“Why, of course, old fellow. You’ll be allowed to do whatever you wish . . . providing it doesn’t injure you. It will be just like being in a hospital with enormous grounds. If you live quietly that way for a year, you may be completely cured.”
“But how will I get out of this hole?”
“I have spoken to the superintendent of police. He agrees to let you go to St. Paul de Mausole, providing I take you there.”
“And you say it is really a nice place?”
“Oh, charming, Vincent. You’ll find loads of things to paint.”
“How nice. A hundred francs a month isn’t so much. Perhaps that’s just what I need for a year, to quiet me down.”
“Of course it is. I have already written to your brother, telling him about it. I suggested that in your present state of health it would be inadvisable to move you very far; certainly not to Paris. I told him that in my opinion St. Paul would be the very best thing for you.”
“Well, if Theo agrees . . . Anything, just so long as I don’t cause him more trouble . . .”
“I expect an answer any hour. I’ll come back when I get it.”
Theo had no alternative. He acquiesced. He sent money to pay his brother’s bills. Doctor Rey took Vincent in a carriage to the station where they boarded the train for Tarascon. At Tarascon they took a little branch line that wound up a green, fertile valley to St. Remy.
It was two kilometres up a steep hill, through the sleeping town, to St. Paul de Mausole. Vincent and Doctor Rey hired a carriage. The road led straight to a ridge of black, barren mountains. From a short way off Vincent saw, nestled at their base, the sod-brown walls of the monastery.
The carriage stopped. Vincent and Doctor Rey got out. On the right of the road there was a cleared, circular space with a Temple of Vesta and a Triumphal Arch.
“How in the world did these get here?” demanded Vincent.
“This used to be an important Roman settlement. The river which you see down there once filled this whole valley. It came right up to where you’re standing. As the river receded, the town crawled lower and lower down the hill. Now nothing is left here except these dead monuments, and the monastery.”
“Interesting.”
“Come, Vincent, Doctor Peyron is expecting us.”
They left the road and walked through a patch of pines to the gate of the monastery. Doctor Rey pulled an iron knob which sounded a loud bell. After a few moments the gate opened and Doctor Peyron appeared.
“How do you do, Doctor Peyron?” said Doctor Rey. “I have brought you my friend, Vincent Van Gogh, as we arranged by mail. I know that you will take good care of him.”
“Yes, Doctor Rey, we will take care of him.”
“You will forgive me if I run, Doctor? I just have time to catch that train back to Tarascon.”
“Of course, Doctor Rey. I understand.”
“Good-bye, Vincent,” said Doctor Rey. “Be happy, and you will get well. I will come to see you as often as I can. By the end of a year I expect to find you a completely well man.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You are very kind. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Vincent.”
He turned and walked away through the pines.
“Will you come in, Vincent?” asked Doctor Peyron, stepping aside.
Vincent walked past Doctor Peyron.
The gate of the insane asylum locked behind him.
THE WARD IN which the inmates slept was like a third-class waiting room in some dead-alive village. The lunatics always wore their hats, spectacles, canes, and travelling cloaks, just as though they were on the point of leaving for somewhere.
Sister Deschanel brought Vincent through the long corridor-like room and indicated an empty bed.
“You will sleep here, Monsieur,” she said. “At night you will pull the curtains for privacy. Doctor Peyron wishes to see you in his office when you are settled.”
The eleven men sitting about the unlit stove neither noticed nor commented upon Vincent’s arrival. Sister Deschanel walked down the long narrow room, her starched white gown, black cape, and black veil standing out stiffly behind her.
Vincent dropped his valise and looked about. Both sides of the ward were lined with beds sloping downward at an angle of five degrees, each surrounded by a framework on which were hung dirty cream-coloured curtains. The roof was of rough beams, the walls were whitewashed, and in the centre was a stove with an angular pipe coming out of its left side. There was a lone lamp in the room, hung just above the stove.
Vincent wondered why the men were so quiet. They did not speak to each other. They did not read or play games. They leaned on their walking sticks and looked at the stove.
There was a box nailed to the wall by the head of his bed, but Vincent preferred to keep his belongings in his valise. He put his pipe, tobacco, and a book in the box, shoved the valise under the bed and walked out into the garden. On the way he passed a row of dark, dank looking rooms, locked tight and abandoned.
