Leaving Van Gogh Read Online Free PDF Page B

He paused again, then went on. “There is one that, I think, captures the mental effect of life there. It is a view down the central hall—it is long in real life, but I made it look interminable. Arches and arches receding, and a tiny figure scurrying into a doorway.”
    “Did you sleep in wards?” I asked, thinking about the long rows of beds at the Salpêtrière. It is necessary in an asylum to be able to watch the patients lest they harm themselves or someone else. Yet for a man with Vincent’s sensibility, this enforced togetherness must have been a constant irritant.
    “No, there were private chambers,” he answered. “They were quite large, and since many rooms were empty, they gave me one as a studio.”
    “And can you describe it further for me?” I wondered if he would be able to talk about this period of his life with calm and detachment.
    “Oh, gladly,” he replied. “It was once, I believe, a monastery, St. Paulde-Mausole. Some of the buildings are very, very old, and it is not in good repair. The asylum is in a long, low building, yellow, with green shutters. There are beautiful gardens, full of flowers and trees, with benches and fountains. I suppose this is where the monks used to walk and pray. I painted the gardens a good deal.”
    “I look forward to seeing your paintings,” I said. I agreed with his premise; surely they would permit me some insight into his mental state at the time. “And the treatment?”
    “Oh, no, Doctor, there was very little treatment in this place. Dr. Peyron had no expertise in mental maladies. There were baths, of course. They often calmed us down.”
    “And how often did the doctor see you?”
    “He lived there, so he saw us all the time.”
    “But examinations?”
    “When we arrived.”
    “Then how did you spend your days?”
    “That was the difficulty, you see. Aside from painting, I read a great deal when I felt well enough. I see that we share some of the same tastes,” he added, looking at the bookshelf. There were several novels on the corner of my desk, and he turned his head to read the titles on their spines. “Ah! Bel-Ami! I did a still life in Paris—a little figure of Venus, a vase of roses, and this novel. Do you like Maupassant? Have you read A Life ? Theo loaned it to me just before I came here. I would be happy to bring it to you when I am finished with it.”
    “I would like that very much,” I answered, pleased. I was not accustomed to discussing literature with my patients, but of course Vincent was not, strictly speaking, a patient. Perhaps he might even become something of a companion. I found his enthusiasm appealing. “So your days in the asylum—there was no structure, no schedule?”
    “No, Doctor. For the most part, the patients just sat.”
    I was startled, but I should not have been. The doctrines of moral treatment—kindliness, tolerance, distraction, and a firm effort to make the patient aware of his delusions—that I had absorbed in Paris thirty-some years earlier had not been accepted everywhere. And of course they required a great deal of effort from the medical staff, not to mention training. The asylum at St.-Rémy was probably one of the more benign institutions, even if the patients received little care.
    “But you were able to work?”
    “Yes,” Vincent answered. “Dr. Peyron felt it would not harm me. He was right about that. It would have been a great deal worse for me if I had not been able to paint. As it was, I was able to turn out some things I am not ashamed of.”
    The coffeepot was empty, and so was the basket of rolls.
    “Monsieur van Gogh, this has been very helpful. I told your brother that I could not officially be your medical practitioner; I work in Paris, and the doctor here is Dr. Mazery. If you were to become ill here, he would care for you, but he will certainly consult with me. I would be able to suggest treatments if they were required; a sleeping draft, for instance, or a homeopathic