Lust for Life

“Well, what is it? I have a few questions to ask, myself.”

Vincent shoved aside the woman’s prints and put both hands on the edge of the table. “Then tell me how a man can justify himself for spending his one and only life selling very bad pictures to very stupid people?”

Obach made no attempt to answer. “If this sort of thing keeps up,” he said, “I’ll have to write to your uncle and have him transfer you to another branch. I can’t have you ruining my business.”

Vincent moved aside Obach’s strong breath with a gesture of his hand. “How can we take such large profits for selling trash, Mr. Obach? And why is it that the only people who can afford to come in here are those who can’t bear to look at anything authentic? Is it because their money has made them callous? And why is it that the poor people who can really appreciate good art haven’t even a farthing to buy a print for their walls?”

Obach looked at him queerly. “What is this, socialism?”

When he reached home he picked up the volume of Renan lying on his table and turned to a page he had marked. “To act well in this world,” he read, “one must die within oneself. Man is not on this earth only to be happy, he is not there to be simply honest, he is there to realize great things for humanity, to attain nobility and to surpass the vulgarity in which the existence of almost all individuals drags on.”

About a week before Christmas the Loyers put up a dainty Christmas tree in their front window. Two nights later as he walked by he saw the house well lighted and neighbours going in the front door. He heard the sound of laughing voices inside. The Loyers were giving their Christmas party. Vincent ran home, shaved hurriedly, put on a fresh shirt and tie, and walked back as fast as he could to Clapham. He had to wait several minutes at the bottom of the stairs to catch his breath.

This was Christmas; the spirit of kindliness and forgiveness was in the air. He walked up the stairs. He pounded on the knocker. He heard a familiar footstep come through the hall, a familiar voice call back something to the people in the parlour. The door was opened. The light from the lamp fell on his face. He looked at Ursula. She was wearing a sleeveless green polonaise with large bows and lace cascades. He had never seen her so beautiful.

“Ursula,” he said.

An expression passed over her face that repeated clearly all the things she had said to him in the garden. Looking at her, he remembered them.

“Go away,” she said.

She slammed the door in his face.

The following morning he sailed for Holland.

Christmas was the busiest season for the Goupil Galleries. Mr. Obach wrote to Uncle Vincent, explaining that his nephew had taken a holiday without so much as a “with your leave.” Uncle Vincent decided to put his nephew into the main gallery in Rue Chaptal in Paris.

Vincent calmly announced that he was through with the art business. Uncle Vincent was stunned and deeply hurt. He declared that in the future he would wash his hands of Vincent. After the holidays he stopped washing them long enough to secure his namesake a position as clerk in the bookshop of Blussé and Braam at Dordrecht. It was the very last thing the two Vincent Van Goghs ever had to do with each other.

He remained at Dordrecht almost four months. He was neither happy nor unhappy, successful nor unsuccessful. He simply was not there. One Saturday night he took the last train from Dordrecht to Oudenbosch and walked home to Zundert. It was beautiful on the heath with all the cool, pungent smells of night. Though it was dark he could distinguish the pine woods and moors extending far and wide. It reminded him of the print by Bodmer that hung in his father’s study. The sky was overcast but the night stars were shining through the clouds. It was very early when he arrived at the churchyard at Zundert; in the distance he could hear the larks singing in the black fields of yong corn.

His parents understood that he was going through a difficult time. Over the summer the family moved to Etten, a little market town just a few kilometres away, where Theodorus had been named dominie. Etten had a large, elm-lined public square and a steam train connecting it with the important city of Breda. For Theodorus it was a slight step up.

When early fall came it was necessary once again to make a decision. Ursula was not yet married.

“You are not fitted for all these shops, Vincent,” said his father. “Your heart has been leading you straight to the service of God.”

“I know, Father.”

“Then why not go to Amsterdam and study?”

“I would like to, but. . .”

“There is still hesitation in your heart?”

“Yes. I can’t explain now. Give me a little more time.”

Uncle Jan passed through Etten. “There is a room waiting for you in my house in Amsterdam, Vincent,” he said.

“The Reverend Stricker has written that he can secure you good tutors,” added his mother.