Lust for Life

“This is where I turn off,” he said. “Here, take my card, and when you have a spare evening, come to see me. I shall be happy to chat with you.”

There were only three pupils including Vincent at the evangelical school. They were put in charge of Master Bokma, a small, wiry man with a concave face; a plumb line dropped from his brow to his chin would not have touched his nose or lips.

Vincent’s two companions were country boys of nineteen. These two immediately became good friends, and to cement their friendship turned their ridicule on Vincent.

“My aim,” he told one of them in an early, unguarded moment, “is to humble myself, mourir à moi-même.” Whenever they found him struggling to memorize a lecture in French, or agonizing over some academic book, they would ask, “What are you doing, Van Gogh, dying within yourself?”

It was with Master Bokma that Vincent had his most difficult time. The master wished to teach them to be good speakers; each night at home they had to prepare a lecture to deliver the following day in class. The two boys concocted smooth, juvenile messages and recited them glibly. Vincent worked slowly over his sermons, pouring his whole heart into every line. He felt deeply what he had to say and when he rose in class the words would not come with any degree of ease.

“How can you hope to be an evangelist, Van Gogh,” demanded Bokma, “when you cannot even speak? Who will listen to you?”

The climax of Bokma’s wrath broke when Vincent flatly refused to deliver his lectures extempore. He laboured far into the night to make his compositions meaningful, writing out every word in painstaking, precise French. In class the following day the two boys spoke airily about Jesus Christ and salvation, glancing at their notes once or twice while Bokma nodded approval. Then it came Vincent’s turn. He spread his lecture before him and began to read. Bokma would not even listen.

“Is that the way they teach you in Amsterdam? Van Gogh, no man has ever left my class who could not speak extempore at a moment’s notice and move his audience!”

Vincent tried, but he could not remember in the proper sequence all the things he had written down the night before. His classmates laughed outright at his stumbling attempts and Bokma joined their merriment. Vincent’s nerves were worn to a biting edge from the year in Amsterdam.

“Master Bokma,” he declared, “I will deliver my sermons as I see fit. My work is good, and I refuse to submit to your insults!”

Bokma was outraged. “You will do as I tell you,” he shouted, “or I will not allow you in my classroom!”

From then on it was open warfare between the two men. Vincent produced four times as many sermons as was demanded of him, for he could not sleep at night and there was little use in his going to bed. His appetite left him and he became thin and jumpy.

In November he was summoned to the church to meet with the Committee and get his appointment. At last all the obstacles in his way had been removed and he felt a tired gratification. His two classmates were already there when he arrived. The Reverend Pietersen did not look at him when he came in, but Bokma did, and with a glint in his eye.

The Reverend de Jong congratulated the boys on their successful work and gave them appointments to Hoogstraeten and Etiehove. The classmates left the room arm in arm.

“Monsieur Van Gogh,” said De Jong, “the Committee has not been able to persuade itself that you are ready to bring God’s work to the people. I regret to say that we have no appointment for you.”

After what seemed a long time Vincent asked, “What was wrong with my work?”

“You refused to submit to authority. The first rule of our Church is absolute obedience. Further, you did not succeed in learning how to speak extempore. Your master feels you are not qualified to preach.”

Vincent looked at the Reverend Pietersen but his friend was staring out the window. “What am I to do?” he asked of no one in particular.

“You may return to the school for another six months if you wish,” replied van den Brink. “Perhaps at the end of that time. . .”

Vincent stared down at his rough, square-toed boots and noticed that the leather was cracking. Then, because he could think of absolutely no word to say, he turned and walked out in silence.

He passed quickly through the city streets and found himself in Laeken. Without knowing why he was walking, he struck out along the towpath with its busily humming workshops. Soon he left the houses behind and came to an open field. An old white horse, lean, emaciated, and tired to death by a life of hard labour, was standing there. The spot was lonely and desolate. On the ground lay a skull and at a distance in the background the bleached skeleton of a horse lying near the hut of a man who skinned horses.