Ever Yours
Page 111
If you think this is a good idea, and if you suggest a date when you expect me over there in Paris, I would have someone from here accompany me part of the way, as far as Tarascon or Lyon. Then you would wait for me, or have someone wait for me, at the station in Paris. Do what seems best to you. For the time being I would leave my furniture behind in Arles. It’s with friends, and I’m sure they’d send it the day I wanted it. But the carriage and packing would be almost what it’s worth. I consider this as a shipwreck, this journey, well, one can’t do as one wants, and as one ought to either. Once I got out a little into the park I recovered all my clarity for work, I have more ideas in my head than I could ever put into action, but without it dazzling me. The brushstrokes go like a machine. So based on that I dare believe that in the north I would rediscover my confidence once freed from surroundings and circumstances which I neither understand nor wish to understand. It was very kind of Mr Peyron to write to you, he’s writing to you again today, I leave him regretting that I have to leave him. Good handshake to you and to Jo, I thank her very much for her letter.
Ever yours,
Vincent
868 | Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Sunday, 4 May 1890 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear brother,
Thanks for your kind letter and for the portrait of Jo, which is very pretty and is very successful as a pose. Well, I’ll be very simple and as practical as possible in my reply. First, I categorically reject what you say that I should be accompanied throughout the journey. Once on the train I no longer run any risk, I’m not one of those who are dangerous — even supposing I have a crisis, aren’t there other passengers in the carriage, and besides, don’t they know what to do in all the stations in such a case? You’re giving yourself worries here that weigh on me so heavily that it might directly discourage me.
I’ve just said the same thing to Mr Peyron, and I pointed out to him that crises like the one I’ve just had have always been followed by three or four months of complete calm. I wish to take advantage of this period to move — I want to move in any event, my desire to leave here is now absolute.
I don’t feel competent to judge the way they treat patients here, I don’t feel any desire to enter into the details — but please remember that I warned you around 6 months ago that if I was seized by a crisis of the same nature I’d wish to change asylums. And I’ve delayed too long already, having allowed an attack to go by in the meantime, I was then right in the middle of work, and I wanted to finish canvases in progress, otherwise I would no longer be here by now. Right, so I’m going to tell you that it seems to me that a fortnight at the most (a week, though, would please me more) should be enough to take the necessary steps to move. I shall have someone accompany me as far as Tarascon — even one or two stations further if you insist. Once I’ve arrived in Paris (I’ll send a telegram when I leave here) you would come and pick me up at the Gare de Lyon.
Now it would seem preferable to me to go and see this doctor in the country as soon as possible, and we’d leave the luggage at the station.
So I would only stay at your place for let’s say 2 or 3 days, then I’d leave for this village. Where I would start off by lodging at the inn.
This, it seems to me, is what you could do in the next few days — without delay — write to our future friend, that doctor: ‘my brother would very much like to make your acquaintance, and as he would prefer to consult you before prolonging his stay in Paris, hopes that you will approve of his spending a few weeks in your village, where he will come to make some studies; he has complete confidence that he will reach an understanding with you, believing that with a return to the north his illness will abate, whereas by staying on in the south his condition would be in danger of becoming more acute.’
There, you could write to him like that, we’d send him a telegram the day after my arrival in Paris, or the day after that, and he’d probably wait for me at the station.
The surroundings here are starting to weigh on me more than I could express — my word, I’ve waited patiently for over a year — I need air, I feel damaged by boredom and grief.
Then work is pressing, I’d be wasting my time here. Why then, I ask you, do you fear accidents so much — it isn’t that that ought to frighten you, my word, since I’ve been here I’ve seen people fall over or lose their mind every day — what’s more serious is to try and take misfortune into account. I assure you that it’s already something to resign oneself to living under guard, even in the event of it being sympathetic, and to sacrifice one’s freedom, to stand outside society and to have only one’s work, without distraction. That has carved out wrinkles that won’t be rubbed off in a hurry. Now that it’s beginning to weigh too heavily upon me here, I think that it’s only right to put a stop to it.
So please write to Mr Peyron that he should let me leave, let’s say on the 15th at the latest. If I waited I would let the good moment of calm between two crises pass, and leaving now I’ll have the free time necessary to make the other doctor’s acquaintance. Then, if in a while from now the illness were to recur it would be foreseen, and according to how serious it was we could see if I can continue at liberty or if I must stick myself in an asylum for good. In the latter case — as I told you in my last letter I would go into an institution where the patients work in the fields and in the workshop. I think that even more than here I’d then find subjects for painting.
Consider, then, that the journey costs a lot, that it’s pointless and that I do have the right to change asylums if I please, it isn’t my absolute freedom that I’m demanding.
I’ve tried to be patient up to this point, I haven’t done any harm to anyone, is it fair to have me accompanied like a dangerous animal? No thank you, I protest. If a crisis occurs, they know what to do in every station, and then I’d let them do it.
But I dare believe that my composure won’t desert me. I have so much distress at leaving like this, that the distress will be stronger than the madness, I’ll therefore have the necessary nerve, I dare believe. Mr Peyron says vague things, to free himself from responsibility he says, but that way we’d never, never get to the end of it, the thing would drag on and on, and in the end we’d get angry with each other.
As for me, my patience is at an end, at an end, my dear brother, I can’t go on, I must move, even if as a stopgap.
However, there really is a chance that the change will do me good — work is going well, I’ve done 2 canvases of the fresh grass in the park, one of which is extremely simple. Here’s a hasty croquis of it.
[Sketch 868A]
868A. The garden of the asylum with dandelions and tree trunks
The trunk of a pine tree violet pink, and then grass with white flowers and dandelions, a little rose bush and other tree-trunks in the background, in the uppermost part of the canvas. I’ll be out of doors there. I’m sure that the desire to work will devour me and make me insensible to everything else and in a good mood. And I’ll let myself go there, not without consideration but without dwelling on regrets for things that might have been.
They say that in painting one must seek nothing and hope for nothing but a good painting and a good talk and a good dinner as the height of happiness, not counting the less brilliant interludes. Perhaps it’s true, and why refuse to take what is possible, especially if by doing so one gives the illness the slip.
Good handshake to you and to Jo, I think I’m going to do a painting for myself after the subject of the portrait, it may not be a resemblance perhaps, but anyway I’ll try.
More soon, I hope — and come on, spare me this forced travelling companion.
Ever yours,
Vincent.
872 | Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Tuesday, 13 May 1890 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear brother
After a last discussion with Mr Peyron I obtained permission to pack my trunk, which I’ve sent by goods train. The 30 kilos of luggage one is allowed to take will allow me to take a few frames, easel and some stretchi
ng frames &c.
I’ll leave as soon as you’ve written to Mr Peyron, I feel calm enough, and I don’t think that a mental upset could easily happen to me in the state I’m in.
In any event, I hope to be in Paris before Sunday to spend the day, which you will have off, quietly with all of you. I really hope to see André Bonger too at the first opportunity.
I’ve also just finished a canvas of pink roses against yellow-green background in a green vase.
I hope that the canvases of the last few days will compensate us for the expenses of travel.
This morning, as I’d been to have my trunk stamped, I saw the countryside again — very fresh after the rain and covered in flowers — how many more things I would have done.
I’ve also written to Arles for them to send the two beds and the bed linen by goods train. I estimate that this can only cost a good ten francs in transport charges, and it’s still something gained from the debacle. For it’ll certainly be useful to me in the country.
If you haven’t yet replied to Mr Peyron’s letter, please send him a telegram, in such a way that I may make the journey on Friday or Saturday at the latest to spend Sunday with you. In doing so I’ll also lose the least time for my work, which is finished here for the moment.
In Paris, if I feel up to it, I’d immediately very much like to do a painting of a yellow bookshop (gas effect), which I’ve had in my mind for so long. You’ll see that I’ll be at work right from the day after my arrival. I tell you, as regards work, my mind feels absolutely serene and the brushstrokes come to me and follow each other very logically.
Anyway until Sunday AT THE LATEST, I shake your hand firmly in the meantime, warm regards to Jo.
Ever yours,
Vincent.
Probably the answer to Mr Peyron will already have left, which I hope. I was a little vexed that there were a few days’ delay, because that seems to me to be of no use for anything. For either I’d plunge into new works here, or it’s now that I have the leisure for the journey. Spending days doing nothing, here or elsewhere, that’s what would make me miserable in my current state of mind. Besides, Mr P. isn’t opposed to it, but naturally when you leave, your position is a little difficult with the rest of the administration. But it’s going well, and we’ll part amicably.
Auvers-sur-Oise, 20 May–23 July 1890
873 | Auvers-sur-Oise, Tuesday, 20 May 1890 | To Theo van Gogh and Jo van Gogh-Bonger (F)
My dear Theo and dear Jo
After making Jo’s acquaintance it will be difficult for me from now on to write to Theo alone, but Jo will permit me, I hope, to write in French, because after two years in the south I really think, in doing so, that I tell you better what I have to say. Auvers is really beautiful — among other things many old thatched roofs, which are becoming rare.
I’d hope, then, that in doing a few canvases of that really seriously, there would be a chance of recouping some of the costs of my stay — for really it’s gravely beautiful, it’s the heart of the countryside, distinctive and picturesque.
I’ve seen Dr Gachet, who gave me the impression of being rather eccentric, but his doctor’s experience must keep him balanced himself while combating the nervous ailment from which it seems to me he’s certainly suffering at least as seriously as I am.
He directed me to an inn where they were asking 6 francs a day.
For my part I’ve found one where I’ll pay 3.50 a day.
And until there’s a change of circumstances I think I ought to stay there. When I’ve done a few studies I’ll see if there would be any advantage in moving. But it seems unjust to me, when one wants to and can pay and work like any other workman, to have to pay almost double all the same because one works at painting. Anyway I’m starting with the 3.50 inn.
You’ll probably see Dr Gachet this week — he has a very fine Pissarro, winter with red house in the snow, and two fine bouquets by Cézanne.
Also another Cézanne of the village. Myself, in my turn I’ll gladly, very gladly give a stroke of the brush here.
I told Dr Gachet that I would find the inn he suggested preferable at 4 francs a day, but that 6 was 2 francs too dear for the expenses I’m having. It’s all right for him to say that I’ll be quieter there, enough is enough.
His own house is full of old things, dark, dark, dark, with the exception of a few sketches by Impressionists I mentioned. Despite the fact that he’s an odd fellow, the impression he made on me isn’t unfavourable. Chatting of Belgium and the days of the old painters, his grief-stiffened face took on a smile again, and I really think that I’ll stay friends with him and that I’ll do his portrait. Then he tells me that I must work a great deal, boldly, and not think at all about what I’ve had.
I really felt in Paris that all the noise there wasn’t what I need.
How pleased I am to have seen Jo and the little one and your apartment, which is indeed better than the other one.
Wishing you good luck and health, and hoping to see you again very soon, good handshakes
Vincent.
875 | Auvers-sur-Oise, Sunday, 25 May 1890 | To Theo van Gogh and Jo van Gogh-Bonger (F)
My dear Theo, my dear Jo,
Thank you for your letter which I received this morning, and for the fifty francs that were inside it.
Today I saw Dr Gachet again, and I’m going to paint at his place on Tuesday morning, then I’m going to lunch with him and afterwards he’ll come to see my painting. He seems very reasonable to me, but is as discouraged in his profession of country doctor as I with my painting. So I told him that I would, however, gladly swap profession for profession. Anyway, I readily think that I’ll end up being friends with him. He told me, besides, that if melancholy or something else were to become too strong for me to bear, he could well do something again to lessen its intensity, and that I mustn’t be embarrassed to be open with him. Well, that moment when I have need of him may indeed come, however up to today things are going well. And they may get even better, I still believe that it’s above all an illness of the south that I caught, and that the return here will be enough to dispel all that.
Often, very often, I think of your little one, and I then tell myself that I would like him to be big enough to come to the country. For it’s the best system of bringing them up here. How I would like you, Jo and the little one to have a rest in the country instead of the traditional journey to Holland. Yes, I’m well aware that Mother will absolutely want to see the little one, and it’s certainly a reason to go there. However, she would certainly understand if it were really in the little one’s best interests.
Here we’re far enough from Paris for it to be the real countryside, but nevertheless, how changed since Daubigny. But not changed in an unpleasant way, there are many villas and various modern and middle-class dwellings, very jolly, sunny and covered with flowers. That in an almost lush countryside, just at this moment of the development of a new society in the old one, has nothing disagreeable about it; there’s a lot of well-being in the air. I see or think I see a calm there à la Puvis de Chavannes, no factories, but beautiful greenery in abundance and in good order.
When you have the opportunity, will you tell me which painting Miss Boch bought? I must write to her brother to thank them, and then I would propose the exchange of two of my studies for one by each of them.
Enclosed is a note which you will please send to Isaäcson.
I have a drawing of an old vineyard of which I plan to do a no. 30 canvas, then a study of pink chestnut trees and one of white chestnut trees. But if circumstances permit, I hope to do a little figure work. Paintings vaguely present themselves to my sight which it will take time to shape, but that will come little by little. If I hadn’t been ill, I would have written to Boch and to Isaäcson long since. My trunk hasn’t arrived yet, which annoys me, I sent a telegram this morning.
Thank you in advance for the canvas and the paper. Yesterday and today it rains and is stormy, but it isn’t unpleasant to see t
hese effects again. The beds haven’t arrived either. But despite these annoyances, I feel happy no longer to be so far from you all and our friends. I hope that your health will be good. It seemed to me, though, that you had less appetite than before, and from what the doctors say, we should have very solid food for our temperaments. So be sensible about it, especially Jo too, as she has her child to feed. Truly, the amount should be doubled, it wouldn’t be any exaggeration when there are children to make and feed. Without that it’s like a train moving slowly where the route is straight. Time enough to reduce steam when the route is more uneven. Handshake in thought.
Ever yours,
Vincent.
877 | Auvers-sur-Oise, Tuesday, 3 June 1890 | To Theo van Gogh (F)
My dear Theo,
For several days now I’d have liked to write to you with a rested mind, but have been absorbed in work. This morning your letter arrives, for which I thank you and for the 50-franc note it contained. Yes, I think that it would be good for many reasons that we were all together again here for a week of your holidays, if longer isn’t possible. I often think of you, Jo and the little one, and I see that the children here look well in the healthy fresh air. And yet it’s difficult enough to raise them, even here, all the more is it rather terrible sometimes to keep them safe and sound in Paris on a fourth floor. But anyway, one must take things as they are. Mr Gachet says that father and mother must feed themselves quite naturally, he talks of taking 2 litres of beer a day &c., in those amounts. But you’ll certainly enjoy furthering your acquaintance with him, and he’s already counting on it, speaks of it every time I see him, that you’ll all come. He certainly appears to me as ill and confused as you or I, and he’s older and a few years ago he lost his wife, but he’s very much a doctor, and his profession and his faith keep him going however. We’re already firm friends, and by chance he also knew Bruyas of Montpellier and has the same ideas on him as I have, that he’s someone important in the history of modern art. I’m working on his portrait