Sunflowers (30 page)

The day will come when you will have no need of another woman to pose. In the wheat, at a piano (although I have no notion how to play), on your bed…anywhere you want me, I am yours. I do not think Mademoiselle Gachet would say that!

With all my love,
your Rachel

2 July 1890

Mlle. Rachel Courteau c/o Mme.
Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Ma petite
Rachel,

I have had a disturbing letter from Theo. The little one has been gravely ill, caused perhaps by an infection from cow’s milk. Johanna herself has been sick for over a week, too sick to nurse, and the surrogate milk seems to have acted badly on the baby. The doctor told them the child will not die, but nonetheless Theo and Johanna are most anxious, and so am I. Theo says
le petit Vincent
wails incessantly and cannot be comforted.

The rest of the letter is unlike my brother, normally so calm and composed. He is contemplating leaving his gallery and starting one of his own with financial help from Dries Bonger, Jo’s brother. What can he be thinking with this idea? It can only bring failure and ruin. I refuse to believe Jo supports this plan, although Theo does not say. I can only hope it is born of worry and will fade away as the little one’s health improves.

Theo does say something that for us is very interesting: “I have, and I hope from the bottom of my heart that you too will someday have, a wife to whom you will be able to say such things.” Is this the opportunity we have been waiting for?

I would like to go to Paris to be of what assistance I can, but Theo says I should not visit until Jo at least is feeling better. I plan to insist again that they spend their entire vacation in Auvers, as travel to Holland may be too much for Jo and the baby.

I am glad things between you and me are where they ought to be, even if impatience overwhelms us both. I shall take you up on your promise to pose for me, so prepare yourself for many hours of sitting—or lying—perfectly still while I indulge myself in looking you up, down, over, and under, and painting your figure until we are both satisfied.

The portrait of Mademoiselle Gachet is finished. The dress is pink, the wall in the background green with orange spots, the carpet red with green spots, the piano dark violet. Her father has promised to make her pose for me another time at a small organ to continue the musical theme.

Take care,
chérie
. I shall keep you abreast of any developments with Theo.

A kiss in thought,
Vincent

5 July 1890

M. Vincent van Gogh
chez Ravoux, Place de la Mairie
Auvers-sur-Oise
(Seine-et-Oise)

Mon cher
Vincent,

How distressing, this news about your nephew. Perhaps he’s just teething, and it is nothing more sinister than that? I hope both he and Johanna recover quickly. Please try not to be too anxious about them or about Theo’s ideas of starting his own gallery. I know what must be in your mind, and I beg you again and again not to worry. We will manage no matter what Theo decides.

At the risk of sounding like a terribly jealous fiancée, could you indulge me by not painting Mademoiselle Gachet again?

Ever yours,
Rachel

7 July 1890

Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Ma petite
Rachel,

Yesterday I went to Paris to visit Theo and Johanna, and while I am glad to say the little one is much better, it was a most trying and difficult day in other respects. I intended to stay for a few nights, but found myself needing to flee almost immediately.

Such storms hang over us all that I feel very sad, as if my life is threatened at the root and my steps are wavering. I fear more than ever that I am a burden to Theo, that I stand between their family and true happiness. I would tell you all of what happened, only it pains me to think of it, and believe me when I say it would only upset you.

Today I tried to work although the brush almost slipped from my fingers. I painted vast fields of wheat under troubled skies, and I did not need to go out of my way to try and express sadness and extreme loneliness.

What is to be done?

Vincent

9 July 1890

M. Vincent van Gogh
chez Ravoux, Place de la Mairie
Auvers-sur-Oise
(Seine-et-Oise)

My dearest Vincent,

I cannot bear thinking of you in such a state, and I am terrified of what may have taken place between you, Theo, and Johanna to cause it. Is it Theo’s idea of leaving his gallery? Or, God forbid, did you talk to him about us and have it go badly?

Shall I come to Auvers now? I can get the fare. Please don’t give in to this sense of despair, and know that I love you with everything I have.

Ever yours,
Rachel

TELEGRAM—14 July 1890

14 July 1890

Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Ma petite
Rachel,

I am sorry to worry you, please forgive me. I have not suffered another
crise
, although I feared for a time one might be simmering. Jo and Theo have both written this past week about the matters we discussed in Paris, and although our problems are not resolved, we are drawing closer to an understanding.

Theo asked Messrs. Boussod and Valadon for a raise in salary, with the proviso that if it is not granted, he shall resign. That discussion took place on the 7th, so we all wait with bated breath to discover the outcome. It will determine many things. I did not discuss you with Theo during the visit to Paris, please alleviate yourself of that anxiety. It was not the time.

Selfishly I long to tell you to board the train for Auvers, but I beg you to remain in Arles until we learn what will happen with Theo’s position. He and Johanna are coming to visit for a week. I expect many things to be discussed and settled during that time, after which we can move forward as we planned.

I wait for the day when these storms have passed.

With a kiss in thought,
Vincent

CARTE POSTALE

15 July 1890

Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Ma petite
Rachel,

Theo and Johanna are not spending any of their holidays in Auvers. They are going straight on to Holland, where Jo and the baby will stay for three weeks, and Theo will remain only one before going back to Paris. I cannot tell you how disappointed and yes, furious I am that they should change their plans so swiftly and leave me high and dry. I cannot imagine what they are thinking.

Yours,
Vincent

18 July 1890

M. Vincent van Gogh
chez Ravoux, Place de la Mairie
Auvers-sur-Oise
(Seine-et-Oise)

Mon cher
Vincent,

Please let me come to you so we can weather the storms together. I’m certain Theo’s decision had nothing to do with his feelings for you. Have patience with him and do not let this disappointment act upon you in ways it should not.

Dearest, always remember how much I love you. You are not alone.

Ever yours,
Rachel

26 July 1890

Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Ma petite
Rachel,

I am sorry to once more delay in writing, but there has been much to think about.

Theo has returned to Paris, but I imagine has had no news yet from Messrs. Boussod and Valadon, or else he would have told me in his most recent letter. I feel oddly calm about the situation, even as this waiting remains difficult, and continue to think it best that you stay in Arles until all this is settled.

I enclose some sketches of things I worked on this week: one of the painter Daubigny’s garden (he once lived in Auvers, his widow is still here) and two sketches of size 30 canvases representing fields of wheat after the rain. The wheatfields are a rich gold and on some farms, the harvest has already begun. I have written Theo to ask for more paints, as I am nearly out.

My dear girl, my love for you is as deep and strong as it ever was. These days it carries me through when other things seem to fail me. May we soon find our own harvest when all things come to fruition.

With a kiss in thought, I am forever yours.
Vincent

GOUPIL & CO.

TABLEAUX—OBJETS D’ART

BOUSSOD, VALADON, & CIE., SUCCESSEURS

19, BOULEVARD MONTMARTRE, PARIS

1 August 1890

Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône

Chère Mademoiselle
,

I write to you on behalf of my brother, Vincent, with news I wish I did not have to send.

I am sorry to tell you he is no longer with us. The evening of the 27th he injured himself at Auvers-sur-Oise and passed away a short time later. Before his death, he told me of your kindness to him and spoke of you with great affection. He asked if I would do something for you in his name, so I send the enclosed four hundred francs in the hope it may be of some assistance. Vincent earned this from the sale of a painting in a recent exhibition in Brussels.

Please accept my family’s condolences for what must be a terrible shock for you, as it was for us all. If there is anything further I can do, please do not hesitate to contact me at the above address or at my home: 8 Cité Pigalle, Paris.

With regards, Mademoiselle,
Théodore van Gogh

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Paris, August 1890

I

couldn’t save him.

None of us could. Not Theo, not anyone in Vincent’s family, not Félix or the other doctors who hemmed and hawed and pretended they knew what to do. Injured himself, that’s what Theo said, but I knew it was no accident. Had Vincent drunk turpentine or eaten his paints? Taken a razor to himself and this time bled to death? Had another
crise
gripped him, alone in his attic room? Had Dr. Gachet done anything to help Vincent in those last weeks, or had he blithely insisted that Vincent only paint?

Why had Vincent wanted to die?

Four days after Theo’s letter, I bought a bottle of laudanum at the apothecary’s shop, to help me sleep, I told the clerk in a shaking voice. “Only a little each time,” he cautioned, “or one morning you won’t wake up.”

The bottle was smaller than I expected, but it would be enough. To the public garden of the Place Lamartine I went, to sit in the shadow of the cedar bush. Another hot day, but a quiet day, with not even the laundresses nearby to disturb me. The oleanders were beginning to bloom, and the summer cicadas droned an invitation.
Sleep, Rachel. Sleep
.

I uncorked the bottle and sniffed the laudanum inside. Would it be like absinthe, I wondered, strange at first, then sweeter as I neared the bottom? Should I drink it all in a gulp, or slowly, to savor the moment? Dying was like taking the train to someplace new, so Vincent said that night by the Rhône. If I drink this, I thought, soon I’ll stand on a station platform in that new place—a busy platform like the one at Tarascon. I’ll search across a sea of people, and there he’ll be in his yellow straw hat. He’ll meet me filled with smiles and laughter, he’ll take my hand, and we’ll begin again. Only this time, with no end.

I’ll go wherever you go
.

How bitter the laudanum smells.

A memory reached me then. Vincent in the Arles hospital after his first relapse, when his bandage had been removed and he looked like a lost little boy. His wide eyes, his words.
I can’t ask you to give up your life for me
.

I corked the bottle and put it back in my reticule.

The next morning, I told Françoise I was going to Paris, to find Vincent’s brother and learn the truth. “There’s nothing you could have done,” she said as I tossed clothes in my trunk. “You gave him all the love you had.”

“I could have gone to Auvers,” I replied. “Maybe he’d still be alive.”

“He was sick, it was beyond your power. It’s a blessing he no longer has to suffer.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “A blessing! A blessing he killed himself, a blessing he’s dead? What do you know of his suffering, you who never liked him and wanted me to break from him?”

She took me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “His spirit can be at peace in a way it never was when he was alive. You know that.”

“Is he at peace?” I demanded. “The Church would say he’s in hell for what he did.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” I pulled away to bury my face in the yellow dress he’d liked so much, the one he’d always said looked like the sun. “I didn’t get to say good-bye. I’d give anything to tell him I love him one more time.”

She lay a hand on my arm. “He knew, dear. He knew.”

“Then why? Why did he leave me?”

“His illness must have been too much for him.” We were both quiet, then I wiped my eyes and kept packing. Françoise helped fold things and asked, “Will you come back?”

“No. If I must begin again, I’ll do it in Paris. Not as a
fille de maison
, God no, with a respectable job and an honest living.”

“You don’t know anything about Paris,” she said with a frown. “You’ve never been to a big city like that.”

“I have to do this, Françoise. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, I see only him and the life we could have had. If I stay in Arles, I’ll go mad. Or die.”

Madame Virginie was not surprised when I asked her to go with me to the
gendarmerie
so my name could be removed from the prostitution register. She wished me good fortune in Paris and, to my shock, pressed a fifty-franc note into my hand after I paid for my freedom. I gave my most revealing dresses and most gaudy jewelry to other girls in the
maison
, but they insisted on paying me. All that, plus what I had left from Vincent’s four hundred francs and the money I’d saved, meant I had more than enough for the train fare, more than enough to sustain me until I could find work.

The evening before my departure, I wandered to the river’s edge and the place where Vincent had painted. I watched the sun sink into the horizon, the stars flicker into brightness. “How do you call the stars in Provençal?” Vincent asked that night, just before he kissed me and I knew he loved me.

“L’estelan,”
I whispered now to the river, then took the laudanum bottle from my reticule and threw it with all the force I had in my arm. At the sound of the splash, I turned and walked to the Rue du Bout d’Arles for the last time.

To travel by train from Arles to Paris takes fifteen hours. The hard benches of the third-class carriages hurt my back the entire trip, and I was grateful for the breeze through the open windows that hid the stench of unwashed August bodies. The further north we went, the sky changed from the brilliant blue of Provence to a silvery gray, and I wondered if Paris itself would be as gray as Vincent always said it was.

A man with a northern accent tried to make conversation with me after we left Lyon. It was obvious what lay behind his comments about the weather, and I feared something of my old life clung enough for him to glimpse, despite the lady’s dress, hat, and gloves I wore. Once I would have kept the talk going, seeing two francs ripe for the taking, but that day I informed him I was en route to Paris to meet my fiancé. His amused eyes said he didn’t believe me.

Everything I owned was either in my trunk in the luggage car or on my person. Tucked into my valise were Theo’s letter, all of Vincent’s letters from Saint-Rémy and Auvers-sur-Oise, and the
santon
he’d given me the night of the
pastorale
. His painting of the Place Lamartine garden I’d wrapped in brown parcel paper and kept with me rather than surrender it to the luggage porter. It would have been easier to carry had I removed it from its frame and stretcher and rolled up the canvas, but I could not bring myself to do it.

When the train jerked to a stop at the Gare de Lyon in Paris, I climbed down the compartment steps to an extraordinary sight: the soaring glass-and-steel canopy covering the station, clouds of locomotive steam, pigeons flying about in a frenzy. More people than I’d ever seen in one place, everyone trying to get where they were going at once, bumping and jostling each other with hardly a
Pardon
. I clutched the handle of my valise and held Vincent’s painting close as I maneuvered to the luggage car, where I spotted the man who’d tried to talk to me on the train, staring at me with the same insolent smirk. He saw there was no one waiting for me. He saw I was all alone.

A porter loaded my trunk onto a cart to wheel it out of the station. With him beside me to lead the way, I felt safer, and I looked in wonder around the
gare
. A grand-looking restaurant stood at the end of the platforms under an immense clock, huge signboards listed arrivals and departures, and conductors strode the platforms shouting the names of far-flung places: Marseille! Chamonix! Venice! Rome!
En voiture, mesdames et messieurs, en voiture!

At a row of carriages outside the station, an old man leaped with surprising agility from a driver’s seat and helped the porter load my trunk. “Where to, Mademoiselle?” I admitted that I didn’t know, and the southern lilt of my French made him smile.
“Vous êtes Provençale?”

“Yes, from Arles.” I smiled back at his friendly tone. “This is my first visit to Paris.”

He gave me a hand up into the carriage. “Hop in, Mademoiselle, and we’ll get you settled. Are you visiting someone?”

“Not until tomorrow. Today I need to find an auberge—somewhere in Montmartre, I think? The person I’m visiting lives at 8, Cité Pigalle.”

The driver took his seat and picked up his whip. “That’s just below Montmartre. I know a place further up the
butte
suitable for a lady on her own. Clean, not too expensive.” I thanked him before sinking back into the cushions, then I smiled to myself. He’d called me a lady.

With a flick of the whip, we were off, and Paris began to sweep over me. So many carriages, so many streets. I saw my first omnibus, crowded with people inside and on top—how could two horses pull it all by themselves? The driver noticed me looking left and right, left and right. “Paris must seem strange to a young lady from the south,” he said.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. How many people live here?”

“A couple of million, I should think, but few nowadays are true Parisians.” The old man thumped his chest with pride. “My family has been here for centuries. My
grand-père
was one of the first inside the Bastille when it fell. Many changes since I was a boy, though, Mademoiselle. My
maman
and
papa
, God rest their souls, would not recognize Paris today.”

We turned onto a wide boulevard that stretched as far as I could see, lined with graceful trees and modern buildings of gray-white stone. Throngs of people crowded the sidewalks and café terraces, strolling and strutting as if on parade. I gaped at richly dressed ladies with their pert bustles and stylish hats, clothes they must have bought at one of the
grands magasins
or else had made-to-order at one of the city’s many
couturiers
. Huge signs told me I could look like them if I shopped at one of the department stores: Le Moine St-Martin, Le Bon Marché, La Parisienne. “
La plus grande maison de confections pour dames
,” one of the signs trumpeted, “the greatest store for ladies’ clothes!”
Robes et manteaux! Peignoirs, jupes, et tournures! Chaussures! Chapeaux!
Once I’d thought Parisian elegance intoxicating, but now it frightened me and made me shrink in my seat. I’d already learned what trouble a fancy hat could cause.

“I’ll drive you past the Cité Pigalle,” the old man said, “so you can see where your friend lives.” He rattled off the names of roads as we went along, pointing with his whip in this direction and that direction, saying things like, “That way is the Gare Saint-Lazare, if you want to go out to the
banlieues
,” or “The Opéra is down that street.” I couldn’t possibly remember everything he was telling me, but he was so eager to be helpful that I nodded or commented whenever he spoke.

“
Voilà
, the Cité Pigalle,” he said and gestured to a dead-end street. “We are on the Rue Pigalle right now, near the Boulevard de Clichy. It’s not a far walk from where I’m taking you, but I’d hire a carriage just the same. You can find one in the Place des Abbesses.”

The veneer of respectability surrounding the Cité Pigalle faltered when we reached the Place Pigalle up the way. Decent-looking cafés and shops circled the
place
, but the gaily dressed, gaily painted women loitering at a round fountain gave it another air entirely. They looked curiously at our carriage as we passed, and I recognized those hopeful glances, eager for a few francs to buy some supper. “Don’t worry, it gets respectable again,” the driver reassured me. “Girls come here hoping artists will hire them as models. They call it the Monday models’ market. Other days, well, it’s another kind of market.” He chuckled, then apologized.

We climbed the
butte Montmartre
and rambled our way through a maze of streets that mixed modern apartments and shops with older, more run-down buildings. Some streets looked villagelike, with vineyards, kitchen gardens, even a few windmills. The people up here looked different, more like folks back in Provence, and colorful posters advertised not department stores but dance halls and cabarets: Le Divan Japonais, Le Chat Noir, Le Moulin Rouge.
Tous les soirs! Grande Fête! Entrée Libre!
Oh, certainly, free entrance, but once inside you’d be lured to spend all you had on drinks—even a country girl like me knew that.

“Montmartre wasn’t part of Paris until about thirty years ago,” the old man explained. “It was a separate town, and you had to pay a toll to go off the
butte
into the center. The true Montmartrois will still tell you they’re not Parisian.”

“Where’s the Rue Lepic?” I asked, recalling the name of Vincent’s old street.

“Back that way, a couple minutes’ walk. You’ll find the Moulin de la Galette there, a dance hall that’s a hopping place on Sundays.” Shortly after that, he pulled the horses to a stop. “
Et voilà
, Rue de Ravignan and the Hôtel du Poirier. I think you’ll find it to your liking.”

He gave me his hand to help me down, and as he went into the auberge I stayed and looked around me. We’d come to a square that sloped gently down the hill, where a series of streets met. A fair number of people milled about—merchants carrying things to and from their shops, old men resting on benches under chestnut trees—but it wasn’t a large square, not even half the size of Place Lamartine.

The carriage driver reappeared, accompanied by a plump woman wiping floury hands on her apron. “
Bonjour
, you looking for a room?” I told her yes and gave her my name, and she said, “I’m Madame Fouillet. It’s three francs a night room and board, and that includes one glass of wine with dinner. Laundry’s extra.” She gave me a stern look and added, “I don’t mind letting to a young lady by herself, but this is a decent house, Mademoiselle. I won’t tolerate strange men slinking about the place.”

I felt myself flush.
“Oui, Madame.”

“Not that you look the type, but you’d be surprised what happens to nice girls from the country once they meet a smooth-talking city man.” She nodded toward the wrapped painting under my arm. “You an artist?”