Ajax's the Achilles last stand: The well of St. Genevieve

Ajax's the Achilles last stand: The well of St. Genevieve: Much of the information available about Genèvieve—its validity and worth—has been the subject of controversy. Her biography,
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plain lady: plain lady: The Queen

plain lady: plain lady: The Queen: plain lady: The Queen ...... cient eagle over its treasures; the shiplike silhourette of Notre Dame anchored in the heart of Paris.. Then ...

plain lady: plain lady: plain lady: The Queen

plain lady: plain lady: plain lady: The Queen: plain lady: plain lady: The Queen : plain lady: The Queen ...... cient eagle over its treasures; the shiplike silhourette of Notre Dame anc.....................

...

plain lady: The Queen

plain lady: The Queen......cient eagle over its treasures;
the shiplike silhourette of Notre Dame anchored in the heart of Paris.. Then
they crossed the Seine and meandered through
the left bank., their faces jostling and squeaking over the cobbles of dark.,
narrow street. They passed by drowsy little shops, peaceful bristos, ancient
churches wedged between grimy houses. They came across unexpected little
squares,  each with it bubbling fountain,
a bronze gesture of some general, a wooden bench on which sat like a goat to
whom also rentier- meaning an aged retiree in a derby hat and overcoat reading
the newspaper. Sometimes a small merry-go round chanked for a cluster of wide
eyed small boys as those urchins.

            “Would
you like to go in?” Henri suggested as their fiacre was crossing the parvis of
Notre Dame.

            They
entered  the immense shadowy nave
redolent with incence and the mustiness of very old structures. Here and there
cowled figures of women knelt, their hands clapped before their mouths. Behold
a pillar a young woman sobbed noiselessly.

            Henri
glanced at Vincent, who was starting at the tiny flame burning in front of the
tabernacle, moving his lips imperceptibly as if conversing with the God behind
the golden door.. Poor Vincent, he had won, but he was tired…..The furious
torrent of vitality was ebbing , ebbing fast….

            “I
was supposed to have dinner with the “Tanguys,” Henri said, as they were coming
out of the church.

            “Won’t
you come? They would be delightd to see you,”

Rue CorZel Avenon…..was already
filled with evening mist when the fiacre- carriage

pulled up in front of the door
bell brought the old color grinder to the door. At the sight of Vincent he
flung up his short arms.

            ‘Monsieur
Van Gogh! What a pleasure, what a surprise.”

            Still
talking he led them to the kitchen, where his wife, bare armed and perspiring,
hovered over a simmering marmite like a solicious witch. After renew
acclaimations of delight at Vincent’s unexpected appearance, the three men
filled into the courtyard at the back of the shop. There the table was already
set for the dinner. A moment later madame Tanguy appeard, carrying a streaming
marmite which she set on the table. The dinner begin,…….the…..was declare a
master piece.

Vincent van Gogh - Portrait of Léonie Rose Charbuy-Davy
...

www.vangoghmuseum.nl › collection

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In the spring of 1887, he had the opportunity to paint a young
Parisian woman called Léonie Rose
Charbuy-Davy. She was
the niece of art dealer Pierre Firmin ...

Portrait of Léonie Rose Charbuy-Davy

Portrait of Léonie Rose Charbuy-Davy…..Night
had come,the air was soft. The court yard lay still and dark, except for a
small patch of light from the lamp….

            “Henri?”

“Yes?”

“While
you were dressing. I looked at your paintings. That girl the blonde one. Be
careful don’t let her ruin your life! Don’t let her stop uoy from working.” He
smiled ruefully. “you are ten years younger than I am, and you havn’t said all
you want to say. Put it all on canvas, for perhaps nobody will never say it if
you don’t. “And don’t let a woman stop you from saying it.”

            Henri had a sudden premonition he
would never see Vincent again. Already the Vincent he had known was dead. His
ugly-beautiful face had assumed a new screnity. His blue eyes seemed turned on
some nearing shore. They talked a long time after the Tanguys had gone to bed.
He held Vincent’s hand for a moment, looked once more at the gaunt, red bearded
face.

            “Adieu, man ami.”…..

            “Adieu, man ami.”

            “Monsieur
le Comte, allow me to present Captain Culot, of the Homicide Squad. He sent
twenty men to the guillotine…..This is captain Cuilguet. A specialist in jewel
robberies…..That’s Wanden Ponjel of the Roquette prison….

            The
reception was coming to an endwhen he return accompanied by a stoky,
jovial-faced man.

            “Monsieur
le Comte, this is my old friend inspector Rampart, the vice squad chief of the Sebastopol district. You know, the one I told you about…”
With a significant wink he was off.

            Inspector
Rempart sat down by Henri’s side and began by speaking feelingly about Pston,
pressing his honesty and his efficiency.

            “he
mentioned in your interest in one of the Charlet girls.” He said lowering his
voice, “Belive me, you’re well rid of her. She is no good, that girl. She is
back in my district, but I got my eyes on her. She’s taken up again with that
pimp of her, and loaf all they long in that little bistro on rue de la Planchette….Rue de la Planchette…She is
there..Go, and you’ll see her…Perhaps you can bring her back…”

            For
our he foughtagainst the haunting memories of her thrilling mouth, her fluid
body. He recalled her slutishness, her greed, her stupidity.

            After
midnight he surrendered….

            Rue
delaPlanchette was a dingy alley, a mere trench of darkness between two rows of
verminous houses.

Mosquée de Sidi Boumediene (hichemo, 

“Adieu, man ami.”

She gave him an amused glance…  and
lean aside to tap the ashes of her cigarette on the floor.

“What’s up there?” she asked, noticing
the stairway in the balcony.

            “My
room and bath.”

            “A
Bath”

In a flash she was out of bed,
running up the stairs. He heard her exclaimation of delight at the sight of the
bathtub. 

She rushed to the railing, The Queen..into the Champs Elyses….although Place de la Concorde is actually an octagon that connects Champs-Elysées to the Jardin des Tuileries and Eglise de la Madeleine to the Palais Bourbon across the river. The place covers twenty-one acres in the center of the city bordering on the Seine. ….
“I had forgotten how beautiful Paris was,” said Vincent after a long silence.
“Yes it is beautiful—a stage where the scenery overwhelms the actors. Sometimes I wonder whether architecture is not the moving of all arts. Even more than music.”

leaned over it.

            “Please,
please, let me take a bath.” Her voice had the whispering eagerness of a
child’s pleasing for a toy.

            “I
clean it nice, I promise.”

            A small inner voice warned him to
refuse, but, instead, he said,  “If you 

The Queen

Van Gogh's letter

1r:1

My dear Theo,

On the occasion of the first of May I wish you not too bad a year, and above all good health.1

How I’d like to be able to pass on some physical strength to you, I have a feeling of having too much of it at the moment. Which doesn’t prevent my mind from not yet being at all what it ought to be.

How right Delacroix was, who lived on bread and wine alone, and who succeeded in finding a way of life in harmony with his profession.2 But the inevitable question of money always remains – Delacroix had a private income. Corot too.

And Millet – Millet was a peasant and the son of a peasant.3 You’ll perhaps read with some interest the article I’m cutting out of a Marseille newspaper, because in it one glimpses Monticelli, and I find the description of the painting of a corner of the cemetery extremely interesting.4 But alas, it’s another still-lamentable story.

How sad it is to think that a painter who succeeds, even half succeeds, in his turn pulls along half a dozen artists who are even greater failures than himself.

However, think of Pangloss,5 think of Bouvard and Pécuchet,6 I know, then even that can be explained, but those people perhaps don’t know Pangloss, or else one forgets everything one knows about him under the inevitable bite of real despairs and great pains.

And what’s more, under the name of optimism we fall back into a religion which to me has the look of being the rear end of a kind of Buddhism. Nothing bad about that, quite the opposite, if you like.

I don’t much like the article on Monet in Le Figaro, how much better that other article in Le 19ième Siècle was! There one saw the paintings, and this one contains only banalities that make me melancholy.7  1v:2

Today I’m packing up a crate of paintings and studies.

There’s one which is flaking, onto which I’ve stuck newspapers – it’s one of the best and I think that when you look at it you’ll see more clearly what my studio, now foundered, could have been.8 This study, as well as a few others, was spoiled by damp during my illness.9

The water from a flood rose up to a few feet from the house10 and, more importantly, when I came back water and saltpetre were oozing from the walls because the house had been without a fire during my absence.

That had an effect on me, not only the studio having foundered, but even the studies which would have been the memories of it damaged, it’s so final, and my urge to found something very simple but durable was so strong. It was fighting against insurmountable odds, or rather it was weakness of character on my part, for I still have feelings of grave remorse difficult to define. I think that was the cause of my crying out so much during the crises, that I wanted to defend myself and could no longer manage to. For it wasn’t for me, it was for the very painters like the unfortunate one spoken of in the enclosed article that this studio could have been of use.

Anyway, there have been more than us before, Bruyasin Montpellier gave an entire fortune to it and an entire existence and without the least apparent result.

Yes – a cold room in a municipal museum where one sees a deeply saddened face and lots of fine paintings, where certainly one is moved, but alas moved as in a cemetery.11  1v:3

However, it would be difficult for one to walk in a cemetery demonstrating more clearly the existence of that Hope that Puvis de Chavannes painted.12

The paintings fade like flowers – thus even someDelacroixs had suffered, the magnificent Daniel,13 the Odalisques14 (quite different from those in the Louvre,15 it was in a single purplish range), but how that impressed me, those paintings that were fading there, little understood, it’s true, by the majority of visitors who look at Courbet and Cabanel and Victor Giraud &c.16

What are we, we painters? Well, I think that Richepin is often right, for example, when going at it point-blank he simply sends them back to the madhouse in his blasphemies.17

Now, though, I assure you that I know no hospital where one would want to take me for nothing, even supposing that I would take upon myself the expenses of my painting and would leave all my work to the hospital.

And that is perhaps, I don’t say a great but anyway a small injustice. I would be resigned if I thought that. If I was without your friendship I would be sent back without remorse to suicide, and however cowardly I am, I would end up going there. There, as you will see I hope, is the point where we’re permitted to protest against society and to defend ourselves.

You can be reasonably sure that the Marseille artist who committed suicide did not at all commit suicide from drinking absinthe, for the simple reason that nobody will have offered him any and that he wouldn’t have had  1r:4 the means to buy any. Besides, it won’t have been solely for his pleasure that he drank, but because being ill already he kept himself going that way.

Mr Salles has been to St-Rémy – they don’t want to allow me painting outside the establishment, nor to take me for less than 100 francs.

So this information is bad indeed. If I could get out of it by enlisting for 5 years in the Foreign Legion, I think I’d prefer that.

For on the one hand being locked up, not working I would recover with difficulty, on the other hand we’d be made to pay 100 francs a month all through a madman’s long life.

It’s serious, and what can one do, let’s think about it. But will they want to take me on as a soldier? I feel very tired by the conversation with Mr Salles, and I don’t quite know what to do. I myself advised Bernard to do his military service, so is it so astonishing that I should think of going to Arabia myself as a soldier.

I say this just in case; you shouldn’t blame me too much if I go. The rest is so vague and so strange. And you know how doubtful it is that one ever recovers what it costs to do painting. Besides, it seems to me that physically I am well.

If I can’t work there except under supervision! and in the establishment – is it by God worth paying money for that!

Certainly in the barracks I could then work as well and even better.

Anyway, I’m thinking, do the same, let’s be aware that everything always happens for the best in the best of worlds,18 that isn’t impossible. I shake your hand very firmly.

Ever yours,

Vincent

For me she cried excitedly, whiping her hand on her apron and taking the box, "Oh, Monsieur Toulouse, you are sweet". Inpulsively she leaned across the counter and peck him on the cheek.