From Les Lettres Françaises

By Pierre Weiller, 24 - 31 March 1955

Paul-Eugéne Milliet was a 2^nd lieutenant of the 3^rd Zouave Regiment of Light Infantry. He died during the 2^nd World War. These memoirs were recorded almost 20 years before they were published.

Several times, at his home, or at mine, while drinking a cup of coffee chased by a large glassful of rum, he insisted on the privilege, the necessity and on the pre-eminence of drawing. Although he was cultured to a certain degree, that he was interested in all that is beautiful, I remained surprised by the clarity of the interest that he possessed on an art which few appreciate. One day when he was particularly resolute, he confessed to me that he had, in his youth, toyed with the pencil, pen and charcoal. “As an amateur, dear friend, as an amateur, because I have always been a soldier, a soldier, a combatant, and a Blédard ¹. I told you that I had not often had the opportunity to sketch. And also I have had, at one point in my life, a drawing teacher, one whose name is great, and who gave me some lessons during a leave, between two campaigns.”

And he told me his name, as always half obscured by grunts and humming of a disputable taste but incontestably picturesque. I vaguely understood a surname resembling “vogue,” but I did not ask him to elucidate. This was only later that I realized that “vogue” could, possibly, mean Van Gogh.

But it appeared so improbable that I waited for a while before I asked him precisely.

During a later meeting, I posed the question.

- But yes, replied the colonel, certainly it was Van Gogh who was my drawing teacher. No worse than any other, elsewhere, and certainly a better designer that all the eccentrics that labour for you. But mark you, if he was my drawing teacher, I would never have taken him as my painting teacher.

- But in what period did you know him?

- In 1888.

- And where was this?

- In Arles where he stayed after having left Paris. Myself, I took some rest in this city, between two campaigns.

-Could you give me some details on him, on his behavior?

- Certainly. He was a curious fellow. A bit of a hot-head, like a Blédard. But he wasn't one: no inclination for military art, none. An artist?

Obviously, an artist, and he drew in an admirable manner. A charming companion, when he decided, which took him several days. We often took wonderful walks in the vicinity of Arles and, in the countryside, we sketched. Sometimes, he took along a canvas and began to daub on it. Doing that, he didn't do well. This boy, who had the taste and the talent for drawing, became abnormal as soon as he touched a brush.

- You consider that he drew well. Nevertheless you are not going to make me believe that he painted as an apprentice or an amateur.

- He painted like a headquarters officer.

- My dear colonel, all art lovers and all art critics, all connoisseurs recognize that Van Gogh…

- Talents that he didn't have. I am in a better position that most to know. I have seen him work. I have benefited from his teaching. I have even given him lessons. Lessons in drawing, of course, because we went out especially in the countryside, to each make a sketch of the same landscape and to mutually correct ourselves, independently. Ah well, Van Gogh sometimes found my remarks justified. Sometimes, not always. And only concerning drawings. Because, as soon as he started to paint, or I withdrew, or I refused to give a good opinion, we argued. He was not an easy character and when he was angry, he appeared insane. Only, it hardly impressed me: because in my wandering soldier life, I had seen it all before.

- But what do you criticize of Van Gogh's works?

- What I criticize is that they are not drawn. He painted too large, he gave no attention to details, he did not draw, what… And meanwhile, when he wanted to, he knew how to draw, I tell you. He replaced the drawing by colours: meaningless, because the colour completes the drawing, but can not hold it in place. The drawing is the support of the colour. And then his colour…extreme, abnormal, inadmissible. The tones too hot, too violent, not capable of self control. You see, my friend, the painter has to make a painting with love, with passion. A canvas has to be “caressed”: Van Gogh, he raped it. At times, he was a real brute, a “tough”, as they say.

- His character was choleric therefore?

- Yes and no. Rather agreeable, on the whole, but very changeable. Very nervous. Furious, when I voiced a criticism on a painting. But that did not last and we always finished up reconciled.

- If I understand you properly, he was very nervous, but too sensitive.

- An exaggerated sensitivity. Reactions of a woman, sometimes. The conscience to be a great artist. He had faith. Faith in his talent, a faith a little blind. Proud. His health did not appear very strong to me. But, all in all, a good comrade, not a bad sort.

- Aside from his nervousness, did you have the impression that he was sick?

- He complained from time to time of his stomach. That is all.

- What did he paint during the period where you were with him?

- A little of everything. Landscapes especially, still lifes, especially of flowers. Some portraits, including mine.

- How did Van Gogh do your portrait? Where is it located?

- I am not sure. Someone told me that it was in a museum. In Holland, I believe.

- And how were you painted?

- In the uniform of an officer of the Zouaves. I had come back from Tonkin, don't forget.

- Do you remember posing?

- I should say. But it hardly amused me. This is not in my character, you understand. As much as I remember, it did not last very long. All in all, it wasn't planned out, therefore it took little time, relatively, to the artist.

- Was the portrait much of a likeness?

- Very. Very much a likeness. But with a deep blue uniform, not very well done.

Such were, faithfully related, some thoughts that my friend Milliet gave me on his relationship with Van Gogh. How odd that he met this artist, in full possession of his talent, when this young officer came to the Midi to take some rest after a hard campaign! What a coincidence that they had the same love of drawing, these two men so different from each other! And how can you not excuse, on the part of the brave colonel, the severe criticism that he spoke of a painting that he could not understand, and that others of his time especially, little approved... His brave policeman father had given him only a modest artistic education and I am sure that, as a military child, he received little understanding on the art of painting. Above all, the reflections of my friend, intransigent as they were, have no other value that they were sincere. And the glory of Van Gogh is not lost…

1. Blédard. A nickname used for a French desert soldier, in the same way as “Tommy” or “Doughboy.”