Lust for Life полностью

By November and the chute des feuilles, when all the leaves on the trees fell off in a few days, the whole of Nuenen was talking about Vincent and Margot. The village liked Margot; it distrusted and feared Vincent. Margot’s mother and four sisters tried to break off the affair, but she insisted that it was only a friendship, and what harm could there be in walking in the fields together? The Begemans knew Vincent to be a drifter, and confidently expected him to leave any day. They were not greatly worried. The village was; it said over and over again that no good could come from that queer Van Gogh man, and that the Begeman family would regret it if they did not keep their daughter out of his hands.

Vincent could never understand why the people of the town disliked him so. He interfered with no one, injured no one. He did not realize what a strange picture he made in this quiet hamlet, where life had not changed in one word or custom for hundreds of years. It was not until he found that they thought him an idler that he gave up hope of making them like him. Dien van den Beek, a small shopkeeper, hailed him as he was passing one day, and threw down the gage for the village.

“Fall has come now and the nice weather is over, eh?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“A man supposes you’ll be going to work soon, eh?”

Vincent shifted the easel on his back to a more comfortable position. “Yes, I’m just on my way out to the heath.”

“No, I mean work,” said Dien. “Real work that you do all year.”

“Painting is my work,” said Vincent quietly.

“A man means work that you get paid for; a job.”

“Going to the fields as you see me now is my job, Mijnheer van den Beek, just as selling goods is yours.”

“Yes, but I sell goods I Do you sell what you make?”

Every soul to whom he had spoken in the village had asked that identical question. He was getting heartily sick of it.

“I sell sometimes. My brother is a dealer and he buys.”

“You should go to work, Mijnheer. It is not good for you to idle this way. A man will grow old and he will have nothing.”

“Idle! I work twice as long as you keep this store open.”

“You call that work? Sitting and daubing? That’s only play for children. Keep a store; plough in the fields; that’s a real man’s work. You’re getting too old to be wasting your time.”

Vincent knew that Dien van den Beek merely voiced the opinion of the village, and that to the provincial mind the words artist and worker were mutually exclusive. He gave up caring what the people thought, and ceased to see them when he passed them on the street. When their distrust of him had come to a positive climax, an accident happened that put him back in favour.

Anna Cornelia broke her leg on getting out of the train at Helmond. She was rushed home immediately. Although the doctor did not tell the family so, he feared for her life. Vincent threw aside his work without a second thought. His experience in the Borinage had made him an excellent nurse. The doctor watched him for a half hour and then said, “You are better than a woman; your mother will be in excellent hands.”

The people of Nuenen, who could be as kind in times of a crisis as they could be cruel in times of boredom, came to the vicarage with dainties and books and comforting thoughts. They stared at Vincent in utter amazement; he changed the bed without moving his mother, bathed and fed her, took care of the cast on her leg. At the end of two weeks, the village had completely revised its opinion of him. He spoke to them in their own language when they came; they discussed how best to avoid bed sores, what foods a sick person should eat, how warm the room should be kept. Talking to him thus and understanding him, they decided that he was a human being after all. When his mother felt a little better and he could go out to paint for a short time each day, they addressed him with a smile, and by name. He no longer felt the blinds go up a tiny fraction from the bottom, one by one, as he walked through the town.

Margot was at his side at all times. She was the only one who was not amazed at his gentleness. They were speaking in whispers in the sick room one day, when Vincent happened to remark, “The key to many things is the thorough knowledge of the human body, but it decidedly costs money to learn it. There is a very beautiful book, ‘Anatomy for Artists,’ by John Marshall, but it is very expensive.”

“Haven’t you the money to spare?”

“No, and I shan’t have until I sell something.”

“Vincent, it would make me so happy if you would let me lend you some. You know I have a regular income, and I never manage to spend it.”

“It’s good of you, Margot, but I couldn’t.”

She did not press her point, but a couple of weeks later handed him a package from The Hague. “What is it?” he asked.

“Open it and see.”

There was a little note tied on the cord. The package contained Marshall’s book; the note read FOR THE HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY OF THEM ALL.

“But this isn’t my birthday!” he exclaimed.