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This was a fact that few people would deny, but the Sweeping a quick glance across the interior of the night
cafe waiter Jean might correct this phrase later by crying cafe, the painter drank off the remaining coffee in one
out in exaggeration: “Vincent loves coffee? No, that odd gulp, put away the cup with a click, took up the brush,
fellow is addicted to it!” True, even Jean was appalled by and continued refreshed his unfinished “artistic re-
the number of times he was called to refill this absorbed venge”. Indeed, it was a passionate “revenge”, and it
artist’s cup. After all, who could believe that a man could was written not totally in a jocular tone as he was
survive only on 23 cups of coffee and several slices of confessing the colorful scheme of The Night Café in a
bread over four days, just to complete an “unimportant” letter to his dear Theo:
painting showing a night cafe’s interior? Yet, if it came “I have tried to express the terrible passions of
to Vincent Van Gogh, a man famous for his obsession humanity by means of red and green. The room is blood
with art, it made sense to a great extent. red and dark yellow with a green billiard table in the
Holding the white ceramic cup in his hands, Vincent middle; there are four lemon-yellow lamps with a glow
enjoyed the precious moments when his nostrils were of orange and green. Everywhere there is a clash and
filled with the sweet aroma of roasted beans, when his contrast of the most alien reds and greens, in the figures
stiff fingers were delightedly softened by the pleasing of little sleeping hooligans, in the empty dreary room, in
warmth extended from the magic nectar, as well as when violet and blue.”
all the fatigue, drowsiness, tension in every muscle of his In accentuating the redness around the lamplights,
body and brains were immediately swept away after the he recalled Jean’s freckled young face glowing with ex-
first sip of this bitter and slightly acidic brewed beverage citement. This provincial boy tried, with clumsy gestic-
originated in some remote African kingdom. ulations, to persuade him to paint the “sweetness” of cafe
Abruptly, a fit of ragged coughing heard from the instead of the “bitterness” of it. Honestly, he knew per-
left corner of the room penetrated the hypnotic silence fectly well what he had been talking about: la joie de
shrouding the space, startling the couple, or practically vivre, the joy of living widely celebrated in those Parisian
a lonely man with a prostitute, who were lovingly hud- coffee houses. During his stay in this cultural hub of the
dling together nearby. Vincent shifted his attentive look Continent not long ago, he was familiar with the theme
to the noise, and caught sight of the sad red face of a of joyful cafe culture in many of his contemporary paint-
drunk mining worker slouching over his table, who now ers’ works, like Edouard Manet’s A Bar at the Fo-
unintentionally turned himself into a target of mild com- lies-Bergère where a gorgeous waitress was found lan-
plaints made by other “night prowlers” at Café de la Gare. guidly leaning against the counter, her lovely face was

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