Lust for Life

“They think my work has driven me crazy,” he said to the man one day, as two of the sisters passed. “I know that at the bottom it is fairly true that a painter is a man too much absorbed by what his eyes see, and is not sufficiently master of the rest of his life. But does that make him unfit to live in this world?”

The idiot only drooled.

It was a line from Delacroix’s book that finally gave him the strength to get out of bed. “I discovered painting,” said Delacroix, “when I no longer had teeth or breath.”

For several weeks he did not even have the desire to go into the garden. He sat in the ward near the stove, reading the books that Theo sent from Paris. When one of his neighbours was taken with an attack, he did not look up or get out of his chair. Insanity had become sanity; the abnormal had become the normal. It was so long since he had lived with rational people that he no longer looked upon his fellow inmates as irrational.

“I’m sorry, Vincent,” said Doctor Peyron, “but I cannot give you permission to leave the grounds again. In the future you must stay within the walls.”

“You will permit me to work in my studio?”

“I advise you against it.”

“Would you prefer me to commit suicide, Doctor?”

“Very well, work in your studio. But only for a few hours a day.”

Even the sight of his easel and brushes could not destroy Vincent’s lethargy. He sat in the Monticelli armchair and stared through the iron bars at the barren cornfields.

A few days later he was summoned to Doctor Peyron’s office to sign for a registered letter. When he slit open the envelope, he found a cheque for four hundred francs made out in his name. It was the largest sum of money he had ever possessed at one time. He wondered what on earth Theo had sent it for.

My Dear Vincent:

At last! One of your canvases has been bought for four hundred francs! It was Red Vineyard, the one you painted at Arles last spring. It was bought by Anna Bock, sister of the Dutch painter.

Congratulations, old boy! Soon we’ll be selling you all over Europe! Use this money to come back to Paris, if Doctor Peyron agrees.

I have recently met a delightful man, Doctor Gachet, who has a home in Auvers-sur-I’Oise, just an hour from Paris. Every important painter since Daubigny has worked in his home. He claims he understands your case thoroughly, and that any time you want to come to Auvers, he will take care of you.

I’ll write again tomorrow

Theo

Vincent showed Doctor Peyron and his wife the letter. Peyron read it thoughtfully, then fingered the cheque. He contratulated Vincent on his good fortune. Vincent walked down the path, the soft stuff of his brain springing to firm life again with feverish activity. Half-way across the garden he saw that he had taken the cheque with him but left Theo’s letter in the Doctor’s office. He turned and walked back quickly.

He was about to knock on the door when he heard his name mentioned inside. He hesitated for a moment, irresolute.

“Then why do you suppose he did it?” demanded Madame Peyron.

“Perhaps he thought it would be good for his brother.”

“But if he can’t afford the money . . .?”

“I suppose he thought it was worth it, to bring Vincent back to normal.”

“Then you don’t think there’s any chance of it being the truth?”

“My dear Marie, how could there be? This woman is supposed to be the sister of an artist. How in the world could a person with any perception . . .?”

Vincent walked away.

At supper he received a wire from Theo.

NAMED THE BOY AFTER YOU. JOHANNA AND VINCENT FEELING FINE.

The sale of his picture and the marvellous news from Theo made Vincent a well man over night. In the morning he went early to his studio, cleaned his brushes, sorted the canvases and studies that were leaning against the wall.

“If Delacroix can discover painting when he no longer has teeth or breath I can discover it when I no longer have teeth or wits.”

He threw himself into his work with a dumb fury. He copied The Good Samaritan after Delacroix, The Sower and The Digger after Millet. He was determined to take his recent misfortune with a sort of northern phlegm. The life of art was shattering; he had known that when he began. Then why should he take to complaining at this late date?