A Starry Night

 

 

The sun’s rays were beginning to fade from the bright yellow of midday to the rich, orange tones of afternoon. Just outside the tiny village of Saint-Rémy, they streamed through a layer of fluffy cloud onto a winding path below, illuminating the wild blue flowers which grew, uninhibited, along its edges. 

    The scenery was lost, though, on the path’s occupants: three small children from the nearby village. They were, of course, too young and far too nervous to care for flowers.

    The story behind that nervousness is much too lengthy to be recounted here, but suffice it to say that the oldest boy, Quentin, had dared his friend Louis to touch the wall of the Saint-Paul Asylum, about a mile or so outside of town. Quentin’s younger sister Marie had naturally insisted on accompanying them as soon as she found out. 

    Now, as they followed the only path to and from the asylum, Quentin began to wonder whether this had been such a great idea. After all, there were the rumours to consider- tales of escaped prisoners who would creep up behind you and… 

    “Wait a moment, who’s that up ahead?” asked Louis, interrupting his friend’s thoughts. 

     The trio had just turned a sharp bend in the path, and not fifty metres away a man sat in front of an easel, holding a thin brush and palette. He appeared to be painting the pale, blue flowers by the side of the path, and Quentin said as much to his friend. 

    Louis’ face took on a thoughtful expression. “I know him! He’s the one everyone keeps talking about- the redheaded madman. He got himself locked up in the asylum because he cut off his own ear with a razor! I swear it’s true.” 

    Sure enough, the mysterious painter had messy hair the colour of glowing embers. His ear seemed fine, but perhaps he had cut off the one on the other side, Louis thought. 

    “So what’s he doing out of the asylum?” Marie looked up at her older brother questioningly, but he did not seem to have the answer. 

    Suddenly, Quentin thought of a brilliant idea. “Louis, hold up a moment. I take back what I said before, about the asylum. If you aren’t afraid, throw a rock at that man’s painting. Don’t worry- my papa told me he’s a big baby… people see him crying all the time.” 

    Relieved that he would no longer have to touch that terrifying building, Louis picked up a stone hurriedly. “Alright, but I dare you two to do it as well.” 

    Fortunately, the artist was facing the other way and had not yet seen them. Oblivious, he carried on with his soft, delicate brush strokes, completely absorbed by his work. 

It was several minutes before Louis gathered the nerve to toss his rock. When he did, the other two quickly followed suit, not wanting to be teased for hesitating. Then, they spun around and ran as fast as their legs would carry them.

 

    When the first stone landed on the ground by his feet, the artist was so startled he dropped his brush and palette. The second rock, much more accurate, struck him on the side of the head, leaving a stinging pain. But it was the third which hurt the most. 

He watched helplessly as it sailed straight over his head and sliced through his canvas like scissors through paper. Where the delicate blue petal had been, there was now a jagged rip several inches wide.  

    With a gasp, the artist glanced back just in time to catch a glimpse of the fleeing children. He did not give chase. Instead, he slowly raised a hand and felt the laceration on his artwork, doing nothing to wipe away the hot tear which rolled down his cheek.

    Then, with a look of utter devastation, the artist gathered his tools and began the long walk back to the asylum. 

 

    That night, he retired to his room early. 

    The guards took little notice of him as he wandered back inside, supplies in hand. The artist was one of only three patients trusted to wander off without a guard- partly because his condition had improved greatly, and partly because no guard was willing to wait for hours on end as he painted a tree or flower. 

    Here at the asylum, most of the patients were self-admitted. They were not so much mad as in desperate need of a break from the world outside. The artist was no exception. He required no more treatment than solitude and the means to create art.  

    In the last town, the people had despised him. They had spit, shouted insults, and even thrown rocks. He had travelled here for peace and acceptance. How could he be singled out in an asylum full of supposedly ‘mad’ patients? 

    And he was right- life was good in the asylum. The danger arose from his excursions off its grounds. He dared not tell anyone about the cruelty of the villagers, in case they put an end to his trips, but there must be a way to make his assailants understand… to prove his sanity. 

    In a sudden fit of frustration, the painter retrieved a can of black paint from his art studio. He laid the ruined painting down on the floor, and, hesitating only for a moment, covered the serene landscape in darkness. 

    No one liked an artist. No one would ever feel sorrow at the loss of one of his paintings. No one! For the fiftieth time that day, he wondered what life might have been like had he chosen not to endure this torture. He could have been anything- a soldier, lawyer, doctor. Nothing good had come from painting.

    When Doctor Trabuc came to check on him, the painter was gazing out his window, the canvas held tightly in one hand. Trabuc wondered why his patient was starting with a black, and not a white canvas, but did not care enough to ask. 

“Do you know why I paint, doctor?” The artist sounded unusually dejected, but his stony face was impossible to read. 

“You love the colours.” Trabuc replied without hesitation, knowing that this, in itself, was true. 

“Yes. I do- I really do. But it’s something else. The world is so… dark… so full of evil. I have to show everyone that there is goodness out there still. It might not be in us, but it’s out there. Take sunflowers for instance. Their gaze is always on the sun. They are bright and cheery and bring us nothing but joy. Why can’t people be more like sunflowers?” 

Recognizing that his patient was in a contemplative, philosophical mood, Trabuc decided to play along. “Yes, but even a sunflower must endure the nighttime.” He smiled at his clever observation.

“Look outside, doctor. There is no such thing as complete darkness. Even the night is colourful. Notice how the sky is not black, but rather a deep, mysterious blue. There’s the yellow of the stars, the faint wisps of white cloud, and the faded greens of the fields. And look at the lights- there must be a candle burning in every window of Saint-Rémy. This-” He held up the black canvas, “does not exist.” 

“I’m sure we are all in your debt.” Trabuc was growing tired of this conversation. 

“I’m afraid that is exactly my problem. No one is in my debt because no one could care less about my paintings. I’m not complaining; who can blame them? My work is nothing more than a few colourful scribblings… it’s certainly not loved by anyone but me. Do you know how many paintings I’ve sold, doctor? None. And I don’t think I ever will, either.” 

“Oh, I’m sure someone will take an interest. They’re such… interesting pictures.” 

“No, no one will,” the artist shook his head with a rueful smile, “but I owe it to myself to keep on trying. At least I can find the light in the darkness… the stars in the night. You know, I do believe I’d like to paint something like that. Perhaps I’ll call it Stars in the Night.” In a sudden flurry of movement, he poured yellow paint onto his palette and dabbed a thin brush in it. The first dab of yellow on the black canvas did not look like a star to Trabuc, but he was polite enough not to say so. 

“I wish you luck. Goodnight, Vincent.” With that, the doctor closed the door, and hurried on to the next patient.