Lust for Life

“Yes, yes, violet, violet, that’s just what it is, vio . . .”

“And how sane,” murmured Vincent. “How calm and restful.”

They wound down the hill again, past the cornfields and the church, and took the straight road on their right to the heart of the village.

“I regret I cannot keep you at my house,” said Doctor Gachet, “but alas! we have no room. I will take you to a good inn, and every day you will come to my house to paint, and make yourself at home.”

The doctor took Vincent by the elbow and propelled him beyond the Mairie, down almost to the river bank, where there was a summer inn. Gachet spoke to the proprietor, who agreed to give Vincent room and board for six francs a day.

“I will give you a chance to get settled now,” cried Gachet. “But mind you come to dinner at one o’clock. And bring your easel. You must do my portrait. And let me see some of your new canvases. We will have a grand chat, yes?”

As soon as the doctor was out of sight, Vincent picked up his belongings and stalked out the front door.

“Wait a minute,” said the proprietor. “Where are you going?”

“I am a labourer,” replied Vincent, “not a capitalist. I cannot pay your six francs a day.”

He walked back to the Place and found a little café exactly opposite the Mairie, called Ravoux’s, where he could get room and board for three francs fifty a day.

Ravoux’s café was the meeting place of the peasants and labourers who worked around Auvers. Vincent found a little bar on the right as he walked in, and all the way down the side of the dark, dispirited room, rough wooden tables and benches. At the rear of the cafe, behind the bar, was a billiard table with a soiled and torn green covering. It was the pride and joy of Ravoux’s. A door at the rear led to the back kitchen; just outside this door was a flight of stairs winding up to three bedrooms. From his window Vincent could see the steeple of the Catholic church, and a small patch of the cemetery wall, a clean, crisp brown in the mild Auvers sunlight.

He took his easel, paints and brushes, a portrait of the Arlesienne, and set out to find Gachet’s. The same road which came down from the station, and led past Ravoux’s sneaked out of the Place again on the west and climbed another grade. After a short walk, Vincent came to a spot where three roads forked. He saw that the one on his right led up the hill past the chateau, and the one on his left wandered down through fields of peas to the river bank. Gachet had told him to take the centre road, which continued along the contour of the hill. Vincent walked slowly, thinking of the doctor to whose care he had been committed. He noticed how the old thatched houses were being replaced by prosperous villas, and the whole nature of the country-side was changing.

Vincent pulled a brass knob stuck in a high stone wall. Gachet came running to the tinkle of the bell. He led Vincent up three flights of steep stone steps to a terraced flower garden. The house was of three stories, solid and well built. The doctor flexed Vincent’s arm, seized the joint of the elbow and pushed him around to the back yard, where he kept ducks, hens, turkeys, peacocks, and a retinue of ill-assorted cats.

“Come into the living room, Vincent,” said Gachet, after giving a complete life history of each of the fowls in the yard.

The living room at the front of the house was large and had a high ceiling, but there were only two small windows looking out on the garden. In spite of the size of the room it was so crammed full of furniture, antiques, and bric-a-brac that there was hardly enough space for the two men to move about the table in the centre. The room was dark from lack of window space, and Vincent noticed that every last piece in it was black.

Gachet ran about picking up things, thrusting them into Vincent’s hands, taking them away again before Vincent had a chance to look at them.

“See. See that bouquet on the wall? Delacroix used this vase to hold the flowers. Feel it. Doesn’t it feel like the one he painted? See that chair? Courbet sat in it by the window when he painted the garden. Aren’t these exquisite dishes? Desmoulins brought them back from Japan for me. Claude Monet put this one into a still life. It’s upstairs. Come with me. I’ll show it to you.”

At the dinner table Vincent met Gachet’s son, Paul, a vivacious and handsome young lad of fifteen. Gachet, who was a sick man with a poor digestion, served a five course dinner. Vincent was accustomed to the lentils and black bread of St. Remy; he became distressed after the third course and could go no further.

“And now we must go to work,” cried the doctor. “You will paint my portrait, Vincent; I will sit for you just as I am, yes?”

“I’m afraid I must come to know you better, Doctor, or it won’t be an understanding portrait.”

“Perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right. But surely you will paint something? You will let me see how you work? I am eager to watch you.”

“I saw a scene in the garden I would like to do.”