Lust for Life

At the bottom of the ravine there was a little creek. Just beyond that, the pine woods began the ascent of the other slope. In this woods there were scattered a few miners’ cabins. After some inquiry, Vincent found one that was unoccupied. It was a board shanty without a window, built on a rather steep slope. The floor was the native earth trod down by long usage; the melting snow ran under the boards at the high end. Overhead there were rough beams holding the roof in place, and since the shack had not been used all winter, the knotholes and cracks between the boards let in icy blasts of air.

“Who owns this place?” Vincent demanded of the woman who had accompanied him.

“One of the business men in Wasmes.”

“Do you know the rent?”

“Five francs a month.”

“Very well, I’ll take it.”

“But Monsieur Vincent, you can’t live here.”

“Why not?”

“But. . . but. . . it is wretched. It is even worse than my place. It is the most wretched shack in Petit Wasmes!”

“That is exactly why I want it!”

He climbed up the hill again. A new feeling of peace had come into his heart. Madame Denis had gone to his room on some errand during his absence and had seen the packed valise.

“Monsieur Vincent,” she cried when he came in, “what has gone wrong? Why are you going back to Holland so suddenly?”

“I am not going away, Madame Denise. I am staying in the Borinage.”

“Then why. . .?” A puzzled expression came over her face.

When Vincent explained, she said softly. “Believe me, Monsieur Vincent, you cannot live like that; you are not used to it. Times have changed since Jesus Christ; nowadays we must all live as best we can. The people know from your work that you are a good man.”

Vincent was not to be dissuaded. He saw the merchant in Wasmes, rented the shack, and moved in. When his first salary cheque of fifty francs arrived a few days later, he bought himself a little wooden bed and a second-hand stove. After these expenditures he had just enough francs left to secure him bread, sour cheese, and coffee for the rest of the month. He piled dirt against the top wall of the cabin to keep the water out, stuffed the cracks and knotholes with sacking. He now lived in the same kind of house as the miners, ate the identical food, and slept in the identical bed. He was one of them. He had the right to bring them the Word of God.

13

THE MANAGER OF the Charbonnages Belgique, which controlled the four mines in the vicinity of Wasmes, was not at all the sort of voracious animal that Vincent had been prepared to find. True, he was a bit stoutish, but he had kindly, sympathetic eyes and the manner of one who had done a little suffering on his own accord.

“I know, Monsieur Van Gogh,” he said, after listening attentively while Vincent poured out the tale of woe of the miner. “It is an old story. The men think we are purposely starving them to death so that we can earn greater profits. But believe me, Monsieur, nothing could be farther from the truth. Here, let me show you some charts from the International Bureau of Mines in Paris.”

He laid a large chart out on the table and indicated a blue line at the bottom with his finger.

“Look, Monsieur,” he said, “the Belgian coal mines are the poorest in the world. The coal is so difficult for us to reach that it is almost impossible to sell it in the open market for a profit. Our operating expenses are the highest of any coal mine in Europe, and our profits are the lowest! For you see, we must sell our coal at the same price as the mines which produce at the lowest ton cost. We are on the margin of bankruptcy every day of our lives. Do you follow me?”

“I believe so.”

“If we paid the miners one frank more a day our production costs would rise above the market price of coal. We would have to shut down altogether. And then they would really starve to death.”

“Couldn’t the owners take a little less profit? Then there would be more for the workers.”

The manager shook his head sadly. “No, Monsieur, for do you know what coal mines run on? Capital. Like every other industry. And capital must receive its return or it will go elsewhere. The stocks of the Charbonnages Belgique pay only three per cent dividends today. If they were reduced half of a percent the owners would withdraw their money. If they do that our mines will have to shut down, for we cannot operate without capital. And again the miners would starve. So you see, Monsieur, it is not the owners or managers who create this horrible condition in the Borinage. It is the unsatisfactory lay of the couches. And that condition, I suppose, we will have to blame on God!”

Vincent should have been shocked at this blasphemy. He was not. He was thinking of what the manager had told him.

“But at least you can do something about the working hours. Thirteen hours a day down there is killing off your whole village!”