Lust for Life полностью

Vincent lurched up from his easel. There were three urchins sitting on his window sill, chanting. He lashed out at them. They scampered down the boarding. The crowd below roared. Vincent stood at the window, looking down at them.

A rush of blackbirds came out of the sky, thousands of cawing, beating blackbirds. They darkened the Place Lamartine, swooped down on Vincent, struck him, filled the room, engulfed him, flew through his hair, into his nose and mouth and eyes, buried him in a thick, black, airless cloud of flapping wings.

Vincent jumped on to the window sill.

“Go away!” he screamed. “You fiends, go away! For God’s sake, leave me in peace!”

“FOU-ROU, FOU-ROU, THROW US YOUR EAR, THROW US YOUR EAR!”

“Go away! Let me alone! Do you hear, let me alone!”

He picked up the wash basin from the table and flung it down at them. It smashed on the cobblestones below. He ran about in a rage picking up everything he could lay his hands on and flinging them down into the Place Lamartine to be hopelessly smashed. His chairs, his easel, his mirror, his table, his bedclothing, his sunflower canvases from the walls, all rained down on the urchins of Provence. And with each article there went a flashing panorama of his days in the yellow house, of the sacrifices he had made to buy, one by one, these simple articles with which he was to furnish the house of his life.

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.

A PETITION WAS immediately circulated to the Place Lamartine. Ninety men and women signed it.

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?”