“Theo, I want the sun. I want it in its most terrific heat and power. I’ve been feeling it pull me southward all winter, like a huge magnet. Until I left Holland I never knew there was such a thing as a sun. Now I know there’s no such thing as painting without it. Perhaps that something I need to bring me to maturity is a hot sun. I’m chilled to the bone from the Parisian winter, Theo, and I think some of that cold has gotten into my palette and brushes. I never was one to go at a thing half-heartedly; once I could get the African sun to burn the cold out of me, and set my palette on fire . . .”
“Hummmm,” said Theo, “we’ll have to think that over. Maybe you’re right.”
Paul Cezanne gave a farewell party for all his friends. He had arranged through his father to buy the plot of land on the hill overlooking Aix, and he was returning home to build a studio.
“Get out of Paris, Vincent,” he said, “and come down to Provence. Not to Aix, that’s my territory, but to some place near by. The sun is hotter and purer there than anywhere else in the world. You’ll find light and clean colour in Provence such as you’ve never seen before. I’m staying there for the rest of my life.”
“I’ll be the next one out of Paris,” said Gauguin. “I’m going back to the tropics. If you think you have real sun in Provence, Cezanne, you ought to come to the Marquesas. There the sunlight and colour are just as primitive as the people.”
“You men ought to join the sun worshippers,” said Seurat.
“As for myself,” announced Vincent, “I think I’m going to Africa.”
“Well, well,” murmured Lautrec, “we have another little Delacroix on our hands.”
“Do you mean that, Vincent?” asked Gauguin.
“Yes. Oh, not right away, perhaps. I think I ought to stop off somewhere in Provence and get used to the sun.”
“You can’t stop at Marseilles,” said Seurat. “That town belongs to Monticelli.”
“I can’t go to Aix,” said Vincent, “because it belongs to Cezanne. Monet had already done Antibes, and I agree that Marseilles is sacred to ‘Fada.’ Has anyone a suggestion as to where I might go?”
“Wait!” exclaimed Lautrec, “I know the very place. Have you ever thought of Arles?”
“Arles? That’s an old Roman settlement, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s on the Rhône, a couple of hours from Marseilles. I was there once. The colouring of the surrounding country makes Delacroix’s African scenes look anaemic.”
“You don’t tell me? Is there good sun?”
“Sun? Enough to drive you crazy. And you should see the Arlesiennes; the most gorgeous women in the world. They still retain the pure, delicate features of their Greek ancestors, combined with the robust, sturdy stature of their Roman conquerors. Yet curiously enough, their aroma is distinctly Oriental; I suppose that’s a result of the Saracen invasion back in the eighth century. It was at Aries that the true Venus was found, Vincent. The model was an Arlesienne!”
“They sound fascinating,” said Vincent.
“They are. And just wait until you feel the mistral.”
“What’s the mistral?” asked Vincent.
“You’ll find out when you get there,” replied Lautrec with a twisted grin.
“How about the living? Is it cheap?”
“There’s nothing to spend your money on, except food and shelter, and they don’t cost much. If you’re keen to get away from Paris, why don’t you try it?”
“Aries,” murmured Vincent to himself. “Aries and the Arlesiennes. I’d like to paint one of those women!”
Paris had excited Vincent. He had drunk too many absinthes, smoked too many pipefuls of tobacco, engaged too much in external activities. His gorge was high. He felt a tremendous urge to get away somewhere by himself where it would be quiet, and he could pour his surging, nervous energy into his craft. He needed only a hot sun to bring him to fruition. He had the feeling that the climax of his life, the full creative power toward which he had been struggling these eight long years, was not so very far off. He knew that nothing he had painted as yet was of any value; perhaps there was a short stretch just ahead in which he could create those few pictures which would justify his life.
What was it Monticelli had said? “We must put in ten years of hard labour, so that in the end we will be able to paint two or three authentic portraits.”
In Paris he had security, friendship, and love. There was always a good home for him with Theo. His brother would never let him go hungry, would never make him ask twice for painting supplies, or deny him anything that was in his power to give, least of all full sympathy.
He knew that the moment he left Paris his troubles would begin. He could not manage his allowance away from Theo. Half the time he would be forced to go without food. He would have to live in wretched little cafés, lacerate himself because he could not buy pigments, find his words choking in his throat because there was no friendly soul with whom he could talk.
