Sunflowers

by Sheramy Bundrick

  “What happened to Monsieur Vincent?”

  She dropped her voice so the other customers couldn’t hear. “He died, Madame, upstairs in his room. Shot himself in the wheatfields behind the chateau. How he got himself back here we don’t know, but he did, and Papa sent Monsieur Hirschig for the doctor.”

  “Dr. Gachet.”

  She looked surprised I knew the name. “No, the village doctor, Dr. Mazery. But he’d gone to Pontoise to see a patient, so instead Monsieur Hirschig fetched Dr. Gachet. Dr. Mazery came later.” She dropped her voice even lower. “I heard them arguing about what could be done for Monsieur Vincent. Dr. Gachet said it was hopeless, bandaged Monsieur Vincent’s wound, and went home. He didn’t come again until after Monsieur Vincent died, then he took many of the paintings away.”

  “What do you mean, took them?”

  “Monsieur Vincent’s brother came from Paris to be with him—a nice man too, such sad eyes you never did see—and after Monsieur Vincent passed on, he said we could choose paintings to have. Papa didn’t want to be greedy and said he was content with the two Monsieur Vincent gave our family. He said Monsieur Vincent’s brother should have the other paintings. But Dr. Gachet and his son wrapped up a whole parcel of them, after the funeral when Monsieur Vincent hadn’t been an hour in the ground.”

  The girl’s frown told me exactly what she thought of that, and resentment rose in me as well. If Dr. Gachet had wanted Vincent’s paintings so much, why hadn’t he paid for them when Vincent had been alive, when he’d known Vincent’s circumstances and known the money would have been welcome? Would things have been different if he had?

  “Did Mademoiselle Gachet come too?” I asked.

  The girl took my empty teacup and shook her head. “They say she seldom leaves the house. Alors, it’s a strange family. They’re not from here, they’re from the city. Would you like another?” This time she brought not only a fresh cup of tea but a crusty brioche as well. “Forgive me if I’m being impertinent, Madame, but”—she hesitated again—“are you a friend of Monsieur Vincent’s? He told Papa he’d been in the Midi, and you have a southern accent.”

  I tried not to sound too sad as I replied, “Yes, I am.”

  “Were you his sweetheart?” I nodded, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Madame, I’ve been going on and on—”

  “Ce n’est pas grave, Mademoiselle,” I told her with a smile. “I wanted to know what happened. That’s why I came.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. “Monsieur Vincent never told us he had a sweetheart. I’m so sorry, Madame.”

  “Thank you,” I said gently. “Thank you, too, for being so kind to him. He said nice things about your family in his letters.” That made her smile. “May I ask, Mademoiselle, do you know anything about why he…did what he did?”

  She wiped her eyes with her apron. “No, Madame, he seemed satisfied to be here. He did keep to himself, but we never imagined he was unhappy. It was the shock of our lives when he…” She paused, then asked in a quiet voice, “You’ve come to see him?”

  I could only nod.

  “If you turn right at the end of our building, you’ll see the Rue de la Sansonne. Take that and go up the stairs in front of you. The road winds up the hill through the quartier de l’église, then you go up more steps to the church. The cemetery is a short ways past.”

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle. What is your name?”

  “Adeline Ravoux, Madame. And I’m truly sorry. He was a good man.”

  Mademoiselle Ravoux scurried into the auberge at the sound of her mother’s voice calling her name. I left some centimes on the table, then started down the road, making the turn she’d indicated. The narrow Rue de la Sansonne led uphill past a manor house, and I wondered how many Parisians kept country houses here. Dr. Gachet must have been one of them—another day, another time, I might have asked Mademoiselle Ravoux where he lived. I might have stormed through the door and confronted him, railed at him for not taking care of Vincent like he should have. But not today. Even Marguerite Gachet, who’d filled me with such jealousy when I’d first read Vincent’s letters, meant nothing to me now.

  The tidy whitewashed cottages along the road with their colorful flowerboxes, the fresh country air that cleansed the lungs, made it easy to see why Vincent had liked Auvers. I caught glimpses of rolling hills in the distance, mist clinging to them even this late in the morning. Down there somewhere lay the Oise, surely a more peaceful river than the Rhône, hosting Sunday pleasure boats instead of Marseille-bound coal barges. Something lovely everywhere you looked—Vincent never would have run out of subjects for pictures. Even in his last letter, he’d said he’d asked Theo for more paints. He hadn’t planned to die, I was sure of it.

  Ahead lay the stairs leading to the church. It was very old, the church, at least as old as Saint-Trophime but not so large, with thick stone walls and a sturdy bell tower. I walked around the back but couldn’t find the cemetery. Mademoiselle Ravoux had said it was a little ways past, but which way? The nearest path led further uphill through a thicket of trees. Lifting my skirts in my hands, I started up it, and when I did, the church bells startled me with bold rings calling across the valley, ten of them altogether following me as I climbed over the stones.

  I emerged from the shadow of the trees to a plateau covered with wheatfields. When Vincent arrived in May, this wheat would have been young and green. He would have watched it ripen over his time here until it had turned richly gold, as gold as in the painting Theo had shown me. Now the harvest was over. The reapers had done their work, and the bundled sheaves of grain resembled women in yellow dresses, dancing gracefully under the blue expanse of sky.

  Something told me to keep climbing into the very midst of the fields, and at the summit of the plateau, I came to a crossroads. The crossroads from Vincent’s painting.

  He had walked the same path, canvas and easel strapped to his back, face hidden by his straw hat. He set up his easel where I stood, saw the crossroads as I saw it. He sat on his folding stool and touched brush to canvas, hands smeared with blue and yellow paint. Once in a while he stopped to look around, tilted his head, pulled off his hat to run his fingers absently through his hair. He nodded and smiled when he saw what needed to be done next and returned to his work.

  The vision in my head was more real than anything I’d felt since the day he died, so real that I expected him to turn and find me. But today no crows swarmed overhead. The sky was free of storms, and the sun caressed the earth like a lover. A beautiful day. A day made for him.

  With no sound around me but the whispering wind, I felt drawn to something larger than myself, something Vincent would have called infinity. I pulled the pins from my hair to let them fall to the ground, let my hair tumble down my back. I closed my eyes and stretched out my arms to whirl round and round in a circle like a child might do—faster, faster—letting dizziness carry me, the sweet smell of harvested wheat envelop me. Shards of golden yellow pricked my eyelids, and in those spinning seconds I wanted to embrace the sun itself.

  I am not alone. I am not alone.

  I opened my eyes to find myself facing the stone walls of the cemetery at the end of the road. I could still leave, I thought as the giddy feeling drained from me, I could still turn back. Away from Auvers-sur-Oise—far away, if need be—I could pretend he had not truly gone, that it was all a dream from which I would someday wake to find him lying beside me.

  I stood there at my own crossroads, and I let the wind tell me which way to go. There was no leaving. Vincent was waiting for me, at summer’s end like he promised. There was no turning back.

  Ici repose Vincent van Gogh, 1853–1890.

  In the cemetery I knelt before the newly carved headstone, the freshly turned earth, and I covered my face with my hands. Thirty-seven years. Hundreds of pictures he’d made, but how many remained unpainted? How many days and nights together remained unlived, how many words would always be unsaid? Images darted through my mind, on
e after the next: his loving eyes in Tarascon, his pale face in the hospital, the touch of his hand when all was brightness and light, his smile under the stars. The sunflowers. His eternal sunflowers.

  Piercing the silence like a messenger, a crow called, then called again. Shaken from my grief, I gazed at the sky, but I saw nothing except swirling clouds.

  I know you are here.

  I feel your presence, as warm and real as if you are sitting beside me. The wind lifts my hair and strokes my cheek like you used to do, so softly, so gently. I whisper your name, and I know you can hear me. If I reach out my hand, I imagine you will touch me.

  Mon cher, I have come too late, how I wish I’d been there to hold your hand and soothe you to sleep. Thank God Theo was with you so you would not be afraid, so the last thing you’d see would be a face filled with love.

  To lose you like I’d lost everyone was too much for me, and I thought of joining you. I came so close, but something stopped me. Something made me throw the laudanum into the river, something told me it’s not my time. I know the voice murmuring in my ear was yours. Even in death you still speak to me.

  I came here to try and understand, I came here looking for answers. Maybe I haven’t found them—maybe I never will—but this quiet place under the sun makes me believe that whatever drove you to take your life, you are at peace. Your sadness will not last forever. Your sadness is gone, and even now you walk these fields with your brush poised to capture all you see. I know it. I feel it.

  I kiss my hand to you, my love, as I did that day when you boarded the train and I saw you for the last time in this life. I press my hand to my heart and say to you not good-bye but au revoir. I will see you again.

  Wait for me.

  Author’s Note

  S

  urviving historical sources reveal next to nothing of the real Rachel. The brief article about van Gogh’s breakdown in the 30 December 1888 edition of Le Forum Républicain (included in Chapter 15 in partial translation) provides her first name, occupation, and address, and identifies her as the girl Vincent asked for at the brothel, then presented with the fragment of his ear. A brief notice in another news clipping (see Bailey 2005 in Further Reading) calls her only “a café girl,” while in a letter to artist Émile Bernard not long after that night, Paul Gauguin mentions “a wretched girl.” (Gauguin’s account in his 1903 autobiography, Avant et Après, changes the story to have Vincent give the packet to “the man on duty.”) An Arlesian police officer named Alphonse Robert, recounting in 1929 what had happened, stated a prostitute known as Gaby gave him the ear and said Vincent “had made them a present” however, it is not clear whether Robert meant “Gaby” was the same girl to whom Vincent actually gave the ear. Robert’s account does give the name of the brothel’s madam (Virginie), recently verified by Martin Bailey as Virginie Chabaud (Bailey 2005, p. 36). The city’s files on brothels from 1871–1891 are sealed until 2042, so if records provide Rachel’s last name (or real name, if she was using a pseudonym), age, etc., scholars have not examined them.

  In his letters, the historical Vincent says little about his visits to what he called “the street of the good little women” and gives the names of none of the girls. One of his few references to the “ear incident” comes in a letter to Theo of ca. 3 February 1889 (LT 576), when he says, “Yesterday I went to see the girl I had gone to when I was out of my wits,” in other words Rachel, presumably to apologize. He adds, “She had been upset by it and had fainted but had recovered her calm.” That Rachel not surprisingly fainted at receiving van Gogh’s “gift” is further attested in Gauguin’s letter to Bernard.

  This novel was born from the question, Who was Rachel? To have asked for her that night, Vincent must have known her, but how well? Had he just been another customer, had she just been another prostitute—or not? I imagined a relationship on the premise that if there had been something between the historical Rachel and historical van Gogh, Vincent would have likely kept it secret from Theo, fearing disapproval after the disastrous affair with Sien Hoornik.

  I have tried to faithfully situate the fictional story of Rachel within the historical framework of the last two years of van Gogh’s life. I have remained largely true to the chronology of Vincent’s paintings and to events that took place at Arles, Saint-Rémy, and Auvers-sur-Oise. I have also tried to remain faithful to the historical Vincent’s personality as I have interpreted it from his letters, artworks, and other archival sources. Such events as the number and length of Vincent’s attacks between December 1888 and May 1890, the petition of the Arles townspeople, his arrest by the police, and, of course, the “ear incident” are historical actualities, although I have viewed them through a novelist’s lens.

  A few exceptions exist with regards to chronological accuracy. Joseph Roulin was transferred to Marseille in late January 1889, his family following him a few months later; I keep them in Arles until August for dramatic convenience. Van Gogh’s visit to the pastorale at the Folies Arlésiennes took place in January 1889, not December 1888, and he would not have attended with Joseph Roulin, who had already left for Marseille. I likewise moved van Gogh and Gauguin’s visit to Montpellier up by a few weeks; their trip seems to have actually taken place on December 16 or 17, only a week before Vincent’s breakdown.

  Most characters are inspired by real people, with the following exceptions: Françoise, Jacqui, and the other girls of the maison (but not Madame Virginie, the true patronne of No. 1, Rue du Bout d’Arles); Raoul the bouncer; old Dr. Dupin; Madame Fouillet in Paris; and assorted nameless characters. Bernard Soulé, Marguerite Favier, and Joseph Ginoux were indeed among those who’d signed the petition against Vincent, as highlighted recently in Martin Gayford’s book, The Yellow House (see Further Reading).

  The letters Vincent writes Rachel in the novel are my creations, although readers familiar with the historical van Gogh’s letters will notice I borrowed phrases here and there for verisimilitude. The letter from Theo that Rachel reads in Chapter 32 is the only letter I have used word-for-word from an original: letter T31 from the current standard English translation, dated 29 March 1890. The quotes that open chapters are from surviving letters and documents.

  As for the “ear incident,” accounts differ as to what actually happened. Gauguin’s version as written in Avant et Après is thought by many to be exaggerated: he speaks, for example, of Vincent charging at him with a razor in the darkened Place Lamartine, when he does not in earlier descriptions of that night. I have avoided using Gauguin’s account for that reason, although I did use his version of what Vincent says to Rachel (“You will remember me”) rather than the less romantic line recounted in Le Forum Républicain (“Keep this object carefully”). Martin Bailey, in his 2005 article (see Further Reading), postulates on good evidence that Gauguin and Vincent learned of Theo’s engagement to Johanna Bonger the morning of 23 December, and that it might have pushed Vincent over the edge.

  What was “wrong” with Vincent van Gogh? Many theories exist, ranging from a form of epilepsy (the diagnosis favored by his own doctors), lead poisoning from his paints, a strain of syphilis (unproven for him but definite in Theo van Gogh’s case), absinthe poisoning, and so on. Martin Gayford makes a good case for bipolar disorder in his 2006 book, a diagnosis shared by Dr. Jean-Marc Boulon, current director of the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole in Saint-Rémy. I discussed van Gogh’s symptoms and circumstances with Dr. Susan Toler, professor of psychology at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, and she also arrived at a bipolar disorder diagnosis. In the novel, Dr. Félix Rey makes a connection between Vincent’s attacks and events in his relationship with Theo, although historically there is no evidence he did so; I did this for the reader’s benefit, since now many do see a connection. The emotional trigger I created for Vincent’s first relapse in February 1889 is, of course, fictional.

  The work of many art historians, art critics, and scholars in other fields has proven invaluable. The reader is encouraged to
look at the partial bibliography provided in Further Reading, but I would like to single out here the scholarship of Martin Bailey, Anne Distel and Susan Alyson Stein, Douglas Druick and Peter Kort Zegers, Martin Gayford, Jan Hulsker, Leo Jansen, Hans Luijten, Ronald Pickvance, Debora Silverman, Judy Sund, Bogomila Welsh-Ovcharov, and Carol Zemel as especially helpful. I eagerly anticipate the newest edition of van Gogh’s correspondence, to be issued by the Van Gogh Museum in 2009, the culmination of fifteen years’ work by the Van Gogh Letters Project.

  Acknowledgments

  M

  y story of Sunflowers began in May 2006 where Rachel’s ends: at Auvers-sur-Oise, with a quiet walk in the wheatfields and solitary moments at Vincent’s grave. At first my scribbled musings were just that, thoughts on a page, until slowly they became something more. The journey would take me through van Gogh’s letters and paintings, up to the Netherlands, down to Provence on a crowded train, and back to Auvers-sur-Oise–a journey of heart, mind, and pen.

  So many people helped make this book possible. First, my family: my mother, Janie Bundrick, who has always encouraged me to be creative and take risks, and who acts as my cheerleader when I need it; my sister Chantel DiMuzio, herself a beautiful writer, who faithfully read every sentence of every draft and provided important feedback; my father, Wyman Bundrick, for his love and support; my brother-in-law, Adam DiMuzio, for making me laugh; and my nephew Anthony, our little ray of sunshine, born during the writing of this book. I’d paint him a picture of flowering almond tree branches against a crystal blue sky if I could.

  To friends and colleagues who read drafts or part of drafts and gave me essential input, thank you so much: Jennifer Palinkas, Anne Jeffrey, Susan Toler, Patrice Boyer, Laura Wingfield, and Julianne Douglas. Special thanks to Dr. Susan Toler for all the discussions about Vincent’s psychological landscape. To other friends who knew what I was up to and supported me—too many to name—many mercis. Kudos to the wonderful library staff at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg!