincent for dinner.

“You must come to us every night until Uncle Jan gets back,” Kay told him. “And Mother asks if you won’t take Sunday dinner with us each week, after services?”

When dinner was over the family played cards, but since Vincent did not know how to play, he settled in a quiet corner and read August Gruson’s “Histoire des Croisades.” From where he was sitting he could watch Kay and the changes of her quick, provocative smile. She left the table and came to his side.

“What are you reading, Cousin Vincent?” she asked.

He told her and then said, “It’s a fine little book, I should almost say written with the sentiment of Thys Maris.”

Kay smiled. He was always making these funny literary allusions. “Why Thys Maris?” she demanded.

“Read this and see if it doesn’t remind you of a Maris canvas, where the writer describes an old castle on a rock, with the autumn woods in twilight, and in the foreground the black fields, and a peasant who is ploughing with a white horse.”

While Kay was reading, Vincent drew up a chair for her. When she looked at him a thoughtful expression darkened her blue eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “it is just like a Maris. The writer and painter use their own medium to express the same thought.”

Vincent took the book and ran his finger across the page eagerly. “This line might have been lifted straight from Michelet or Carlyle.”

“You know, Cousin Vincent, for a man who has spent so little time in classrooms, you are surprisingly well educated. Do you still read a good many books?”

“No, I should like to, but I may not. Though in fact I need not long for it so much, for all things are found in the word of Christ—more perfect and more beautiful than in any other book.”

“Oh, Vincent,” exclaimed Kay, jumping to her feet, “that was so unlike you!”

Vincent stared at her in amazement.

“I think you are ever so much nicer when you’re seeing Thys Maris in the ‘Histoires des Croisades’—though Father says you ought to concentrate and not think of such things—than when you talk like a stuffy, provincial clergyman.”

Vos strolled over and said, “We’ve dealt you a hand, Kay.”

Kay looked for a moment into the live, burning coals under Vincent’s overhanging brows, then took her husband’s arm and joined the other card players.