Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace Read Free Book Online Page A

approach to his illness and his quick enthusiasm for my treasured paintings. I hoped the artist would be one I could admire. I was eager to see Vincent’s work for another reason as well: though I had conducted a physical examination, I felt that my knowledge of the man and his mental state would be incomplete until I had seen how he viewed and depicted his world. I did not want to wait until his canvases arrived from the South, so I hoped that Theo could show me examples of Vincent’s paintings while I was working in Paris.

    I made my way to the Boulevard Montmartre on the Friday evening after Vincent had first knocked at my door. “Dr. Gachet,” Theo said, coming forward with his hand out to greet me as I walked through the polished glass door of the gallery. Just as I had seen him in his brother’s rougher features, now I saw Vincent’s heavy brow and bold cheekbones superimposed on Theo’s more delicate face. “I am so happy to see you. I have heard from Vincent.” He clasped my hand warmly. “Doctor, I can hardly tell you …” He looked away for a moment, and I could see that he was struggling with emotion. “I am so relieved.”
    Naturally he was relieved, poor man. He must have worried desperately about his brother. I had understood that before, but now that I had met Vincent, I could guess how his circumstances must weigh on Theo.
    “He is terribly high-strung, of course,” I said, hoping to give Theo some time to recover himself. “But I thought he showed good sense in leaving Paris when he did. That is a wonderful sign, along with the fact that he was able to travel by himself from the South, without incident. I believe he is much better.”
    Theo had turned back to me, after a swift glance at a man in a black coat examining a painting of a volcano in a heavy gilt frame. We had moved no farther than the entrance of the gallery, but now he drew me away from the door, to a long red leather bench in the middle of the back room. It was a pleasing space, with gleaming floors and luxuriant potted palms in the corners. He sat down, glancing again at the man, who appeared to be the only customer. “Please, sit down, Doctor. I am delighted to hear you say this. Can you tell me what you think was wrong with him?”
    “Do you need to attend to the gentleman over there? I realize this may not be a convenient time for a visit.”
    Theo shook his head. “He visits us frequently,” he said in a low voice. “He is very partial to our traditional landscapes, and I believe he is in no hurry to get home. In any event, I will be closing the gallery shortly. If you would like to wait, perhaps we could take a glass of something together. I have a new Pissarro upstairs. Would you like to see it? Are you acquainted with his most recent work?” The smooth gallery employee had quickly replaced the distraught brother, but I felt that his politeness was automatic. I could sense that he was still preoccupied with Vincent.
    “I would be happy to see what my old friend has been painting some other time. I cannot say I like these pointillist canvases of the last few years, and I keep hoping he will abandon that style. But for now, I would like more than anything to see your brother’s work. Have you anything here?”
    He smiled wearily. “Unfortunately, I do not. Vincent’s paintings are magnificent, but … startling. Very strong. He has been invited to show with a group in Brussels, but I can’t think of a gallery in France that would hang his work now. Of course, I believe all of this will change. You read Aurier’s piece?”
    “Albert Aurier?” I shook my head. “No. He wrote about Vincent?”
    “Yes, in the Mercure de France . In January. It was a long article about various artists whose work does not seem related to any of the contemporary movements. He called it ‘The Isolated Ones.’ He said wonderful things about Vincent’s painting. Unfortunately, Vincent is also isolated personally.”
    The jingle