Lust For Life, page 1
CONTENTS
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Irving Stone
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE: LONDON
1. L’ange aux poupons; 2. Goupil and Company; 3. In its own image love creates love; 4. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”; 5. The Van Goghs; 6. “Why, you’re nothing but a country boor!”; 7. Ramsgate and Isleworth.
I. THE BORINAGE
1. Amsterdam; 2. Kay; 3. A stuffy, provincial clergyman; 4. Latin and Greek; 5. Mendes da Costa; 6. Where lies the greater strength?; 7. Evangelical school; 8. The Blackjaw; 9. A miner’s hat; 10. Success!; 11. Terril: 12. Marcasse; 13. A lesson in economics; 14. Fragile; 15. Black Egypt; 16. Exit God; 17. Bankruptcy; 18. An incident of little importance; 19. As one artist to another; 20. Enter Theo; 21. The old mill at Ryswyk.
II. ETTEN
1. “There’s a living in that!”; 2. Fou; 3. The student; 4. Mijnheer Tersteeg; 5. Anton Mauve; 6. Kay comes to Etten; 7. “No, never, never!”; 8. There are some cities in which a man is forever ill-fated.
III. THE HAGUE
1. The first studio; 2. Christine; 3. Work in progress; 4. A man needs a woman; 5. “You must hurry and begin to sell!”; 6. Goodness grows in curious places; 7. Savoir souffrir sans se plaindre; 8. The merciless sword; 9. Love; 10. The Holy Family; 11. Theo comes to The Hague; 12. Fathers are funny; 13. L’art, c’est un combat; 14. —And so is marriage.
IV. NUENEN
1. A studio in the vicarage; 2. The weavers; 3. Margot; 4. “It’s loving that’s important, not being loved”; 5. Whither thou goest; 6. Inquisition; 7. “Your work is almost salable, but . . .”; 8. The Potato Eaters.
V. PARIS
1. “Ah, yes, Paris!”; 2. The explosion; 3. “Why should anyone want to be a count when he can be a painter?”; 4. Portrait of a primitive; 5. Painting must become a science! 6. Rousseau gives a party; 7. A poor wretch who hanged himself; 8. Art goes amoral; 9. Père Tanguy; 10. The Petit Boulevard; 11. Art for the workingman; 12. The Communist Art Colony; 13. Southward, ever southward to the sun!
VI. ARLES
1. Earthquake or revolution?; 2. The painting machine; 3. Le Pigeon; 4. Postman; 5. The Yellow House; 6. Maya; 7. Gauguin arrives; 8. The sound and the fury; 9. Fou-rou; 10. “In existing society, the painter is but a broken vessel.”
VII. ST. REMY
1. Third Class Carriage; 2. The fraternity of fous; 3. An old crock is an old crock; 4. “I discovered painting when I no longer had teeth or breath.”
VIII. AUVERS
1. The first one-man exhibition; 2. A specialist in nervous diseases; 3. One cannot paint good-bye; 4. A more resilient earth; 5. “And in their death they were not divided.”
Note
Copyright
About the Book
The classic fictional biography of Vincent Van Gogh. No artist was ever more ruthlessly driven by his creative urge, nor more isolated by it from most ordinary sources of human happiness, than Van Gogh. A painter of genius, his life was an incessant struggle against poverty, discouragement, madness and despair.
Lust for Life skilfully captures the exciting atmosphere of the Paris of the Post-Impressionists and reconstructs with great insight the development of Van Gogh‘s art. The painter is brought to life not only as an artist but as a personality and this account of his violent, vivid and tormented life is a novel of rare compassion and vitality.
About the Author
Irving Stone was born in San Francisco in 1903 and received his B.A. from the University of California, Berkley in 1923 and his Master’s degree from the University of Southern California in 1924. He wrote plays and supported himself by writing detective stories until the publication of Lust for Life, his first novel, in 1934. Stone called his work “bio-history” and based his novels on meticulous and extensive research into the lives of the historical characters at the heart of his novels. He married his editor, Jean Factor, in 1934. He founded the Academy of American Poets in 1962. He died in Los Angeles in 1989.
ALSO BY IRVING STONE
Clarence Darrow for the Defence
They Also Ran
Immortal Wife
President’s Lady
Love is Eternal
The Agony and the Ecstasy*
The President’s Lady
The Origin
*also available in Arrow Books
Lust for Life
Irving Stone
To the memory of my mother
PAULINE STONE
PROLOGUE
LONDON
1
“MONSIEUR VAN GOGH! It’s time to wake up!”
Vincent had been waiting for Ursula’s voice even while he slept.
“I was awake, Mademoiselle Ursula,” he called back.
“No you weren’t,” the girl laughed, “but you are now.” He heard her go down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Vincent put his hands under him, gave a shove, and sprang out of bed. His shoulders and chest were massive, his arms thick and powerful. He slipped into his clothes, poured some cold water out of the ewer, and stropped his razor.
Vincent enjoyed the daily ritual of the shave; down the broad cheek from the right sideburn to the corner of the voluptuous mouth; the right half of the upper lip from the nostril out, then the left half; then down the chin, a huge, rounded slab of warm granite.
He stuck his face into the wreath of Brabantine grass and oak leaves on the chiffonier. His brother Theo had gathered it from the heath near Zundert and sent it to London for him. The smell of Holland in his nose started the day off right.
“Monsieur Van Gogh,” called Ursula, knocking on the door again, “the postman just left this letter for you.”
He recognized his mother’s handwriting as he tore open the envelope. “Dear Vincent,” he read, “I am going to put a word to bed on paper for you.”
His face felt cold and damp so he stuck the letter into his trouser pocket, intending to read it during one of his many leisure moments at Goupils. He combed back his long, thick, yellow-red hair, put on a stiff white shirt, low collar and a large knotted four-in-hand black tie and descended to breakfast and Ursula’s smile.
Ursula Loyer and her mother, the widow of a Provençal curate, kept a kindergarten for boys in a little house in the back garden. Ursula was nineteen, a smiling, wide-eyed creature with a delicate, oval face, pastel colouring and a small, slender figure. Vincent loved to watch the sheen of laughter which, like the glow from a highly coloured parasol, was spread over her piquant face.
Ursula served with quick, dainty movements, chatting vivaciously while he ate. He was twenty-one and in love for the first time. Life opened out before him. He thought he would be a fortunate man if he could eat breakfast opposite Ursula for the rest of his days.
Ursula brought in a rasher of bacon, an egg, and a cup of strong, black tea. She fluttered into a chair across the table from him, patted the brown curls at the back of her head, and smiled at him while she passed the salt, pepper, butter and toast in quick succession.
“Your mignonette is coming up a bit,” she said, wetting her lips with her tongue. “Will you have a look at it before you go to the gallery?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Will you, that is, would you . . . show me?”
“What a droll person he is! He plants the mignonette himself and then doesn’t know where to find it.” She had a habit of speaking about people as though they were not in the room.
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 stepp
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.
As a young chap he had been slightly morose and had avoided companionship. People had thought him queer, a bit eccentric. But Ursula had changed his nature completely. She had made him want to be agreeable and popular; she had brought him out of himself and helped him to see the goodness in the ordinary pattern of daily life.
At six o’clock the store closed. Mr. Obach stopped Vincent on his way out. “I had a letter from your Uncle Vincent Van Gogh about you,” he said. “He wanted to know how you were coming on. I was happy to tell him that you are one of the best clerks in the store.”
“It was very good of you to say that, sir.”
“Not at all. After your summer vacation I want you to leave the back room and come forward into the etchings and lithographs.”
“That means a great deal to me at this moment, sir, because I . . . I’m going to be married!”
“Really? This is news. When is it to take place?”
“This summer, I suppose.” He hadn’t thought of the date before.
“Well, my boy, that’s splendid. You just had an increase the first of the year, but when you come back from your wedding trip I dare say we can manage another.”
3
“I’LL GET THE picture for you, Mademoiselle Ursula,” said Vincent after dinner, pushing back his chair.
Ursula was wearing a modishly embroidered dress of verdigris faye. “Did the artist write something nice for me?” she asked.
“Yes. If you’ll get a lamp I’ll hang it in the kindergarten for you.”
She pursed her lips to a highly kissable moue and looked at him sideways. “I must help Mother. Shall we make it in a half hour?”
Vincent rested his elbows on the chiffonier in his room and gazed into the mirror. He had rarely thought about his appearance; in Holland such things had not seemed important. He had noticed that in comparison to the English his face and head were ponderous. His eyes were buried in deep crevices of horizontal rock; his nose was high ridged, broad and straight as a shinbone; his dome-like forehead was as high as the distance from his thick eyebrows to the sensuous mouth; his jaws were wide and powerful, his neck a bit squat and thick, and his massive chin a living monument to Dutch character.
He turned away from the mirror and sat idly on the edge of the bed. He had been brought up in an austere home. He had never loved a girl before; he had never even looked at one or engaged in the casual banter between the sexes. In his love for Ursula there was nothing of passion or desire. He was young; he was an idealist; he was in love for the first time.
He glanced at his watch. Only five minutes had passed. The twenty-five minutes that stretched ahead seemed interminable. He drew a note from his brother Theo out of his mother’s letter and reread it. Theo was four years younger than Vincent and was now taking Vincent’s place in Goupils in The Hague. Theo and Vincent, like their father Theodorus and Uncle Vincent, had been favourite brothers all through their youth.
Vincent picked up a book, rested some paper on it, and wrote Theo a note. From the top drawer of the chiffonier he drew out a few rough sketches that he had made along the Thames Embankment and put them into an envelope for Theo along with a photograph of Young Girl with a Sword, by Jacquet.
“My word,” he exclaimed aloud, “I’ve forgotten all about Ursula!” He looked at his watch; he was already a quarter of an hour late. He snatched up a comb, tried to straighten out the tangle of wavy red hair, took Caesar de Cock’s picture from the table, and flung open the door.
“I thought you had forgotten me,” Ursula said as he came into the parlour. She was pasting together some paper toys for her poupons. “Did you bring my picture? May I see it?”
“I would like to put it up before you look. Did you fix a lamp?”
“Mother has it.”
When he returned from the kitchen she gave him a scarf of blue marine to wrap about her shoulders. He thrilled to the silken touch of it. In the garden there was the smell of apple blossoms. The path was dark and Ursula put the ends of her fingers lightly on the sleeve of his rough, black coat. She stumbled once, gripped his arm more tightly and laughed in high glee at her own clumsiness. He did not understand why she thought it funny to trip, but he liked to watch her body carry the laughter down the dark path. He held open the door of the kindergarten for her and as she passed, her delicately moulded face almost brushing his, she looked deep into his eyes and seemed to answer his question before he asked it.
He set the lamp down on the table. “Where would you like me to hang the picture?” he asked.
“Over my desk, don’t you think?”
There were perhaps fifteen low chairs and tables in the room of what had formerly been a summer house. At one end was a little platform supporting Ursula’s desk. He and Ursula stood side by side, groping for the right position for the picture. Vincent was nervous; he dropped the pins as fast as he tried to stick them into the wall. She laughed at him in a quiet, intimate tone.
“Here, clumsy, let me do it.”
She lifted both arms above her head and worked with deft movements of every muscle of her body. She was quick in her gestures, and graceful. Vincent wanted to take her in his arms, there in the dim light of the lamp, and settle with one sure embrace this whole tortuous business. But Ursula, though she touched him frequently in the dark, never seemed to get into position for it. He held the lamp up high while she read the inscription. She was pleased, clapped her hands, rocked back on her heels. She moved so much he could never catch up with her.
