One of the Van Gogh uncles died and left Theo a small legacy. Since Vincent was so keen to have Gauguin with him, Theo decided to use half the money to furnish Gauguin’s bedroom and send him to Arles. Vincent was delighted. He began planning the decorations for the yellow house. He wanted a dozen panels of glorious Arlesian sunflowers, a symphony of blue and yellow.
Even the news of the free railway fare did not seem to excite Gauguin. For some reason which remained obscure to Vincent, Gauguin preferred to dawdle in Pont-Aven. Vincent was eager to finish the decorations and have the studio ready when the master arrived.
Spring came. The row of oleander bushes in the back yard of the yellow house went raving mad, flowering so riotously that they might well have developed locomotor ataxia. They were loaded with fresh flowers, and heaps of faded flowers as well; their green was continually renewing itself in strong jets, apparently inexhaustible.
Vincent loaded the easel on his back once again and went into the country-side to find sunflowers for the twelve wall panels. The earth of the ploughed fields was as soft in colour as a pair of sabots, while the forget-me-not blue sky was flecked with white clouds. Some of the sunflowers he did on the stalk, at sunrise, and in a flash. Others he took home with him and painted in a green vase.
He gave the outside of his house a fresh coat of yellow, much to the amusement of the inhabitants of the Place Lamartine.
By the time he finished his work on the house, summer had come. With it came the broiling sun, the driving mistral, the growing excitement in the air, the tortured, tormented, driven aspect of the country-side and the stone city pasted against the hill.
And with it came Paul Gauguin.
He arrived in Aries before dawn and waited for the sun in a little all-night café. The proprietor looked at him and exclaimed, “You are the friend! I recognize you.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Monsieur Van Gogh showed me the portrait you sent him. It looks just like you, Monsieur.”
Gauguin went to rouse Vincent. Their meeting was boisterous and hearty. Vincent showed Gauguin the house, helped him unpack his valise, demanded news of Paris. They talked animatedly for several hours.
“Are you planning to work today, Gauguin?”
“Do you think I am a Carolus-Duran, that I can get off the train, pick up my palette, and turn you off a sunlight effect at once?”
“I only asked.”
“Then don’t ask foolish questions.”
“I’ll take a holiday, too. Come along. I’ll show you the town.”
He led Gauguin up the hill, through the sun-baked Place de la Maine, and along the market road at the back of the town. The Zouaves were drilling in the field just outside the barracks: their red fezzes burned in the sun. Vincent led the way through the little park in front of the Roman forum. The Arlesiennes were strolling for their morning air. Vincent had been raving to Gauguin about how beautiful they were.
“What do you think about the Arlesiennes, Gauguin?” he demanded.
“I can’t get up a perspiration about them.”
“Look at the tone of their flesh, man, not the shape. Look at what the sun has done to their colouring.”
“How are the houses here, Vincent?”
“There’s nothing but five franc places for the Zouaves.”
They returned to the yellow house to work out some sort of living arrangements. They nailed a box to the wall in the kitchen and put half their money into it—so much for tobacco, so much for incidental expenses, including rent. On the top of the box they put a scrap of paper and a pencil with which to write down every franc they took. In another box they put the rest of their money, divided into four parts, to pay for the food each week.
“You’re a good cook, aren’t you, Gauguin?”
“Excellent. I used to be a sailor.”
“Then in the future you shall cook. But tonight I am going to make the soup in your honour.”
When he served the soup that night, Gauguin could not eat it.
“How you mixed this mess, Vincent, I can’t imagine. As you mix the colours in your pictures. I dare say.”
“What is the matter with the colours in my pictures?”
“My dear fellow, you’re still floundering in neo-impressionism. You’d better give up your present method. It doesn’t correspond to your nature.”
Vincent pushed his bowl of soup aside.
“You can tell that at first glance, eh? You’re quite a critic.”
“Well, look for yourself. You’re not blind, are you? Those violent yellows, for example; they’re completely disordered.”
Vincent glanced up the sunflower panels on the wall.
“Is that all you find to say about my sunflowers?”
“No, my dear fellow, I can find a good many things to criticize.”
“Among them?”
“Among them, your harmonies; they’re monotonous and incomplete.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Oh, sit down, Vincent. Stop looking as though you wanted to murder me. I’m a good deal older than you, and more mature. You’re still trying to find yourself. Just listen to me, and I’ll give some fruitful lessons.”
“I’m sorry, Paul. I do want you to help me.”
