Lust for Life полностью

Vincent drank in the busy flow of life winding up and down the hill; the garçons in alternately striped red and black jackets; the housewives carrying long loaves of unwrapped bread under their arms; the pushcarts at the curb; the femmes de chambre in soft slippers; the prosperous business men on their way to work. After passing innumerable Charcuteries, pâtisseries, boulangeries, blanchisseries and small cafés, the Rue Montmartre curved to the bottom of the hill and swung into the Place Chateaudun, a rough circle formed by the meeting of six streets. They crossed the circle and passed Notre Dame de Lorette, a square, dirty, black stone church with three angels on the roof, floating off idyllically into the blue empyrean. Vincent looked closely at the writing over the door.

“Do they mean this Liberté-Egalité-Fraternité business, Theo?”

“I believe they do. The Third Republic will probably be permanent. The royalists are quite dead, and the socialists are coming into power. Emile Zola was telling me the other night that the next revolution will be against capitalism instead of royalty.”

“Zola! How nice for you to know him, Theo.”

“Paul Cezanne introduced me to him. We all meet once a week at the Cafe Batignolles. I’ll take you there next time I go.”

After leaving the Place Chateaudun, the Rue Montmartre lost its bourgeois character and assumed a more stately air. The shops became larger, the cafés more imposing, the people better dressed, the buildings more prosperous looking. Music halls and restaurants lined the sidewalks, hotels made an appearance, and carriages took the place of trade wagons.

The brothers stepped along at a brisk pace. The cold sunlight was invigorating, the flavour of the air suggestive of the rich and complex life of the city.

“Since you can’t work at home,” said Theo, “I suggest you go to Corman’s Studio.”

“What’s it like?”

“Well, Corman is just as academic as most masters, but if you don’t want his criticism, he’ll let you alone.”

“Is it expensive?”

Theo tapped Vincent’s thigh with his walking stick. “Didn’t I tell you I was promoted? I’m getting to be one of those plutocrats that Zola is going to wipe out with his next revolution!”

At length the Rue Montmartre flowed into the wide, imposing Boulevard Montmartre, with its large department stores, arcades, and expensive shops. The Boulevard, which became the Boulevard des Italiens a few blocks farther on and led to the Place de l’Opéra, was the most important thoroughfare in the city. Although the street was empty at this hour of the morning, the clerks within the stores were preparing for a busy day.

Theo’s branch of the Goupil Gallery was located at number 19, just one short block to the right of the Rue Montmartre. Vincent and Theo crossed the wide boulevard, stopped alongside of a gas lamp in the centre to let a carriage go by, and then continued on to the gallery.

The well groomed clerks bowed respectfully as Theo walked through the salon of his gallery. Vincent remembered how he used to bow to Tersteeg and Obach when he was a clerk. In the air was the same aroma of culture and refinement, a smell he thought his nostrils had forgotten. On the walls of the salon were paintings by Bouguereau, Henner, and Delaroche. Above the main salon was a small balcony, with a flight of stairs at the rear leading to it.

“The pictures you’ll want to see are up on the entresol,” said Theo. “Come down when you’re through and tell me what you think of them.”

“Theo, what are you licking your chops about?”

Theo’s grin became all the broader. “A toute à l’ heure,” he said and disappeared into his office.

“AM I IN a madhouse?”

Vincent stumbled blindly to the lone chair on the entresol, sat down and rubbed his eyes. From the age of twelve he had been used to seeing dark and sombre paintings; paintings in which the brushwork was invisible, every detail of the canvas correct and complete, and flat colours shaded slowly into each other.

The paintings that laughed at him merrily from the walls were like nothing he had ever seen or dreamed of. Gone were the flat, thin surfaces. Gone was the sentimental sobriety. Gone was the brown gravy in which Europe had been bathing its pictures for centuries. Here were pictures riotously mad with the sun. With light and air and throbbing vivacity. Paintings of ballet girls backstage, done in primitive reds, greens, and blues thrown next to each other irreverently. He looked at the signature. Degas.