Lust for Life

Vincent gulped. His manner, like his body, was heavy and he did not seem able to find the right words for Ursula. They went into the yard. It was a cool April morning, but the apple trees had already blossomed. A little garden separated the Loyer House from the kindergarten. Just a few days before, Vincent had sown poppies and sweet peas. The mignonette was pushing through the earth. Vincent and Ursula squatted on either side of it, their heads almost touching. Ursula had a strong, natural perfume of the hair.

“Mademoiselle Ursula,” he said.

“Yes?” She withdrew her head, but smiled at him questioningly.

“I . . . I . . . that is . . .”

“Dear me, what can you be stuttering about?” she asked, and jumped up. He followed her to the door of the kindergarten. “My poupons will be here soon,” she said. “Won’t you be late at the gallery?”

“I have time. I walk to the Strand in forty-five minutes.”

She could think of nothing to say, so she reached behind her with both arms to catch up a tiny wisp of hair that was escaping. The curves of her body were surprisingly ample for so slender a figure.

“Whatever have you done with that Brabant picture you promised me for the kindergarten?” she asked.

“I sent a reproduction of one of Caesar de Cock’s sketches to Paris. He is going to inscribe it for you.”

“Oh, delightful!” She clapped her hands, swung a short way about on her hips, then turned back again. “Sometimes, Monsieur, just sometimes, you can be most charming.”

She smiled at him with her eyes and mouth, and tried to go. He caught her by the arm. “I thought of a name for you after I went to bed,” he said. “I called you l’ange aux poupons.”

Ursula threw back her head and laughed heartily. ‘L’ange aux poupons!” she cried. “I must go tell it to Mother!”

She broke loose from his grip, laughed at him over a raised shoulder, ran through the garden and into the house.

2

VINCENT PUT ON his top hat, took his gloves, and stepped out into the road of Clapham. The houses were scattered at this distance from the heart of London. In every garden the lilacs and hawthorn and laburnums were in bloom.

It was eight-fifteen; he did not have to be at Goupils until nine. He was a vigorous walker, and as the houses thickened he passed an increasing number of business men on their way to work. He felt extremely friendly to them all; they too knew what a splendid thing it was to be in love.

He walked along the Thames Embankment, crossed Westminster Bridge, passed by Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, and turned into number 17 Southampton Street, Strand, the London quarters of Goupil and Company, Art Dealers and Publishers of Engravings.

As he walked through the main salon, with its thick carpets and rich draperies, he saw a canvas representing a kind of fish or dragon six yards long, with a little man hovering over it. It was called The Archangel Michael Killing Satan.

“There is a package for you on the lithograph table,” one of the clerks told him as he passed.

The second room of the shop, after one passed the picture salon in which were exhibited the paintings of Millais, Boughton, and Turner, was devoted to etchings and lithographs. It was in the third room, which looked more like a place of business than either of the others, that most of the sales were carried on. Vincent laughed as he thought of the woman who had made the last purchase the evening before.

“I can’t fancy this picture, Harry, can you?” she asked her husband. “The dog looks a rare bit like the one that bit me in Brighton last summer.”

“Look here, old fellow,” said Harry, “must we have a dog? They mostly put the missus in a stew.”

Vincent was conscious of the fact that he was selling very poor stuff indeed. Most of the people who came in knew absolutely nothing about what they were buying. They paid high prices for a cheap commodity, but what business was it of his? All he had to do was make the print room successful.

He opened the package from Goupils in Paris. It had been sent by Caesar de Cock and was inscribed, “To Vincent, and Ursula Loyer: Les amis de mes amis sont mes amis.”

“I’ll ask Ursula tonight when I give her this,” he murmured to himself. “I’ll be twenty-two in a few days and I’m earning five pounds a month. No need to wait any longer.”

The time in the quiet back room of Goupils passed very quickly. He sold on an average of fifty photographs a day for the Musée Goupil and Company, and although he would have preferred to deal in oil canvases and etchings, he was pleased to be taking in so much money for the house. He liked his fellow clerks and they liked him; they spent many pleasant hours together talking of things European.