| Avant. Winter '86
The snow is beginning to fall, it is winter; I will spare you the shroud, it is simply the snow. The poor people are suffering: often the landlords do not understand that. Now, on this December day, in the rue Lepic of our good city Paris, the pedestrians hasten more than usual without any desire to dawdle. Among them a shivering man, bizarrely outfitted, hurries to reach the outer boulevard. Goatskin envelops him, a fur cap--rabbit, no doubt--the red beard bristling. Like a cowherd. Do not observe him with half a glance; do not go your way without carefully examining, despite the cold, the white and harmonious hands, the blue eyes so clear, so childlike. Surely this is a poor beggar. His name is Vincent van Gogh. Hastily, he enters the shop of a dealer in primitive arrows, old scrap iron, and cheap oil paintings. Poor artist! You put a part of your soul into the painting of this canvas that you have come to sell. It is a small still life--pink shrimps on pink paper. "Can you give me a little money for this canvas to help me pay my rent?" "My God, my friend, the clientele is becoming difficult, they ask me for cheap Millets; then, you know," the dealer adds, "your painting is not very gay. The Renaissance is in demand today. Well, they say you have talent, and I want to do something for you. Here, take a hundred sous." And the round coin clinked on the counter. Van Gogh took the coin without a murmur, thanked the dealer, and went out. Painfully, he made his way back to the rue Lepic. When he had almost reached his lodgings, a poor woman, just out of Saint-Lazare, smiled at the painter, desiring his patronage. The beautiful white hand emerged from the overcoat:Van Gogh was a reader, he thought of la fille Elisa, and his five-franc peice became the property of the unfortunate girl. Rapidly, as if ashamed of his charity, he fled, his stomach empty. Aprés.
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