Sunflowers (22 page)
The young man’s cheeks flushed as pink as mine must have been. “I’m not supposed to leave you alone.”
“I wouldn’t be alone,” Vincent said innocently, and I couldn’t help but giggle.
Monsieur Poulet’s cheeks flushed pinker. “Catch up when you’re…uh…through,” he mumbled, then set off down the road, pointedly not looking back.
“I think he’s jealous,” Vincent said with a naughty grin. “As well he should be.” I laughed again as he pulled me off the road, deep into a green nest for lovers where no one could possibly see.
Monsieur Poulet made a show of checking his pocket watch when we dawdled our way back to the Café de la Gare. “We must hurry, Monsieur Vincent, if we’re going to make the train. Dr. Peyron wanted us back at the hospital before supper.”
“I need to get my paintings,” Vincent said. “Rachel, will you help me?”
I followed Vincent into a storage room in the back of the café. “You’ve seen me do this before,” he said as he pulled a ball of twine and a pair of scissors from a shelf. “I’ll take the canvases off the stretchers, you roll them and tie them with the twine—very carefully, or the paint will flake. I’ll pack them properly before sending them to Paris, but I need to get them to Saint-Rémy without damage.”
It reminded me of those last days when we’d packed his things in the yellow house, and I tried to let the paintings distract me as we worked together in silence. But even this did not help. I could remember the day he’d painted the chestnut trees along a path in the public garden of Place Lamartine, how the spring sun had lit the leaves, the way two little girls in white dresses had smiled at us when they walked past with their
maman
. “Rachel, we need to hurry,” Vincent said gently when he saw me staring at the painting.
I rolled the canvas and tied it with twine, the others too. Soon we finished all six canvases to be carried back to Saint-Rémy and then sent to Theo. Monsieur Poulet took them from my hands, and I walked with the two men down the Avenue de la Gare to the train station. “We have five minutes,” Monsieur Poulet said, his tone still scolding us.
We reached the platform just as a whistle sounded and the train chugged into sight.
I will not cry, I will not cry
. “Take care of yourself,” I told Vincent. “Do what the doctor says, and don’t work too hard.” He kissed me on the forehead, his eyes glistening.
Monsieur Poulet motioned out the third-class compartment door for Vincent to hurry, while the conductor paced the platform and called for everyone to board. “
Direction Tarascon! En voiture!
” He approached us and pointed to the platform clock. “
En voiture, Monsieur, s’il vous plaît
, we have a schedule to maintain.”
The train lurched forward. Vincent clasped my hand once more before scrambling aboard and pulling the compartment door shut. He waved out the window with a smile, and I watched the train until it had faded from sight.
News from the Asylum
16 July 1889
M. Vincent van Gogh
Maison de Santé de Saint-Rémy
de Provence
(Bouches-du-Rhône)
Mon cher
Vincent,
Don’t fret about the delay in writing after your return to Saint-Rémy. I’m glad you’ve completed a shipment to send to Theo. How exciting that he showed some of your Arles paintings to the artists from Brussels—do you really think you’ll get an exhibition invitation for next spring?
You asked how I’m feeling about the decision to stay longer at the hospital. Of course I’m disappointed, but I agree that your getting well is the most important thing. It doesn’t stop me from missing you terribly, but as you say, it will pass quickly. This time next year it will all be behind us…and perhaps we’ll be celebrating your success in Brussels!
Take care of yourself and be of good heart. Write me soon.
Ever yours,
Rachel
24 July 1889
M. Vincent van Gogh
Maison de Santé de Saint-Rémy
de Provence
(Bouches-du-Rhône)
Mon cher
Vincent,
You haven’t answered my earlier letter, which makes me wonder if it was lost in the post. Everything here continues much as before. It’s very hot, and we’re in dire need of rain. How is the weather in Saint-Rémy? Are you able to go out and paint? Don’t forget to wear a hat so you won’t get sunburned.
Joseph Roulin sends his best. The family will be moving to Marseille at the end of August, and I hope my path will cross Madame Roulin’s before they leave.
Write me soon, and take care of yourself.
Ever yours,
Rachel
1 August 1889
M. Vincent van Gogh
Maison de Santé de Saint-Rémy
de Provence
(Bouches-du-Rhône)
Mon cher
Vincent,
It’s been over a fortnight since I’ve heard from you, and Monsieur Roulin hasn’t heard from you either. I’m worried as can be—are you all right? I’m praying that you’re busy working and have been forgetful about writing. Send word soon. I won’t be able to rest until I know you are safe and well.
Ever yours,
Rachel
3 August 1889
Dear Mademoiselle Rachel,
It’s as we feared. Dr. Rey learned Vincent had another attack about a week after his visit here. Dr. Rey went to Saint-Rémy yesterday, and the news is not good. Vincent is very ill. But Dr. Rey says the doctor there is a good doctor and will do his best to help our friend. Try not to worry, though I know it’s hard.
My wife sends her best regards. She prays for Vincent every day.
Your devoted servant,
Joseph Roulin
3 August 1889
Dr. Félix Rey
Hospices civils de la Ville d’Arles
Rue Dulau
Dear Félix,
It’s been over a week since you’ve come to see me. Will you come tonight?
Rachel
I hurried Félix upstairs without even a drink and shoved Roulin’s note at him. “How long have you known?”
He read the few lines and sighed. “I should have guessed your message had nothing to do with me.” I repeated my question, this time more harshly, and Félix sighed again. “Dr. Peyron informed me by telegram two days after Vincent’s collapse.”
“Almost three weeks and you didn’t tell me?”
“I thought it would upset you. I was waiting until he—”
“No, you thought I’d be too upset to screw you.” Félix’s jaw dropped and his face turned crimson. “Isn’t that why you bring me presents, isn’t that why you came here tonight? Isn’t that why you sent Vincent away, so you could get your hands on me?”
“Going to Saint-Rémy was his idea,” Félix sputtered. “I can’t believe you’d think—”
“If you’d taken better care of him, he wouldn’t be there. You knew he’d get sick again, you
knew
it!”
Félix folded Roulin’s note and laid it on my bureau. “Rachel, that is most unfair. I did all I could for Vincent, you know I did. Of course there was a risk he could relapse again, but I thought going to Saint-Rémy would help. As did he. I cannot understand why you are behaving this way.”
I wanted Félix to yell back at me. I wanted to keep shouting at him because I didn’t know who else to shout at. His calm tone shamed me into silence, then sobs. “You’re in shock,” he said and whipped a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “Sit down, and I’ll bring you a brandy. Shall I fetch Madame Virginie or Mademoiselle Françoise?” I shook my head.
When he’d returned with the brandy and I’d taken several sips at his urging, I said, “I’m sorry, Félix. I didn’t mean those horrible things.”
“I know you didn’t.” He patted my arm.
“I thought he’d be fine…he was fine when he came here…” Félix nodded at the glass, and I took another sip. “He told me he was staying longer than he thought, but he was feeling stronger…he was sad about Theo’s baby, but—”
Félix’s eyebrows raised. “He was sad about what?”
“His brother’s wife is pregnant,” I said softly. “He found out before he came to visit.”
“Why should that make him sad?”
“He would like a child of his own,” I said, more softly still, and that was all I could say. Félix knew nothing of the baby I’d once carried, and I was not going to tell him now.
Félix pulled a small notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and started writing. “Interesting,” he muttered to himself, then, more distinctly to me, “in December, Vincent had just learned of his brother’s engagement. In July, his sister-in-law’s pregnancy. Mental disturbance is not my area of expertise, but perhaps Dr. Peyron knows similar cases, when attacks were propagated by crises in familial relationships.” He tapped his lips with his pencil. “Can you recollect anything relating to Vincent’s brother that may have triggered his February relapse?”
I glared at him. “Vincent’s not ‘a case,’ he’s a human being.”
“Of course he is. I’m sorry.” Félix clapped the notebook shut and replaced it in his pocket. “As Monsieur Roulin told you, I went to Saint-Rémy yesterday to evaluate the situation. I believe the worst has passed.”
“Is he having hallucinations?”
Félix wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Occasionally, not as much as before. Although according to Dr. Peyron, he…”
“He…what?”
“Ate his paints. Fortunately one of the attendants saw him do it, and an emetic was quickly administered.” At my questioning look, he added, “Something to make a patient vomit so he won’t be poisoned.”
I started to cry again, and Félix drew my head to his shoulder. “He didn’t know what he was doing—that was just after it began. The doctors and attendants are taking excellent care of him, and he will recover soon. You must not worry,
ma petite
.”
I pulled away. “Don’t call me that. You must never call me that.”
He tried to take my hand, but I wouldn’t let him. “Rachel, let me try to help—”
“Please go. Leave me, I beg you.”
“Tell me what I can do. Anything, I’ll do anything.”
He had the same helpless look on his face that he’d had back in March, that day when I’d gone to the hospital to see him. The day he’d done exactly what I’d asked him. The blood was rushing in my ears, and my voice sounded far away. “Take me to Saint-Rémy.”
“I’m not certain that’s a good idea,” he replied, and the helpless look had gone.
“You said you’d do anything.”
“I know, but—”
I placed my hand on his knee. “The only way I can visit him is if I go with you. I have to see him, Félix.” My fingers moved higher up his thigh. “Please?”
4 August 1889
M. Vincent van Gogh
Maison de Santé de Saint-Rémy
de Provence
(Bouches-du-Rhône)
Mon cher
Vincent,
Monsieur Roulin learned of your illness from Dr. Rey, and I spoke to Dr. Rey myself to find out how you were. I don’t know if you’re well enough to read this letter, but dearest, I send you all my love and my prayers that you will recover soon from this
crise
.
I asked Dr. Rey if I may come with him to see you. He doesn’t think it wise now, but he promised he’d arrange a visit when you’re stronger. Please fight, fight to get well, and as soon as I’m able, I’ll be there.
Ever yours, ever, ever
yours
,
Rachel
To Saint-Rémy
I am working like one actually possessed…. And I think that this will help cure me.
—Vincent to Theo, Saint-Rémy,
early September 1889
29 August 1889
Mlle. Rachel Courteau
c/o Mme. Virginie Chabaud
Rue du Bout d’Arles, no. 1
Arles-sur-Rhône
Ma petite
Rachel,
My head is still quite disordered, and it is difficult for me to write for very long, but I must tell you how grateful I am for your many letters. The
crise
has mostly abated, although I have a swollen throat and disturbing dreams on occasion. I would have preferred that you not learn of my attack until I was better, but I should have expected you would find out somehow.
Dr. Peyron forbade me to paint, which caused me no end of distress, but Theo persuaded him to relent. Yesterday I began a study of the view out my window, and today, a self-portrait. I’m thin and pale as a ghost, but it’s a fine color effect, dark violet-blue, the head whitish with yellow hair.
It is kind of Dr. Rey to bring you to visit. Seeing you would do me a world of good, and I hope the trip will come to pass soon.
Ever yours, as you are ever mine,
Vincent
After receiving Vincent’s pencil-scribbled note, the first word in weeks, I pestered Félix about going to Saint-Rémy. “Not until Vincent’s stronger,” he insisted at my wheedles, pouts, and frowns. “We don’t want him to relapse from too much excitement.” But when Vincent sent another letter, claiming to feel recovered and asking again when I might visit, Félix had no more excuses. Or perhaps he wearied of my wrangling.
He tactfully suggested I wear “something suitable”—“suitable” meaning respectable, modest, even bourgeoise. He offered to buy me a dress, but that was an extravagance I could not accept. Fortunately Minette and Claudette had both been seamstresses before coming to Madame Virginie’s; they had worked for one of the finest dressmakers in town, Madame Chambourgon. Claudette rummaged in her dress patterns until we found one we liked, and Minette volunteered to help find fabric and trimmings. We chose a demure gray muslin at the grandly named Grand Magasin de Nouveautés Veuve Jacques Calment et Fils, and at the market, Minette impressed me with her flair for bargaining when selecting lace, ribbons, and buttons. Making the dress passed the time as we cut, pinned, fitted, and sewed a plain but handsome demi-polonaise dress with a high lace collar, row of buttons up the back, and just enough bustle for just enough wiggle.
“You look like a princess!” Claudette exclaimed when she buttoned me up for Saint-Rémy. “But you need some rouge.”
“Don’t be silly, ladies don’t wear rouge,” Minette said and poufed my bustle. “Oh, no! We forgot gloves! A lady doesn’t go out without gloves!” The three of us dug in our rooms until I found an old black pair at the bottom of my armoire. They had a hole in one finger and were the wrong color, but they would have to do. The pink-and-gray satin hat emerged from its hatbox to be worn for the first time, and I had to smile at my reflection as Minette covered my head with hatpins. “Thank goodness there’s no mistral today,” she said, “or this hat would end up on top of a mountain. Just think how surprised Monsieur Vincent will be to see you!”
“And how pleased Monsieur Félix will be,” Françoise said from the doorway, where she’d been watching the commotion. “He’s not going to want to share, is he?”
“Gracious, you have to hurry or you’ll miss the train!” Minette cried when she peeked at the clock on the landing. She and Claudette jabbered instructions as they handed me my reticule and hustled me down the stairs. “Mind you don’t let that hem trail—”
“But don’t lift it up too high, ladies don’t show their ankles—”
“Hold your head up so the hat doesn’t go crooked—”
“Don’t squash your bustle—”
Then together, “Have fun!
À bientôt!
”
A real lady would take a hired carriage to the train station, but it seemed wasteful for such a short walk. Besides, I rather liked passing through the Place Lamartine garden in my fine new dress. The ladies seated under the trees, their children playing in the morning sunshine, had nothing to criticize today, and I glimpsed envy in their glances at my hat. Old men playing
boules
tipped their caps with a respectful chorus of “Good morning, Madame.”
I arrived at the station platform with two minutes to spare, my stomach fluttering at the thought of both returning to Saint-Rémy and seeing Vincent. Félix was already waiting, and he wasn’t alone. Clever man, he’d invited Reverend Salles to come along. How could I spend time with Vincent now? I pasted a smile on my face as I greeted them.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle, you’re precisely on time,” Félix said. “I’ve purchased your ticket.” His eyes approved my dress and lit up when he saw the hat, although he could hardly compliment me in front of Reverend Salles. The Reverend greeted me as if unaware I was a
fille de maison
in disguise, although we both knew he knew better.
I started toward the third-class carriages when the train arrived, until Félix took my elbow and guided me to first class. First class! I tried to look like I rode in first class every day, but I secretly delighted in the plush seat cushions and wide aisles as we climbed aboard. Félix and the Reverend opened copies of
Le Forum Républicain
and began reading as the train pulled away, while I watched the countryside roll past, sneaking off a glove to caress the mulberry velvet seat. It was time for the grape harvest, when thousands of laborers descended on the vineyards around Arles, and the fields outside the window buzzed with activity.
We changed trains at Tarascon for the local line to Saint-Rémy, and as we neared the village, the landscape changed. Arles straddled the Rhône among flat plains that for centuries had needed constant drainage, and the marsh of the Camargue was a short distance to the southwest. But Saint-Rémy lay far from the Rhône and the marshes, tucked instead among the Alpilles—
l’Aupiho
in Provençal: bald, craggy peaks strung like a necklace through the countryside. At the sight of the mountains, my heart leaped, as if seeing old friends long apart, and my mind wandered to happy days from my childhood.
“Papa, tell me how you met Maman,” chirped my seven-year-old voice as I sat on Papa’s lap next to the fireplace.
“Rachel, you’ve heard that story a thousand times.”
“Please?”
“
D’accord
,” Papa replied, catching Maman’s eye with a smile where she sat sewing. “I’d come from Avignon to Saint-Rémy to be a schoolteacher, and there was a grand
fête
for the Assumption of Our Lady—”
“Like there is every year!”
“All the marriageable young ladies of the town danced in the square in front of the Mairie. Your Maman danced the
farandole
to the music of pipes and tambourines, and I thought I’d never seen such a beautiful girl.”
“Maman was wearing a yellow dress, wasn’t she?”
Papa glanced again at Maman. “Yes, and she looked like a sunflower dancing in the breeze. She smiled at me, and I knew in that moment I had to marry her.” As he always did, he leaned in close and whispered, “She bewitched me.” As I always did, I giggled.
“I have Maman’s eyes, don’t I, Papa?”
Papa took my chin in his fingers and pretended to study me. “Yes,
ma pichoto
Rachel, and someday a young man will fall in love with you like I did with your Maman.”
I giggled again and whispered in his ear, “Does she still bewitch you, Papa?”
“Every day of my life, little one. Every day of my life.”
He locked himself in a world of books and papers after she died, writing his own book about Saint-Rémy that would never be finished. Another day and another voice came back to me from those later years. “Rachel is not a little girl anymore, Papa.” My sister Pauline, six years older and already married. I heard her through the nearly closed door of Papa’s study. “You can’t let her run wild over the countryside, there’ll be talk. There is already.”
My father’s sigh. “She has her mother’s spirit, Pauline.”
“Spoiling her will not bring Maman back,” Pauline said crossly, as if she’d been the parent and Papa the child. “She’s fourteen years old! A young lady, and she must act like one. Traipsing around the olive groves with boys like a hoyden—Madame Vallès saw her!”
“I’m certain it was perfectly innocent. You do your sister an injustice.”
“Who will marry a girl with a reputation, who acts like a gypsy?”
“That’s enough,” Papa replied. “I shall speak to Rachel. You’re not to trouble her with your gossiping.”
“It’s not gossiping, Papa,” Pauline insisted. “I’m trying to do what’s best for the family, to keep disgrace from falling on us.”
“Enough!” Papa rarely raised his voice, and it made me jump. “You worry about your husband and your baby, I shall worry about Rachel.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. She’ll bring shame to us all if you don’t rein her in.” Pauline’s heavy footsteps flounced toward the door, and I scuttled away so they wouldn’t know I’d been listening.
Félix brought me back to the present. “Mademoiselle Courteau, we’ve arrived.” I hadn’t noticed that the train had stopped, and I apologized as I picked up my reticule to follow him.
Stepping onto the platform and looking around the station flooded me with memories. The day the first train had arrived from Tarascon, after the station had been built, the whole town burst into cheers as smiling passengers emerged from the carriages. Papa hoisted me on his shoulders so I could see, and he bought me a strawberry ice before we went home. Years later, there was the last day, when I stood here with my valise in hand and vowed I would never return.
An orderly from the asylum met us, greeting Félix and Reverend Salles with respectful familiarity. “The hospital lies beyond the town, on the other side, where it’s quiet,” the Reverend said as we approached a waiting carriage. “It used to be a monastery before the Revolution, called Saint-Paul-de-Mausole because of a Roman ruin that stands nearby. It became an asylum early this century, and today Dr. Théophile Peyron is the director. Sisters of the Order of Saint Joseph de Viviers act as nurses, mainly for the women patients, and there are male attendants too. A Catholic priest acts as chaplain, Père Eugène de Tamisier, and on occasion I help minister to any Protestant patients.”
“There are women in the hospital?” I asked.
“The hospital can accommodate fifty men and fifty women, although at present there are many empty rooms. The male and female patients are not allowed to see each other.”
Reverend Salles pointed out places of interest and told me things I already knew about the history of Saint-Rémy as we took the ring road from the station around the
centre de ville
. His placid voice droned over the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves, and to be polite, I posed questions and pretended I was listening. There was the church of Saint-Martin, not my family’s church, but where we’d sometimes gone to hear concerts on the organ. Down that street were the Mairie—the city hall—and the square where Papa had fallen in love with Maman as she’d danced the
farandole
. If you turned left from there and followed another street, you’d come to the school where Papa had taught so many years.
Our house, though, had not been in the
centre de ville
. Maman could not bear to be away from the fields and mountains, so Papa bought a small farmhouse just north of the village, near a meadow filled with sunflowers and red poppies. I could still see Maman on her knees in the garden, burrowing her hands in the soil and coaxing herbs and vegetables to grow. Papa taught me about the Romans, mathematics, and other things one learned at school, but Maman taught me how to cook, how to sew, and how to name the winds. Everyone knew the mistral, but there were other winds too, the eastern wind called the Levant, the western, Traverso, the southern, Marin that brought the rain, and dozens of others besides: the Biso, the Majo Fango, the Montagnero…Maman had told me about them all.
The carriage passed under the plane trees shading the ring road, then turned south from the village toward Saint-Paul-de-Mausole. Groves of gnarled olive trees lined the road now, with occasional rows of cypresses to protect crops from the mistral. The Alpilles drew nearer as the road sloped uphill, formidable Mont Gaussier standing ahead with the twin-peaked hill known as Les Deux Trous. Gray limestone they were, molded by the winds of time with trees covering their lowest slopes—but never truly gray, for the mountains stole the ever-shifting colors of the clouds and sky. Today they were lilac-tinged, with deep purple in the clefts. I could already smell the wild thyme.
Reverend Salles was still talking. “We’re almost to the hospital, Mademoiselle. Observe to our right the Roman ruins known as Les Antiques, the pride of Saint-Rémy, a mausoleum with sculpted friezes and a triumphal arch. Not as complete as the arch at Orange, but a superb example of Gallo-Roman architecture.”
I’d seen Les Antiques more times than it was possible to count, so I gave them barely a glance and barely a thought. I couldn’t stop fidgeting as we drew up to the hospital’s outer walls, straightening my hat when it was already straight and smoothing my dress even though there wasn’t a wrinkle. Félix kept sneaking looks at me. He’d hardly said a word since we’d gotten off the train, and he was probably regretting the fact that he’d brought me.
The attendant leaped from the carriage to tug open twin wooden doors marking the entrance to the hospital, and we continued down the tree-lined drive. All my years living in Saint-Rémy, and I’d never had reason to come inside this place; I’d only heard the rumors and stories. We passed a chapel (“twelfth-century, same era as Saint-Trophime, part of the original monastery,” intoned the Reverend), then continued to a newer series of buildings that formed the heart of the hospital and enclosed a large garden.