Letter 631 St R茅my, 4 May 1890
My dear brother,
Thank you for your kind letter and the portrait of Jo, which is very pretty and a very successful pose. Now look,
I鈥檓 going to be very straightforward in my reply and as practical as possible. First, I categorically reject what you say, that I must be accompanied the whole way. Once on the train, I will be quite safe, I am not one of those who are dangerous 鈥?and even supposing I do have an attack, there are other passengers in the carriage, aren鈥檛 there, and anyway, don鈥檛 they know at every station what to do in such cases? You have so many qualms about this that they weigh me down heavily enough to discourage me completely.
I have just said the same thing to M. Peyron, and I pointed out to him that attacks like the one I have just had have invariably been followed by three or four months of complete calm. I want to take advantage of this period to move 鈥?I must move in any case, my intention to leave is now unshakeable.
I do not feel competent to judge the way disorders are treated here. I don鈥檛 feel like going into details 鈥?but please remember that I warned you about 6 months ago that if I had another attack of the same kind I should wish to change asylums. And I have already delayed too long, having allowed an attack to go by in the meantime. I was in the middle of my work then and I wanted to finish the canvas I had started. But for that I should no longer be here. Right, so now I鈥檓 saying that it seems to me that a fortnight at most (although I鈥檇 be happier with a week) should be enough to prepare the move. I shall have myself accompanied as far as Tarascon 鈥?even one or two stations further on, if you insist. When I arrive in Paris (I鈥檒l send a telegram on leaving here) you could come and pick me up at the Gare de Lyon.
Now I should think it would be as well to go and see this doctor in the country as soon as possible, and we could leave the luggage at the station. So I should not be staying with you for more than, let鈥檚 say, 2 or 3 days. I would then leave for this village, where I could stay at the inn to begin with.
What I think you might do one of these days 鈥?without delay 鈥?is to write to our future friend, the doctor in question, 鈥淢y brother greatly desires to make your acquaintance, and preferring to consult you before prolonging his stay in Paris, hopes that you will approve of his coming and spending a few weeks in your village in order to do some studies; he has every confidence in reaching an understanding with you, believing that his illness will abate with a return to the north, whereas his condition would threaten to become more acute if he stayed any longer in the south.鈥?p style="line-height:25px;text-indent:32px"> There, you write him something like that, we can send him a telegram the day after I arrive in Paris, or the day after that, and he would probably meet me at the station.
The surroundings here are beginning to weigh me down more than I can say 鈥?heavens above, I鈥檝e been patient for more than a year 鈥?I need some air, I feel overwhelmed by boredom and grief.
Also the work is pressing, and I should be wasting my time here. Why then, I ask you, are you so afraid of accidents? That鈥檚 not what should be frightening you. Heavens above, every day since I鈥檝e been here I鈥檝e watched people falling down, or going out of their minds 鈥?what is more important is to try and take misfortune into account.
I assure you that it鈥檚 quite something to resign oneself to living under surveillance, even if it is sympathetic, and to sacrifice one鈥檚 liberty, to remain outside society with nothing but one鈥檚 work as distraction.
This has given me wrinkles which will not be smoothed out in a hurry. Now that things are beginning to weigh me down too heavily here, I think it only fair that they should be brought to an end.
So please ask M. Peyron to allow me to leave, let鈥檚 say by the 15th at the latest. If I wait, I shall be letting the favourable period of calm between two attacks go by, and by leaving now, I should have the time I need to make the acquaintance of the other doctor. Then if the illness does come back in a little while, it would not be unexpected, and depending upon how serious it is, we could see if I can continue to be at liberty, or if I must settle down in a lunatic asylum for good. In the latter case 鈥?as I told you in my last letter, I would go into a home where the patients work in the fields & the workshop. I鈥檓 sure I鈥檇 find even more subjects to paint there than here.
So remember that the journey costs a lot, that it is pointless [to provide an escort], and that I have every right to change homes if I wish. I am not demanding my complete liberty.
I have tried to be patient up till now, I haven鈥檛 done anybody any harm, is it fair to have me accompanied like some dangerous animal? No, thank you, I protest. If I should have an attack, they know what to do at every station, and I should let them get on with it.
But I鈥檓 sure that my nerve will not desert me. I am so distressed at leaving like this that the distress will be stronger than the madness. So I鈥檓 sure I shall have what nerve it takes.
M. Peyron won鈥檛 commit himself, because he doesn鈥檛 want to take the responsibility, he says, but that way we鈥檒l never, ever, get to the end of it, the thing will drag on and on, and we鈥檒l end up by getting angry with each other.
As for me, my dear brother, my patience is at an end, quite at an end, I cannot go on, I must make a change,
even if it鈥檚 only a stopgap.
However, there really is a chance that the change will do me good 鈥?the work is going well, I鈥檝e done 2 canvases of the newly cut grass in the grounds, one of which is extremely simple F 676, JH 1970; F 672, JH 1975].
Here is a hasty sketch of it 鈥?a pine trunk, pink and purple, and then the grass with some white flowers and dandelions, a little rose bush and some other tree trunks in the background right at the top of the canvas. I shall be out of doors over there. I鈥檓 sure that my zest for work will get the better of me and make me indifferent to every thing else, as well as put me in a good humour. And I shall let myself go there, not without thought, but without brooding over what might have been.
They say that in painting one should look for nothing more and hope for nothing more than a good picture and a good talk and a good dinner as the height of happiness, and ignore the less brilliant digressions. That may well be true, so why shouldn鈥檛 one seize the hour, particularly if in so doing one steals a march on one鈥檚 illness?
A good handshake for you and Jo. I think I shall do a painting for myself after the portrait, it may not be a resemblance, but anyway I鈥檒l try.
See you soon, I hope 鈥?and come on now, spare me this imposed travel companion.
Ever yours, Vincent