Françoise and I followed the doctor down the corridor to a vast room with two long rows of beds, each bed hung with thin white curtains. Most were occupied by patients: some sleeping, some sitting up and reading or else talking softly with visitors. Other patients played cards in a huddle around a potbellied stove, keeping their voices low so as not to disturb their brethren. Black-garbed nuns with white aprons flitted about like shadows, bringing drinks of water, bowls of broth, or smiles of comfort to the men in their care.
“This is the main ward,” Dr. Rey said. “When Vincent seemed better this morning, I decided to move him from the isolation room. Being alone was only upsetting him more. I’ll wait here so that you can have some privacy. His bed is at the end of this row.”
Françoise said she’d stay with the doctor, so I walked alone down the length of the ward, trying not to let my shoes clatter against the floor tiles. Some of the windows had their shutters open to freshen the air, but still it smelled of sickness and sweat, of death. When I reached Vincent’s bed, I brushed through the closed curtains and sat on the chair beside him. He was dozing, his face troubled in sleep. Dr. Rey had wrapped a thick bandage around his head, and his white face was haggard against the white sheets and pillows. The sight of him so frail made tears spring to my eyes, but I blinked them back. He could not see me cry.
He must have heard me or sensed my presence, for his eyes opened and tried to focus. Then he tried to sit up. “No, don’t,” I said quickly. “Save your strength and lie still.”
He sank back onto the pillow with a sigh and smile. “I’ve waited and waited for you. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“Of course I came.” I took his hand in one of mine and caressed his cheek with the other. His clammy skin frightened me. “I can only stay a few minutes. The doctor doesn’t want you exhausting yourself.”
His next words were the softest whisper. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His hand was so cold. “It’s over. C’est fini.”
“You’re pale. You’ve been ill.”
I couldn’t tell him about the baby. I would never tell him. “I’m fine now. Everything is going to be all right. You’ll get well, and you’ll paint beautiful things again. I’ll stay with you in your yellow house whenever you need me…. Everything will be all right.”
He closed his eyes and smiled to himself, seeing pictures in his head I could only imagine. He spoke so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear him. “I love you, Rachel.”
His simple words conjured tears I could not stop. I knelt beside the bed and buried my face in the blankets, his limp hand touching my hair. The prayers that had eluded me inside the church rushed through me with a mistral’s force, and with all the strength I possessed, I spoke to the God who might or might not listen. Please hear me, please let him live. He cannot die. He must not die.
Alarm filled Vincent’s eyes, and a single tear coursed down his cheek. “Don’t cry,” he murmured. “Please don’t cry.”
I wiped his tears, then mine, with the edge of my shawl. “Don’t you worry about me,” I said and tried to smile. I pulled the chair close and sat down again, clasping his hand to my heart. “You must fight, Vincent. Promise me you’ll fight.” His answering nod was weak, but it was there. Dr. Rey appeared then and signaled it was time to leave. “I have to go. The doctor is here.”
I stood, and he clung to my hand with sudden vigor. “Don’t leave me.”
“Dearest, I must, but I’ll come back.” I pressed my lips to his forehead. “I love you.” Releasing his hand, I passed through the white curtains, pulling them together behind me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Recovery
When I left him, he was very sad, and I was sorry I could do nothing to make his situation more bearable.
—Reverend Mr. Salles to Theo,
Ares, 31 December 1888
I
tried to keep my promise to Vincent, that I would return to the Hôtel-Dieu. But when Françoise and I arrived the following afternoon, the gate porter denied us entry with an apologetic “No visitors on Sunday.” Then Monday, although he readily let us pass, the nun posted at the entrance to the men’s ward sent us away. The same nun had helped us before and had taken us to Dr. Rey’s office, but that afternoon found her stern and rude. Françoise refused to give up and insisted we wanted to see the doctor. Dr. Rey was busy in surgery and was not available, we were told. No, we could not speak to someone else. No, the Sister could not take us to see Monsieur van Gogh. No, she would not deliver a note.
I wanted to cry as we walked across the courtyard and into the street. “We have to try again tomorrow—we have to. I promised him I’d come. I don’t understand.”
“Uptight virgin nuns,” Françoise was muttering, when Joseph Roulin walked toward us with long-legged strides. He greeted us and asked if we’d been to the hospital, and Françoise told him what had happened.
“They won’t let me see him either,” Roulin said. “Dr. Rey has been reporting to me, though, and so has Reverend Salles. I’ve been keeping Vincent’s brother in Paris and his sister in Holland informed of his condition best as I can.”
“Dr. Rey did let Rachel see him Saturday,” Françoise said and nudged me.
“Vraiment? Was he still in the isolation room?”
“No, Dr. Rey had moved him to the main ward,” I replied. “He was weak, and he’d been given a sedative. I wasn’t allowed to stay long, but I spoke to him for a few minutes.”
Roulin nodded approvingly. “That must have boosted his spirits! Listen, a group of us are meeting today at the Café de la Gare—my wife, myself, Joseph and Marie Ginoux—to talk about what we can do to help Vincent. Why don’t you come?”
It was one thing to go to the pastorale with the Roulins when Vincent was with me, but another completely to meet them at the café. “I’m not sure that’s a good—”
“Do come. My wife will be glad to see you. We’re meeting at five.” Françoise nudged me again, and I agreed. “The editors of Le Forum Républicain ought to be thankful I’m not paying them a visit today, but we’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Roulin added with a scowl.
Françoise shot Roulin a warning look. “What’s this about Le Forum Républicain?” I asked. “Françoise?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Let’s get you home, it’s cold. Salut, Joseph.”
I held my tongue until we reached the maison, where, against Françoise’s protests, I dove into a pile of old newspapers in Madame Virginie’s parlor. “Rachel, I told you, it’s nothing. Forget what Joseph said, it’s just a—”
There it was. In the Sunday Forum Républicain, glaring at me in black and white the way it’d glared at everybody else in town. I sank into a chair by the fireplace, the words swimming before my eyes.
LE FORUM RÉPUBLICAIN
Dimanche, 30 Décembre 1888
Chronique locale
Last Sunday at 11:30 pm, one Vincent Vangogh, painter of Dutch origin, presented himself at the maison de tolérance no. 1, asked for one Rachel and gave her his ear, saying “Guard this object very carefully.” Then he disappeared.
“Those bastards,” Françoise said with a scowl that mirrored Roulin’s. “I tried to keep it from you. I didn’t want you to see.”
I forced myself to keep reading. The article said the police went to Vincent’s house, and he was in the hospital—that was all, but it was enough. I should have guessed that night couldn’t be kept a secret; I should have guessed the writers of Le Forum Républicain would enjoy printing such a gruesome tale. More evidence of how Arles was infected with a moral plague, one more reason for the good citizens to shake their heads in dismay. I could imagine the chatter over the breakfast table, the gasps of horror and disbelief. Or, God forbid, the laughter, the firm conviction that the crazy foreigner and the filthy whore had gotten exactly what they deserved.
“Vincent must not see this,” I said. “He must n
ot know. Mon Dieu, how will everyone treat him now?”
Françoise snatched the newspaper from my hand. “They didn’t even get it right. That’s not what he said.”
“You think they care about getting it right? Oh, that’s why the Sister at the hospital wouldn’t let us in. She knows the whole story, everybody does!”
“You can’t let this rattle you, or you’ll make yourself sick again. You’re going to meet Joseph and the others later, and you’re going to help Vincent. Forget this nonsense.” Françoise gave the pages a stern shake before tossing them into the fire.
“I can’t go to the café. Who I am is right there for everybody to see! Madame Roulin…” She’d been so kind to me at the pastorale, where she’d treated me like any decent young lady. I couldn’t bear to think of her snubbing me, as she surely would. As she had every right to do.
“Who cares what she thinks? Besides, if Joseph thought you shouldn’t be around his wife”—Françoise’s frown deepened at the word—“he wouldn’t have invited you. You have to go. For Vincent.”
I watched Le Forum Républicain curl in the fire and collapse into ashes. If only every copy could disappear so easily. “For Vincent. You’re right.”
“Now, I have some news that should cheer you up,” Françoise said and perched herself on the settee. “I got Dr. Dupin to tell Madame Virginie you can’t entertain anybody for at least a month, until your body heals and you’ve gotten over the shock.” She looked positively smug, and I knew what she must have done. That old man! “And since you won’t be earning any money, I want to share some of my wages with you.”
“Françoise, thank you, but I can’t do that. I can’t take your money.”
“Yes, you can. Out there folks don’t understand, but in here, we girls have to help each other.” She winked at me. “I went to a lot of trouble for you, you best take it. You’ll need it.”
The clock struck five as I walked through the door of the Café de la Gare, and Joseph Roulin waved from a corner table. Monsieur and Madame Ginoux were already there, along with Madame Roulin, and my stomach fluttered as I approached them. Would Madame Roulin look at me differently, the way ladies always looked at me? Get up and leave? But she surprised me, rising to kiss me on both cheeks, insisting I sit next to her. Maybe she didn’t know who I was after all. Maybe Roulin—and Vincent, when she’d visited him—had hidden it from her. Maybe she didn’t read the newspaper.
“My husband said Dr. Rey let you see Vincent,” she said. “He was glad to see you?” Her smile was as friendly as the night of the pastorale, her eyes as gentle.
Before I could answer, Monsieur Roulin called, “Reverend Salles! Over here!” and an old man in a black suit hurried from the door. I wanted to crawl under the table—Roulin hadn’t said anything about the preacher coming! He apologized for his lateness as he took a seat and greeted everyone. To me he said bonjour politely, studying my face until I squirmed in my chair. “What news, Reverend?” Roulin asked as Madame Ginoux brought coffee.
“It’s truly miraculous,” Reverend Salles said, still huffing and puffing. “When I last saw Vincent, he was lethargic, barely able to speak, but today he was perfectly calm and coherent. He was sitting up in bed and reading when I arrived.” Madame Roulin patted my hand, and I smiled into my coffee. Merci, mon Dieu.
“Splendid!” Roulin exclaimed. “So he’ll come home soon?”
The Reverend frowned. “I don’t know. They’ve put him back in the isolation room.”
Gasps of alarm came from around the table, and Roulin demanded, “Why the hell would they do that? Apologies, Reverend, ladies.” Reverend Salles sounded worried as he explained that he’d spoken to two different doctors—not Dr. Rey, unfortunately—and neither had given him a satisfactory answer. Despite Vincent’s improvement, the hospital administrators felt he should be transferred to an asylum, perhaps in Aix or Marseille. A report had already been sent to the mayor requesting the transfer. The mayor would lead an inquiry, the results would go to the prefect, and depending on what the prefect said, Vincent could be moved within a week.
“That’s outrageous!” Roulin thundered, and everyone started talking at once. Everyone but me. An asylum. An asylum lay just beyond Saint-Rémy, out the road to Les Baux, in the shadow of the mountains. A maison de santé, the notices called it, as if it had simply been a place for a long rest, but everybody knew the high walls hid the insane, the aliénés, and any number of frightening secrets. Some villagers swore ghosts roamed the fields around the asylum at night, and a favorite dare of local boys was to try and find out. Papa always said that was ignorant nonsense, but he steered clear as much as anyone and warned me to do the same. And the doctors wanted to send Vincent to a place like that? No matter what he’d done to himself, he wasn’t mad. I knew it.
“Maybe we’d be better off,” Monsieur Ginoux muttered under his breath. At the surprised look from his wife, he cleared his throat and said more distinctly, “Maybe he’d be better off. In Aix or Marseille.”
“How can you say that?” Madame Ginoux asked. “When he’s been a good friend to us?”
Monsieur Ginoux looked uncomfortable. “In Aix he’d be in a hospital where he could be well taken care of. He’d recover faster.”
“Nothing could do Vincent more good than to get back to his paintings and his friends,” Roulin declared, and everyone but Monsieur Ginoux nodded in agreement. I was as puzzled as Madame Ginoux—I’d heard what he’d said too. But why? Because Vincent and Gauguin had painted portraits of his wife? Was he still angry because Vincent had painted an ugly picture of his café?
“What does Vincent’s brother say?” I asked timidly.
Reverend Salles looked at me, and his voice was kind. “If the ruling is made that Vincent must go to the asylum, there isn’t much Monsieur van Gogh can do, unless he takes Vincent back to Paris. He is most anxious and hopes for Vincent’s recovery as much as we do.” He sighed. “Vincent asked me to write his brother about coming for another visit, but given Monsieur van Gogh’s busy work schedule, I do not think it will happen.”
His brother nearly dead in the hospital, and Theo came to Arles for only one day. Now Vincent was in danger of being sent to an asylum, and Theo wouldn’t return to help? He had more power than the rest of us; he was family. Was he so frightened that he felt it best to stay away? Did he believe there was no hope?
“Does Vincent know what they’re planning?” Madame Roulin asked.
“I think he’s guessed. Even though he was calm, he was also very cross about his situation, and said several times he wanted to go home. I am concerned he may work himself into another crise, he is so indignant.”
Roulin pounded the table with his fist. “I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow and demand he be let out of that isolation room, because for damn sure it’s not fair, those damn bourgeois doctors! Apologies, Reverend, ladies.”
“I’ll join you,” the Reverend said. “Perhaps Dr. Rey can help us persuade the other doctors. He seems a sensible man, and he knows Vincent’s condition best.”
Madame Roulin shook her head. “Just when you say Vincent is getting better!”
“We must not lose heart, no matter how bleak things seem,” Reverend Salles said. “All things work for the good, and we must have faith that God will look after our friend.”
Roulin’s reply was quiet but determined. “If God won’t, we will.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Return to the Yellow House
I am happy to inform you that my predictions have been realized, and that the overexcitement has been only temporary.
—Dr. Félix Rey to Theo, Arles, 2 January 1889
T
he new year dawned. Vincent was still in the Arles hospital, still not fully recovered, but together, Monsieur Roulin, Reverend Salles, and Dr. Rey stopped his transfer to an asylum. He was even moved from the isolation room back to the main ward. Visitors were not permitted except for Reverend Salles—Dr. Rey could not change his sup
eriors’ minds about that—but Roulin faithfully got reports of Vincent’s condition and faithfully sent news along to me. Each short message, telling me that Vincent had walked for an hour in the hospital courtyard that day, or that his appetite had returned, convinced me my prayers had been answered.
Two weeks after Vincent’s collapse, Françoise appeared at my door with another message. “Rachel, Joseph’s outside and says he has a delivery for you.”
The sly twinkle in her eyes had me grabbing my shawl and running downstairs in a flash. I hoped for a letter from Vincent, a real letter in his own hand telling me he was all right, but it was something much better. Outside on the sidewalk, Vincent himself stood beside Roulin, wrapped in his green overcoat, a fur hat pulled low to conceal his bandage.
I wanted to throw my arms around his neck, cover his face with kisses, clutch him to me and never let go. But the fear of hurting him held me back, and I could only gasp, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m going home for a while.” His voice was stronger than that day in the hospital. He sounded like himself again. “Then I must return to the Hôtel-Dieu.”
“I had a long talk with Dr. Rey and one of the other doctors yesterday,” Roulin said, “and I told them my friend Vincent MUST be allowed to see his paintings.” He delivered this pronouncement with a stern nod, beard wagging emphatically.
“I thought you might like to join us,” Vincent said. He tilted his head and added with a smile, “I won’t break. I’m no ceramic santon, although I could probably use a papier-mâché ear.”
Roulin discreetly turned his back, and I flung myself into Vincent’s waiting arms. How thin he was. I could feel it even through the wool overcoat, and when I looked up into his face I saw that his cheeks were sunken. Porridge and broth, that’s probably all they gave him in the Hôtel-Dieu; he needed a good home-cooked meal, somebody besides nuns and doctors caring for him.
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