Leaving Van Gogh (4 page)

“Has your hearing been affected?” I asked, releasing the ear.

“No,” he answered. “I don’t believe that was ever a concern. I was very ill afterward, and I remember none of it. Theo says he came to Arles, but apparently I did not recognize him. I was raving in the hospital. I suppose they had restrained me by that point.”

I was certain that they had. Even though Dr. Pinel and his followers had gradually done away with the use of chains on the mad, there were still times when a patient was so disturbed that he or she had to be subdued. The solution was the
gilet de force
, a heavy canvas jacket that fastened up the back. The sleeves were extraordinarily long; crossed over at the waist in front and tied in the back, they immobilized an unruly patient’s hands. It was always shocking to see a patient controlled in that way, but it was frequently a necessary measure.

I stood up and moved the stool around to place myself directly in front of Vincent. “Were you often restrained at St.-Rémy?” I looked into his eyes as he answered. The whites were perhaps a touch yellowed. The irises were a clear, deep blue, each with a dark ring; the pupils small black dots in the flood of light from the windows. He had stiff reddish lashes, bleached by the sun, and faint scars from bad sunburns on his brow and cheekbones. It was a workman’s skin, the skin of a man who spends his days outside in all weathers.

“They sometimes put patients in straitjackets, so I expect I was restrained, too.”

“Would you mind opening your mouth?” I asked.

He did so, stretching his jaws wide. As I’d thought, some of his teeth were false. His gums were inflamed, bleeding in places. His breath smelled of coffee.

“When did you lose those teeth?” I asked.

“Ten years ago, perhaps? I was very ill when I came back from the Borinage. I hadn’t been eating.”

“Do the false ones hurt you?”

“Not especially,” he said. “My own teeth, the ones they pulled out, hurt a great deal by the end.”

I sat back on the stool. “I have said this before, but it bears repeating. You must eat. Simple meals. Food gives you the strength to work.” I put a hand on his right shoulder, and stretched his arm out. Blood vessels, muscle, and sinew ran beneath the pale skin. He looked almost like an
écorché
, one of those flayed figures used to teach art students about anatomy. His hands, as ravaged by the sun as his face, were dingy with paint. It looked as if he applied his pigments with his fingers.

It was warm in the studio, so I stood to open the window. The fly that had been buzzing against the pane flew out, and a current of fresh air drifted in. In the garden below, the goat’s bell jingled and one of the larger dogs barked.

I went back to my patient and asked him, “Could you turn around? I would like to listen to your lungs.” He shifted his legs to offer me his bare back. The knobs of his spine were clearly visible, as vulnerable as a small boy’s. I applied the stethoscope and adjusted the earpieces. “Breathe in, please. Out. In again.” The air rushed in and out smoothly, without catches or gurgles or rasps. “Thank you. Now lie down.”

He lay back and hung his legs over the edge of the divan. Once again, I could see every muscle, every bone. The hollow of his belly made the outline of his ribs as dramatic as a skeleton. I palpated his abdomen, pressing down firmly to feel the shapes of his organs. “Now your heart,” I said, applying the stethoscope to his chest. As I bent down to listen, the double beat came, firm and regular. His heart was not the problem any more than his eyes, lungs, or hands were. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to Vincent slowly breathing. He sounded peaceful, at ease.

I straightened, and folded my stethoscope back into its case. “You may sit up,” I told him. When he rose, his eyes met mine. There was no question in them. “Am I well? Will I be ill again?” You can always read that anxiety in a patient’s face. Not with Vincent. His body did not interest him unless it failed him.

“I see nothing wrong,” I said cheerfully, as though to a child. “Your body is strong, though you are thinner than I would like. I am slightly concerned about your liver.”

I lifted his shirt from the easel and handed it to him. Normally, as with disrobing, patients would retire behind a screen for this moment, the resumption of the public face. Vincent merely slipped his arms into the sleeves and fastened the crude buttons. He looked down at the last of them, then looked up at me. This time there
was
a question in his eyes, and I felt I must answer it. I have thought about this moment so often. Was there something else I could have said? A warning I could have delivered that would have changed the outcome? I will never know. He did not seem particularly mad. The episode of the ear had occurred about eighteen months earlier and was not repeated by further injury or aggression. I did not doubt that Vincent drove himself hard or that he fitted uneasily into society, as Theo had warned me. But there had been considerable wisdom in his decision to stay in the asylum until he felt steadier.

“As for your mind,” I told him, “I am confident. You have been through a difficult ordeal, but you have recovered. You traveled here on your own without incident. Paris was too noisy, and you had the good sense to leave. This is an excellent sign. You must, you
must
come to me if you feel any change. A new sense of difficulty, perhaps. Melancholy. Despair. Trouble sleeping.” He was buttoning his cuffs, head down. “I do not rule these things out, but they would surprise me. You are perfectly lucid, your reasoning is intact, your senses are undisturbed. Still, I can help you if you require it.”

“And you believe I should continue to work?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said, “you must! I have seen many alienated patients improve by working, though it was usually labor of a routine kind, repetitive. Your work is—” I paused and caught his eye again. I tried to make my voice as impressive as possible. “If I understand you at all, Monsieur van Gogh, your painting is the reason you continue to live, is it not?”

He nodded, his eyes still on mine, his hands hanging at his sides.

“Then paint,” I added quietly. “Paint and live. And come to me if you feel disturbed.” I put my hand on his shoulder and turned him to face the stairs. “Now let us find you a place to stay.”

T
hree

I
WALKED
V
INCENT
down the steps to the gate and watched him trudge along the street, back toward the train station. He did, I had to admit, make a conspicuous figure. In Auvers we have always been accustomed to painters with their rucksacks and collapsible easels and stools, often settled where you least expect them, at a turn in the road or in the hollow of a meadow. I like to think that, in painting our landscape, they become part of it. But even from behind, Vincent’s shambling gait, his battered boots, and his coarse straw hat made him an unusual and unmistakable figure in Auvers.

I later learned that Vincent had chosen to lodge at the Auberge Ravoux, across from the
mairie
. It was the cheapest inn the town offered; Vincent was very careful with the money that Theo sent him. He had made the right choice, for Ravoux’s customers were working men, unlikely to be disturbed by a painter’s eccentricities.

The same was not true of Madame Chevalier, who was waiting for me at the front door when I had seen Vincent on his way. The force of her opinions did not match her small size.

“And who was that?” she demanded. Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “If he is to come back, you must tell him to come to the back door with his bundles. We can’t have word getting around the village that peddlers come to the front like guests.”

“But he is a guest,” I said mildly. “He is a painter, named Vincent van Gogh, and I hope we will see him often. I asked him to stay for luncheon today, but he could not.”

I said this only to tease her. Madame Chevalier was a wonderful cook, but she hated being surprised by guests.

“Vincent van what?” she retorted. “Van Goog? Dreadful name! I’ll never be able to say it. And if he’s going to paint here, you must tell him that I don’t want his oil paints all over the place. Outside, that’s where they stay, or in your studio, Doctor. Now come and sit down, Marguerite and Paul have been waiting for you. They want to know all about him.” I obeyed her, of course.

It had been some time since an artist had visited us. Pissarro’s move away from Pontoise in 1882 had limited my country contacts with artists. I saw them in Paris, at galleries and cafés, but I realized that Vincent’s presence in Auvers could be stimulating for all of us. I imagined lively conversations with him about art and literature. I might even paint with him, as I had with Cézanne and Pissarro. For many years now Auvers had been a kind of refuge for me. But the cultural life there was limited.

I began to wonder very much what Vincent van Gogh’s painting looked like. The man had struck me so positively, with his stoical approach to his illness and his quick enthusiasm for my treasured paintings. I hoped the artist would be one I could admire. I was eager to see Vincent’s work for another reason as well: though I had conducted a physical examination, I felt that my knowledge of the man and his mental state would be incomplete until I had seen how he viewed and depicted his world. I did not want to wait until his canvases arrived from the South, so I hoped that Theo could show me examples of Vincent’s paintings while I was working in Paris.

I made my way to the Boulevard Montmartre on the Friday evening after Vincent had first knocked at my door. “Dr. Gachet,” Theo said, coming forward with his hand out to greet me as I walked through the polished glass door of the gallery. Just as I had seen him in his brother’s rougher features, now I saw Vincent’s heavy brow and bold cheekbones superimposed on Theo’s more delicate face. “I am so happy to see you. I have heard from Vincent.” He clasped my hand warmly. “Doctor, I can hardly tell you …” He looked away for a moment, and I could see that he was struggling with emotion. “I am so relieved.”

Naturally he was relieved, poor man. He must have worried desperately about his brother. I had understood that before, but now that I had met Vincent, I could guess how his circumstances must weigh on Theo.

“He is terribly high-strung, of course,” I said, hoping to give Theo some time to recover himself. “But I thought he showed good sense in leaving Paris when he did. That is a wonderful sign, along with the fact that he was able to travel by himself from the South, without incident. I believe he is much better.”

Theo had turned back to me, after a swift glance at a man in a black coat examining a painting of a volcano in a heavy gilt frame. We had moved no farther than the entrance of the gallery, but now he drew me away from the door, to a long red leather bench in the middle of the back room. It was a pleasing space, with gleaming floors and luxuriant potted palms in the corners. He sat down, glancing again at the man, who appeared to be the only customer. “Please, sit down, Doctor. I am delighted to hear you say this. Can you tell me what you think was wrong with him?”

“Do you need to attend to the gentleman over there? I realize this may not be a convenient time for a visit.”

Theo shook his head. “He visits us frequently,” he said in a low voice. “He is very partial to our traditional landscapes, and I believe he is in no hurry to get home. In any event, I will be closing the gallery shortly. If you would like to wait, perhaps we could take a glass of something together. I have a new Pissarro upstairs. Would you like to see it? Are you acquainted with his most recent work?” The smooth gallery employee had quickly replaced the distraught brother, but I felt that his politeness was automatic. I could sense that he was still preoccupied with Vincent.

“I would be happy to see what my old friend has been painting some other time. I cannot say I like these pointillist canvases of the last few years, and I keep hoping he will abandon that style. But for now, I would like more than anything to see your brother’s work. Have you anything here?”

He smiled wearily. “Unfortunately, I do not. Vincent’s paintings are magnificent, but … startling. Very strong. He has been invited to show with a group in Brussels, but I can’t think of a gallery in France that would hang his work now. Of course, I believe all of this will change. You read Aurier’s piece?”

“Albert Aurier?” I shook my head. “No. He wrote about Vincent?”

“Yes, in the
Mercure de France
. In January. It was a long article about various artists whose work does not seem related to any of the contemporary movements. He called it ‘The Isolated Ones.’ He said wonderful things about Vincent’s painting. Unfortunately, Vincent is also isolated personally.”

The jingle of the doorbell announced that the devotee of traditional landscapes had departed, and Theo stood up. “I don’t believe I’ll be forfeiting any sales if I close now. I could take you to see some of Vincent’s paintings, if you like. You will forgive me for not taking you to my home—we have many of them there—but we have a new baby, and to be honest, Vincent left the place as if a whirlwind had gone through it.” Now the anxiety of the new father peered through the polish of the art dealer; Theo had so many sources of worry for a young man.

“Of course,” I told him, putting as much sympathy into my voice as I could. “I have two children myself. They’re older now, but when Marguerite was small we lived in Paris like you. I know how difficult it is.” Actually, I did not. I could not really know how life was for Theo van Gogh, who had to take care of a wife, a new baby, and a brother who was prone to nervous difficulties.

He moved around the gallery, extinguishing the lights, then closed and locked the steel shutters. He led me out the back door, through a courtyard. “We bring the canvases through here,” he said. “Most of the big Salon-style productions go to the main branch of the gallery, on rue Chaptal, of course. Few of my clients have room for that kind of enormous painting. I think, and so does Vincent, that art buyers are looking for something completely different now, anyway.”

“You mean easel pictures?” I asked, as we emerged onto the street and he locked the outer door.

“Oh, of course. But more than that. Vincent believes that colors, certain combinations of colors, can prompt or express emotion. You will see,” he added, heading up the street. “I am taking you to Père Tanguy, the paint seller. Vincent left some canvases with him. We’ll go up by Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. Do you mind walking? It is a lovely evening.”

“Not at all,” I answered. “I will be delighted to go to Tanguy’s. I have met him several times, but I’ve never visited his shop. Tell me, did your brother have any formal training?”

“He spent some weeks at the academy in Antwerp but could not submit to the discipline. Here in Paris he took lessons at Cormon’s studio, but in truth he is more or less self-taught. You will see, his paintings have none of the technical expertise taught at the École des Beaux-Arts. With Vincent, it is more a matter of …” He hesitated for a moment. “I can only say that he sees the world as no one else does. Naturally this makes his paintings difficult to sell. But … Well, you will see.”

Tanguy’s tiny store was wedged into a small building on the rue Clauzel, off the rue des Martyrs. If Boussod and Valadon represented the official face of Parisian art, with its chandeliers and crimson carpets, chez Tanguy was its other face, all charcoal dust and pungent fluids and shiny lead tubes. I had been in shops like this before. There were always poorly groomed men standing around arguing about the shape of a brush or the flexibility of a palette knife, the grain of a canvas or the luster of a glaze. Even at this late hour, the shop was open, though there was only one customer, choosing between a pair of palettes that the bearded, burly Tanguy held out for him. I glanced around, pleased by the familiar clutter of stacks of paper, jugs of brushes, and the wall of tiny drawers to store the pigments for oil paint.

But then I caught sight of the portrait. Instinctively I knew that Vincent had painted it. I had spent only an hour in his company, but the picture obviously came from that vigorous, discerning sensibility. The subject, Tanguy himself, in a blue jacket and wide-brimmed hat, sat in the center of the canvas, looking out, not directly at the viewer but somewhat down. He seemed to focus on the body of the viewer—possibly on the heart? Behind him was a patchwork of Japanese prints painted in brilliant colors; a glowing blue, saffron, emerald green. Directly to the right of Tanguy’s hat floated the pink cloud of a blossoming cherry tree set in a landscape of beauty and peace, with a stream leading the viewer’s eye through green fields to a series of low hills beneath a sky stippled with white clouds.

I had never seen brushwork like this. I owned at that point a Monet, several Pissarros, many Cézannes. I was and still am fascinated by the technique, inaugurated by the Impressionists, of breaking up the application of color. Those painters drew attention to their method of placing paint on the canvas while still constructing a complete image. But Van Gogh, if it were possible, took this tendency further. His paint lived. It seemed to flicker or dance on the canvas—yet the image held together. I have seen canvases rendered in this manner that do not, somehow, engage your eye. You are so distracted by the brushwork that you cannot see the picture. This portrait, though, seized my gaze and my emotions. Moments earlier Theo had told me that Vincent believed he could elicit certain feelings through his juxtapositions of color. I was struck to the core by the beauty, the peacefulness, and the intricacy of what he had created.

Above all I was astonished at his mastery. Composing a canvas is harder than it looks. Painters like Amand Gautier, trained at the École des Beaux-Arts, go through an extensive series of preparations. They draw components of their painting in charcoal. They try out different angles, different combinations of elements. They make oil sketches, to see how their colors work together. Then they build the painting slowly, first drawing on the canvas, then filling in areas of dark and light, gradually thinning their pigments and using smaller brushes until they have created their picture. It seemed as though Vincent had omitted those steps, somehow creating an immensely complicated image in a single burst of energy, using large quantities of bright, unmixed colors. He had depicted Tanguy—a former radical, a man of the people—in his blue workman’s jacket and brown trousers. But the jacket was grooved with vertical strokes of paint, lighter and darker blue, yellow for highlights, curving with the collar, rumpled at the elbow, heavy and thick. His beard and eyebrows—white and brown mixed—were laid in with a finer brush and bristled off the canvas. Vincent had painted the background prints with thinner pigments, emulating the flat quality of Japanese woodcuts. Somehow a harmony of colors and shapes reigned among them. Yet if one brushstroke had been in the wrong place—one flicker of blue highlight on the brown trousers, one fleck of greenish shadow on the backs of the hands—the painting would have dissolved into a wreck. I was awestruck. How could this be the work of the high-strung man with the damaged ear whom I had examined days earlier? I felt there should have been some physical sign that he was a genius.