“Can you imagine what it is like, Doctor?” Vincent said softly. “If anyone can, it is you. I have felt a kinship between us from the start. You have suffered, I know that. But you suffer other people’s ills as well as your own. That was why I was hopeful when we met. I believe you can guess what it is like. You never know when it’s going to happen. You are going about your business, perhaps in your office seeing a patient. And, suddenly, the world convulses. Your desk, your chair, your curtains writhe in front of you and groan. Or perhaps it is you groaning. Your patient—let us assume she is a lady—draws away as she sees your face. Your face is screwed up, your eyes closed, your teeth like fangs. You are drooling. You drop to the floor because you no longer control your limbs. Your bowels loosen. You flail and shout, knocking over a lamp. Your lady patient has fled the room in terror, and she brings the concierge upstairs. You are still kicking, and the concierge runs away to get help. Her husband drops the coals he is unloading and comes upstairs. He cannot hold you down. There’s shit seeping out of your trousers, the carpet is ruined. You’re sobbing. You’ve broken a chair and torn the feathers from a cushion.” His speech came to a halt.
I could imagine it all. I could imagine it for myself, and for Vincent. For Vincent, this had happened again and again. He had been alone, rolling on the cold stone floor of the asylum at St.-Rémy. He had been held down by warders. He had been tied up in the gilet de force.
“And sometimes it goes on, you know. You come to—it’s like waking up, only you’re sick, your head aches, and you’re bruised, of course, from thrashing around. You have a foul taste in your mouth and your arms are crossed in front of you and you can’t get your hands out and that’s when you know. It happened again. And maybe you are awake for an hour or a day, and then it starts again.” Vincent scrambled to his feet, pushing himself clumsily off the ground. He stood for a moment, facing away from the river, back toward the wheat fields I had crossed to find him.
“And then when it’s over, Doctor, you are so weak. You are terrified. Everything, everything is filled with menace. Especially your sleep. Oh, the nightmares! Monsters, horrors! I thought sometimes that they might be worse for me because I use my eyes, that because I see so keenly, my visions are more full of terror. But I am not sure of this. Everyone has his own terror.” He took three steps away from me. His voice came a little bit more muffled. “Then it fades. The horrors diminish and it’s easier to sleep. You become stronger. Pleasure comes back. The little pleasures first, the sight of a green shoot or the smell of coffee. It’s like spring, in a way.” The footsteps returned and circled around me. I sat slumped on the painting stool, hands dangling between my knees. I could feel tears drying on my face.
“Then you claw your way back into life,” Vincent said, standing beside me. “You put one day behind another, and you try to be brave and useful. That’s all I want, really. I want my life not to be a waste or a burden. So I paint. And I wonder when it is all going to come back.” He sighed deeply, and gestured toward the view before us. There was a greener tinge to the sky now, and the band of shadow cast by the willows on the Oise veiled the water in places. I wondered how Vincent could have painted it without using black. “I have worked furiously here, Doctor. I did not think there was a moment to spare. Look, look at this. Don’t you think this would make a splendid painting? A picture that could, perhaps, bring consolation to someone? The beauty of nature can do that, don’t you think?”
I found my voice. “I do. Of course I do. And your paintings are beautiful.”
There was a long silence between us. A hawk appeared over the trees, gliding with still wings, dipping to examine the fields with his sharp eyes. Perhaps some vole or rabbit made a move, for he planed sharply downward. But his prey had vanished, so he climbed upward again with one swift flap. I was grateful. The sound of death, even a rabbit’s, would have undone me.
“Not today,” said Vincent. “I couldn’t paint today.” I looked up at him. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, but he brought them down. “Nothing. All of this in front of me. I knew what it should look like. Knew what colors to use—well, you saw the palette. Had it planned to the last brushstroke. And I could not make my hand pick up the brush.”
“You could not move your hand?” I asked. “Or was it that you didn’t know how you would begin the painting?”
“Doctor,” he said, “don’t ask me these questions. What does it matter? I sat here all day, with my canvas before me, and the paint on my palette hardening, and the sun moving across the sky, and I was not able to paint. That is what I am saying. And I tell you this not as a doctor, for this is not a doctor’s concern. Only you have shown me friendship, and I believe you understand my work. And my work seems to be done.”
I stood up. This was desolation. I moved to Vincent’s side to put an arm across his shoulders, but he turned away. I thought I understood. Sometimes sympathy is impossible to bear.
“It may come back tomorrow.”
“It may,” he said.
“We don’t know why this happened.”
“No, Doctor, but I no longer believe that matters.” He glanced at me, then turned. In a gesture that was remarkable for him, he put both of his hands on my shoulders. Looking me in the eye, he went on, “If I am epileptic, if I suffer from hysteria, if I am simply another madman—can you make me well?”
It is one thing to doubt your métier. We all have doubts, we must. But we do not like to expose them. I am a doctor. I make people feel better, that is what I do and who I am. Yet I could not lie to Vincent. His illness was unlike any other I had ever seen. “No,” I answered him, and looked down.
His hands dropped from my shoulders, but not without a gentle pressure, as if to thank me for my honesty. “Well, then, there we are,” he said. He turned away from me, took a few steps, and looked up at the sky. The horizon was paler now, with a warmer cast over to the west. The surface of the Oise gleamed between the trees. “You will be late for dinner, Doctor. You should go home.”
“Won’t you come and dine with us?” I suggested. “You must keep your strength up.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked, with an unfamiliar note of bitterness. “Why should I strengthen the vessel when the contents are so terribly scrambled? No, thank you, I will go back to the inn.”
I did not know how to answer him, but I knew I could not leave him there alone. He bent down to lift his easel and fold the legs. Without another word, I crouched to pick up a handful of paint tubes. I left the empty black one where it had fallen, far away from us among the tall stalks. We walked home side by side, speechless and unhappy. Where our ways parted, I reached out to touch his shoulder.
When I arrived late for dinner, there was much exclamation. Some of Vincent’s paint had gotten onto my coat and hands. Paul made a joke that I was as bad as Nero, and that my hair would have to be cut if I did not learn my lesson. I managed to smile.
It pained me to see Vincent incapable. All along, I had admired his facility, his bravura. If Vincent’s brush could be stilled by madness—if he could be robbed of what made his life worth living—who was safe? He had seemed immune to the kind of doubt that always plagued me; he knew what he wanted to do and, despite immense difficulties, forged ahead. I wondered—I still do wonder—if I had ever been as confident as Vincent.
In the years since Vincent was part of our lives, I have considered this question. Few men succeed without that assurance, but where does it come from? It seems to have little connection with actual achievement. Paul is a very confident painter. In fact, he shows considerable certainty in everything he does. When he left the university with his degree in agricultural engineering, he announced to me (with none of the deference that one might expect from a son to a father) that he intended to be an artist. He was willing to spend a little time selling artists’ supplies in the towns near Paris, but he made it clear to me that this would be a brief episode. It was as if I had no authority over him. Indeed, I doubt that I did
. He has lived in Auvers ever since, working with me in the studio, using the Paris flat more often than I do, apparently selling enough paintings to buy his own paints and canvases. He has friends in Paris, I suppose. He must also see women there, and I appreciate his discretion. I have ascertained that he will remain in this house after I die, taking care of Marguerite and painting.
And selling my pictures. He will have to sell my collection in order to live. Despite his assurance with the canvas and brushes, he does not earn his keep. Nor, it seems, does he intend to. Instead, he helps me with the catalog of my paintings. It is an important collection, worthy of documentation. The implicit bargain seems to be that he will take on my task when I die, and his compensation will be the ability to do whatever he likes with the pictures. He has tried, several times, to persuade me to sell one or two. He informs me of the prices for Cézanne, who now exhibits with Ambroise Vollard. He urges me to put a canvas or two on the market, just to see what we might get.
As I have said, Paul is a painter of facility. He easily mimics the styles of Cézanne and Van Gogh. His own style, to the extent that it exists, is decorative. He is influenced by Art Nouveau, for instance. I readily admit that he is more talented than I am, and I would like to believe that I do not mind being outstripped by my son. Yet I am troubled by what I believe Paul intends to do with his talent.
I taught him to paint. He has never had formal lessons: I merely instructed him, as I was instructed long ago, in the fundamentals of drawing, modeling, perspective. After that, he learned by copying. He spent some time in the Louvre, as artists have done for hundreds of years, but his primary sources of inspiration have been the canvases I am lucky enough to own. It is not every fledgling painter who lives with two dozen Van Goghs, two dozen Cézannes, a Sisley, a Monet, a Renoir, and so on. It was Paul who suggested that the catalog include illustrations of our canvases. We began at first by etching copies, but Vincent’s work is not best represented by fine black lines. By then our neighbor’s daughter Blanche Derousse was taking lessons from me, and she turned out to be dexterous with watercolor. So our volume will in all likelihood be a single precious example, perhaps to be lodged in a museum, and Vincent’s luminous canvases will be represented by Blanche’s watercolor copies.
Paul is also a good copyist. He is especially skilled with oils. He has made a few uncanny versions of paintings I own, using canvases of precisely the same size, practicing signatures over and over—Cézanne signed some of his things with a red scribble that Paul has made his own. I have always insisted that Paul’s copies be clearly marked on the back of the canvas or even on the front. I have done the same with my copies, though, sadly, they would deceive no one.
None of this worried me until a recent episode. I had gone to Paris that day, but it was unusually warm for May. My feet began to hurt, as I was wearing new boots. I took an earlier train home than I had planned, and sat for a while in the garden with the dreadful boots by my side. Marguerite and Madame Chevalier—who is now quite stout and wheezy—were washing the landing on the second floor, making a racket with their brooms and mops and buckets, so I tiptoed past them and up to the studio. The door was open; Paul had no warning of my presence.
On the table where we set up still life subjects, he had arranged an assemblage of objects: a length of patterned fabric, a Delft vase, a small stoneware pitcher, and an ordinary table knife. These were all items that Cézanne had painted in my house, and I kept them, with some care, in a small locked cabinet. Paul knew where to find the key, and there was no reason why he should not, but these objects had taken on something of the quality of relics.
When Cézanne was in Auvers in 1872, he sometimes painted on pieces of cardboard. They were much cheaper than canvas, though of course more fragile. These were not paintings intended for collectors but Cézanne’s way of working out pictorial problems. We have several such paintings, and I must admit that they are not his most accomplished, nor our most prized. Yet Paul was painting such a still life on cardboard. It was not a direct copy—it was an entirely new composition, in the style of Cézanne, using articles that Cézanne had already painted in our house.
“Paul,” I said. “What are you doing?”
He whirled around, eyes wide. One rarely sees Paul at a loss for words, but on this occasion, he turned scarlet and could not speak for a moment. “Father,” he finally said, transferring a loaded brush from his right hand to his left, where he held the palette. “You’re back early. Where are your shoes?”
“Downstairs. They were hurting my feet.” I stepped through the door to look more closely at the painting on the easel. “What is this?”
“Oh, I am just amusing myself. You don’t mind, do you? That I got the Cézanne things out of the cabinet? I had found this piece of cardboard, you see, and it reminded me of some of our little paintings. Then I wondered if I could make a similar one. It’s going well, don’t you think?” He stepped aside slightly, to let me look more closely at his work.
I was watching him carefully. Having recovered his equanimity, he was able to meet my gaze with a candid smile. I looked at the picture. It was an unpleasant image, with murky coloring and clumsy brushwork. Yet Cézanne himself had produced several such paintings in my studio.
“What do you intend to do with this?” I asked.
“Do? Nothing. What do you mean?”
“You weren’t going to …,” I began, then trailed to a halt. I was tired. I felt old. How could I suspect my son? Did I really suspect him? Of forging a painting? It seemed so implausible at that moment. He held my gaze, his blue eyes bright and clear and young. A challenge.
“Well, be sure to sign it with your signature,” I finally finished, shaking my head. Then I tried to smile at him. “It is very like one of Cézanne’s own paintings. We would not want any confusion.”
“Of course I will.” His brow furrowed, as if he were puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I? You don’t think …” He stepped back a bit. He showed first confusion, then comprehension, then anger. “Father! You can’t possibly think I would attempt to deceive anyone! This is merely a painter’s little play. A test of my skill. I’m shocked!”
Suddenly I could bear no more. My head felt light, and I grasped the edge of the doorframe. “I think I will go and rest,” I said. Paul said something behind me, but I did not hear him. He helped me down the stairs. The women were alarmed, and before long I was lying on my bed with a poultice on my feet and whispers outside my door. I let them treat me like an invalid sometimes. It seems to give them pleasure.
But this is what Paul is like. He has plans he does not share with me. Perhaps this is always the way it is between fathers and sons. I feel that I am being elbowed aside, that Paul is marking time until I die. And why should I care? Dead is dead. Yet I find that I do care. I would like to be respected in the future. If my only trace is to be Vincent’s portrait, well, that is more than most people leave. But if there is more, if people were to learn more about what we did in this house in Auvers, I would want them to know that I meant well. That I did my best for Vincent, that I tried to help Cézanne, that I took care of Pissarro’s ailing eyes so that he could keep painting.
If Paul sells my pictures—as he will—I fear he will also sell his own, as someone else’s. Among the glorious canvases by our friends that he sells will also be lesser works, paintings Paul has made that will pass at first as Vincent’s or Cézanne’s but that will be found out. And then what will it look like? Will we any longer be considered thoughtful men who cared deeply for our friends’ art? No. We will be seen as profiteers and worse. Our artist friends will come to be seen as our victims.
Paul works to keep our name linked with that of Vincent van Gogh. He has painted, from a photograph, a portrait of Vincent’s mother, in a style similar to my friend’s. He is sending it to Amsterdam, hoping it will be included in the exhibition that will take place there later in the summer. He sent a bronze medallion of Vincent, his first work in that medium, to the Sa
lon des Indépendants earlier in the spring. He called it Homage to My Master.
His “master”! He makes it sound as if Vincent had taught him, painstakingly correcting his brushstrokes or honing his vision, when instead he was a boy of seventeen, trailing around after Vincent and making a pest of himself! And now he catalogs my pictures and paints in Cézanne’s style, and I do not trust his intentions.
I should not leap ahead. So far, every canvas that Paul has painted in Vincent’s style has been signed as a copy. I do not know what plans he may have for the dingy still life I saw him painting. In any event, I am powerless. He can do whatever he likes after my death.
Thirteen
ON THE WEDNESDAY MORNING after that incident in the wheat field, I took the earliest train back to Paris. Auvers is especially beautiful early in the morning. You could believe yourself in an idyllic rural landscape—a Corot perhaps—graced with soft hills, delicate trees, and the long shadows of dawn. When the train comes steaming into the Chaponval station, I am often startled by the noisy, insistent embodiment of the modern era. But then I sit in my accustomed seat and begin to cast my thoughts forward to my Parisian life: which patients will require which treatment, where I will dine that night, and the like.
The train moves slowly on the stretch between Auvers and Pontoise. Often one glimpses fishermen or a boy with a dog plunging through the brush. I was watching idly for such activity when I saw a figure whose presence there chilled me. I can still summon the image—a slender, red-haired man in a blue shirt, gazing into the green water of the Oise from a crumbling stone embankment. I might have been able to deceive myself and pretend it wasn’t Vincent, had he not turned his head toward the train as it passed. It was undoubtedly Vincent’s face. He was looking not upward at the passengers but downward, at the wheels.
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