Lust for Life

DOCTOR GACHET WAS down at the station to meet Theo and Vincent. He was a nervous, excited, jumpy little man with an eager melancholy in his eyes. He wrung Vincent’s hand warmly.

“Yes, yes, you will find this a real painter’s village. You will like it here. I see you have brought your easel. Have you enough paints? You must begin work immediately. You will have dinner with me at my house this afternoon, yes? Have you brought some of your new canvases? You won’t find that Arlesian yellow here. I’m afraid, but there are other things, yes, yes, you will find other things. You must come to my house to paint. I will give you vases and tables that have been painted by everyone from Daubigny to Lautrec. How do you feel? You look well. Do you think you will like it here? Yes, yes, we will take care of you. We’ll make a healthy man out of you!”

From the station platform Vincent looked over a patch of trees to where the green Oise wound through the fertile valley. He ran a little bit to one side to get a full view. Theo spoke in a low tone to Doctor Gachet.

“I beg of you, watch my brother carefully,” he said. “If you see any symptoms of his trouble coming, telegraph to me at once. I must be with him when he . . . he must not be allowed to . . . there are people who say that . . .”

“Tut! Tut!” interrupted Doctor Gachet, dancing from one foot to the other and rubbing his little goatee vigorously with his index finger. “Of course he’s crazy. But what would you? All artists are crazy. That’s the best thing about them. I love them that way. I sometimes wish I could be crazy myself! ‘No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness!’ Do you know who said that? Aristotle, that’s who.”

“I know, Doctor,” said Theo, “but he is a young man, only thirty-seven. The best part of life is still before him.”

Doctor Gachet snatched off his funny white cap and ran his hand through his hair many times, with no apparent purpose.

“Leave him to me. I know how to handle painters. I will make a well man of him in a month. I’ll set him to work. That will cure him. I’ll make him paint my portrait. Right away. This afternoon. I’ll get his mind off his illness, all right.”

Vincent came back, drawing big breaths of pure country air.

“You ought to bring Jo and the little one out here, Theo. It’s a crime to raise children in the city.”

“Yes, yes, you must come on a Sunday and spend the whole day with us,” cried Gachet.

“Thank you. I would like that very much. Here comes my train. Good-bye, Doctor Gachet; thank you for taking care of my brother. Vincent, write to me every day.”

Doctor Gachet had a habit of holding people at the elbow and propelling them forward in the direction he wished to go. He pushed Vincent ahead of him, kept up a nervous flow of talk in a high voice, scrambled up his conversation, answered his own questions, and deluged Vincent in a sputtering monologue.

“That’s the road to the village,” he said, “that long one, straight ahead. But come, I’ll take you up this hill and give you a real view. You don’t mind walking with the easel on your back? That’s the Catholic church on the left. Have you noticed that the Catholics always build their churches on a hill, so that people will look up to them? Dear, dear, I must be getting old; this grade seems steeper every year. Those are lovely cornfields, aren’t they? Auvers is surrounded by them. You must come and paint this field some time. Of course it’s not as yellow as the Provençal . . . yes, that’s the cemetery on the right . . . we put it up here on the crest of the hill, overlooking the river and the valley . . . do you think it makes much difference to dead people where they lie? . . . we gave them the loveliest spot in the whole Oise valley . . . shall we go in? . . . you get the clearest view of the river from inside . . . we’ll be able to see almost to Pointoise . . . yes, the gate is open, just push it . . . that’s right . . . now isn’t this pleasant? . . . we built the walls to keep the wind out . . . we bury Catholics and Protestants alike here . . .”

Vincent slipped the easel off his back and walked a little ahead of Doctor Gachet to escape the flow of words. The cemetery, which had been laid at the very crest of the hill, was a neat square in shape. Part of it ran downward on the slope. Vincent went to the back wall, from where he could see the whole Oise valley flowing beneath him. The cool green river wound its way gracefully between banks of brilliant verdure. To his right he saw the thatched roofs of the village, and just a short distance beyond, another slope on the top of which was a chateau. The cemetery was full of clean May sunshine and early spring flowers. It was roofed by a delicate blue sky. The complete and beautiful quiet was almost the quiet from beyond the grave.

“You know, Doctor Gachet,” said Vincent, “it did me good to go south. Now I see the North better. Look how much violet there is on the far river bank, where the sun hasn’t struck the green yet.”