When he had laid the room bare, he stood by the window, every nerve quivering. He fell across the sill. His head hung down towards the cobblestone Place.
10
A PETITION WAS immediately circulated to the Place Lamartine. Ninety men and women signed it.
To Mayor Tardieu:
We, the undersigned citizens of Arles, are firmly convinced that Vincent Van Gogh, resident at Place Lamartine, 2, is a dangerous lunatic, not fit to be left at large.
We hereby call upon you as our Mayor to have this madman locked up.
It was very close to election time in Arles. Mayor Tardieu did not wish to displease so many voters. He ordered the superintendent of police to arrest Vincent.
The gendarmes found him lying on the floor below the window sill. They carried him off to jail. He was put in a cell, under lock and key. A keeper was stationed outside his door.
When Vincent returned to consciousness, he asked to see Doctor Rey. He was refused permission. He asked for pencil and paper to write Theo. It was refused.
At length Doctor Rey gained entrance to the jail.
“Try to restrain your indignation, Vincent,” he said, “Otherwise they will convict you of being a dangerous lunatic, and that will be the end of you. Besides, strong emotion can only aggravate your case. I will write to your brother, and between us we will get you out of here.”
“I beg you, Doctor, don’t let Theo come down here. He’s just going to be married. It will spoil everything for him.”
“I’ll tell him not to come. I think I have a good plan for you.”
Two days later Doctor Rey came back. The keeper was still stationed in front of the cell.
“Listen Vincent,” he said, “I just watched them move you out of your yellow house. The landlord stored your furniture in the basement of one of the cafés, and he has your paintings under lock and key. He says he won’t give them up until you pay the back rent.”
Vincent was silent.
“Since you can’t go back there, I think you had better try to work out my plan. There is no telling how often these epileptic fits will come back on you. If you have peace and quiet and pleasant surroundings and don’t excite yourself, you may have seen the last of them. On the other hand, they may recur every month or two. So to protect yourself, and others about you . . . I think it would be advisable . . . to go into . . .”
“. . . A maison de santé?”
“Yes.”
“Then you think I am . . .?”
“No, my dear Vincent, you are not. You can see for yourself that you are as sane as I. But these epileptic fits are like any other kind of fever. They make a man go out of his head. And when a nervous crisis comes on, you naturally do irrational things. That’s why you ought to be in a hospital, where you can be looked after.”
“I see.”
“There is a good place in St. Remy, just twenty-five kilometres from here. It’s called St. Paul de Mausole. They take first, second, and third-class patients. The third class is a hundred francs a month. You could manage that. The place was formerly a monastery, right up against the base of the hills. It is beautiful, Vincent, and quiet, oh, so quiet. You will have a doctor to advise you, and sisters to take care of you. The food will be plain and good. You will be able to recover your health.”
“Would I be allowed to paint?”
“Why, of course, old fellow. You’ll be allowed to do whatever you wish . . . providing it doesn’t injure you. It will be just like being in a hospital with enormous grounds. If you live quietly that way for a year, you may be completely cured.”
“But how will I get out of this hole?”
“I have spoken to the superintendent of police. He agrees to let you go to St. Paul de Mausole, providing I take you there.”
“And you say it is really a nice place?”
“Oh, charming, Vincent. You’ll find loads of things to paint.”
“How nice. A hundred francs a month isn’t so much. Perhaps that’s just what I need for a year, to quiet me down.”
“Of course it is. I have already written to your brother, telling him about it. I suggested that in your present state of health it would be inadvisable to move you very far; certainly not to Paris. I told him that in my opinion St. Paul would be the very best thing for you.”
“Well, if Theo agrees . . . Anything, just so long as I don’t cause him more trouble . . .”
“I expect an answer any hour. I’ll come back when I get it.”
Theo had no alternative. He acquiesced. He sent money to pay his brother’s bills. Doctor Rey took Vincent in a carriage to the station where they boarded the train for Tarascon. At Tarascon they took a little branch line that wound up a green, fertile valley to St. Remy.
It was two kilometres up a steep hill, through the sleeping town, to St. Paul de Mausole. Vincent and Doctor Rey hired a carriage. The road led straight to a ridge of black, barren mountains. From a short way off Vincent saw, nestled at their base, the sod-brown walls of the monastery.
The carriage stopped. Vincent and Doctor Rey got out. On the right of the road there was a cleared, circular space with a Temple of Vesta and a Triumphal Arch.
“How in the world did these get here?” demanded Vincent.
“This used to be an important Roman settlement. The river which you see down there once filled this whole valley. It came right up to where you’re standing. As the river receded, the town crawled lower and lower down the hill. Now nothing is left here except these dead monuments, and the monastery.”
“Interesting.”
“Come, Vincent, Doctor Peyron is expecting us.”
They left the road and walked through a patch of pines to the gate of the monastery. Doctor Rey pulled an iron knob which sounded a loud bell. After a few moments the gate opened and Doctor Peyron appeared.
“How do you do, Doctor Peyron?” said Doctor Rey. “I have brought you my friend, Vincent Van Gogh, as we arranged by mail. I know that you will take good care of him.”
“Yes, Doctor Rey, we will take care of him.”
“You will forgive me if I run, Doctor? I just have time to catch that train back to Tarascon.”
“Of course, Doctor Rey. I understand.”
“Good-bye, Vincent,” said Doctor Rey. “Be happy, and you will get well. I will come to see you as often as I can. By the end of a year I expect to find you a completely well man.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You are very kind. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Vincent.”
He turned and walked away through the pines.
“Will you come in, Vincent?” asked Doctor Peyron, stepping aside.
Vincent walked past Doctor Peyron.
The gate of the insane asylum locked behind him.
Book seven
St. Remy
1
THE WARD IN which the inmates slept was like a third-class waiting room in some dead-alive village. The lunatics always wore their hats, spectacles, canes, and travelling cloaks, just as though they were on the point of leaving for somewhere.
Sister Deschanel brought Vincent through the long corridor-like room and indicated an empty bed.