Finding Vincent

by Les Furnanz

  Her intelligence and poised impressed me. Her voice, movements, the glow of her hair made it hard to concentrate. I finished my notes, tried not to look too intently, and said, “I truly appreciate your insight on Vincent. Some of your experience is similar to mine. He also painted my portrait when I was seventeen. He made me look older, but I too appreciated how he captured my spirit. Unfortunately, my father sold that painting and the others of our family.”

  Adeline nodded understandably, and I continued. “Maybe some day I will obtain that portrait. Thank you again as Johanna will truly appreciate the information. Now I hope you have time for a break at a café. I’d love to learn more about this region. Are you free?”

  She looked at the clock and smiled, “Yes, that would work. I'll tell Father. I must be back within thirty minutes and he'll be free to talk.”

  When Adeline returned we walked across the square to the café and ordered some coffee and chocolate. “I can feel comfortable here, Armand,” she said. “Our two families know each other well. It is not common for a young man and woman to go to a café here. It is common in Paris, but not here. How about in Tunisia? Please tell me of your life there.”

  I told Adeline of the country, its people, and the challenge for a French military man to feel welcome. She listened closely and asked a few questions. Then I asked her about differences living here in Meulan and the village of Auvers.

  “It's like night and day,” she smiled. “It is busy here; look at this square. In Auvers the village melds right into the countryside, beautiful and peaceful. But I prefer Meulan. My father moved us here to have a bigger restaurant with more business.”

  “It seems he is doing well,” I responded. “I have a question regarding my travel tomorrow, Adeline. I must go to Pontoise to find Dr. Gachet. He moved there from Auvers. He was attending to Vincent when he died at your inn. Afterwards I would like to visit your home village of Auvers. Do you have recommendations for the trip?”

  “Yes, there is an early morning train that takes you from Meulan to Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, where you transfer to a train to Pontoise. That trip takes one hour. I myself will be going to Auvers later tomorrow, passing through Pontoise. I’ll go to our old auberge to arrange some details for Father with the current owner, Mr. Leleu. I could meet you at the Pontoise train station, and we could continue to Auvers. That train takes fifteen minutes. I could show you the village and the auberge. Then you could return to Paris and I'd return home,” she smiled.

  I was enthralled to have met Adeline, and now I was being invited to spend more time with her. “That would be wonderful. I will appreciate your help - and I can see you another day!”

  She grinned at me. Somehow I managed to remember my mission for Johanna, then asked, “Do you have any advice for how to best approach Dr. Gachet? It could be difficult to get him to talk about Vincent and his art.”

  She paused, then responded, “He is always in control. Take the time to fully explain Johanna and her purposes. Only if he feels comfortable with that, will he open up and talk with you.”

  I nodded and was again amazed by her insight and maturity.

  Adeline Ravoux, 1890, Private Collection

  Eight

  Saturday, June 15

  On our return to the brasserie, Adeline introduced me to her father. Arthur-Gustave Ravoux was a hefty man with round face and bushy mustache. I explained my mission for Johanna and Adeline summarized what she had told me. She mentioned that she would guide me in Auvers the next day. Arthur nodded kindly, and Adeline went into the inn and waved with a smile from the doorway.

  Mr. Ravoux offered, “I will help you with Johanna's mission as best I can. I remember Vincent so well. Let’s sit here at one of my tables on the square.”

  When we'd settled, he continued. “Vincent’s suicide and death at our Auvers boarding house was a major event and very sad. For the first two months that he stayed with us, he seemed happy and motivated. Adeline has told you his daily schedule. He so loved to play with our one-year-old daughter. When he found someone for a portrait he was overjoyed. Vincent completed a painting each day. He filled my storage area with his canvases: scenes from our village and countryside, the church, homes, gardens, and portraits. His mood seemed to change a bit before his suicide. I remember seeing an eerie landscape with a dark sky and many crows. But no one expected what occurred.”

  Arthur paused. “It was a Sunday and Vincent had missed dinner. He had never been late. He finally showed up at dark, bent over, holding his stomach. My wife asked if there was a problem. He responded, “No,” and slowly climbed the stairs to his room. I could see he was in pain, so I followed and found him moaning in bed. “I have tried to kill myself,” he blurted. I rushed to another boarder and asked him to find our physician. He was gone, so the man went to Dr. Gachet, who lived nearby in Auvers. He was actually Vincent's homeopath who treated using herbs and potions. Vincent had once commented that Dr. Gachet was as much in need of care as himself, as he was also a painter.”

  “It was very late when Dr. Gachet arrived. He dressed Vincent’s gunshot wound, not saying a single word. He soon left because he judged Vincent’s situation as hopeless. I was very surprised by his silence and quick departure, and he never returned.”

  Arthur had difficulty talking, then finally continued: “I stayed up all night with Vincent, as did the boarder who fetched Gachet. Vincent asked me to light his pipe. He smoked for a while and moaned from time to time. He said he took the gun after lunch to where he had painted on the previous day, near a chateau and field. He fainted when he shot himself and woke up much later. He searched for the gun to finish the job, but didn't find it. Somehow he managed to walk back to our inn. He didn't tell me why he shot himself. I suspect he felt that he was a financial drain on Theo who had a new son. Perhaps he also felt unwanted, unneeded, and lonely. Only a few days earlier he had visited Theo in Paris and had seemed depressed when he returned.”

  “How long did Vincent live? I asked.

  “He lasted well into the next night. That first morning I sent an early telegram to Theo. I remembered that he worked in a gallery in Paris. Theo arrived in the early afternoon and stayed with Vincent until he passed away about twelve hours later. I left them to be alone. Vincent revived somewhat on seeing Theo, but soon passed into a coma.”

  Arthur paused, then breathed deeply. “You know, I never again rented Vincent’s room at our inn. Theo arranged for the burial two days later. He and I made a declaration of death at the town hall. I offered our large room for the coffin. Theo displayed Vincent’s palette and brushes and several of his paintings, including the Auvers church and Daubigny Garden. Many of Vincent’s friends and neighbors attended. Theo offered paintings to the guests in his memory. Only a few people accepted. I took none because Vincent had already given us two paintings. However, Dr. Gachet gathered as many canvases as he and his son Paul could carry, perhaps fifteen or twenty. I’ll never forget that. Please make sure Johanna knows.”

  “I will. Did Theo take the remainder of Vincent’s works back to Paris?”

  “Of course. I never saw Theo after the day of the funeral, but will never forget his grief. Theo passed away six months later. Johanna has had much to bear.”

  When Arthur's voice trailed off, I nodded and said: “Johanna will very much appreciate your insight on Vincent's death. I would appreciate what you remember of his painting.”

  “Yes, Vincent asked if he could do a portrait of Adeline in return for a slight rent reduction. I agreed, for I liked the portrait he did of Dr. Gachet’s daughter. I'm sure my daughter proudly showed you her portrait and the Auvers town hall.”

  I nodded as my thoughts returned to Adeline.

  Then Arthur described all of Vincent's works that he could remember. He recounted several landscapes and town scenes. He detailed Vincent's portraits, including those of Dr. Gachet, his daughter, three neighbor women, and several self-portraits. Some were somber, but most were energetic. The most
somber portrait was of Dr. Gachet leaning on a table.

  I took copious notes and offered: “Thank you for taking the time to recall so many of Vincent's paintings. Johanna will much appreciate this. I have another question from her. Did you learn anything of the story behind Vincent's severed ear?”

  Ravoux shook his head, “No, Vincent was very quiet about his personal life and history. Other people guessed that he didn't do it himself, but I learned nothing.”

  “One last question. Do you recommend anything for my visit to Auvers tomorrow with Adeline?”

  “She will do a good job of showing you our inn, the room where Vincent stayed, the village, and the countryside where Vincent painted. She is the best guide you could have!” Arthur Ravoux shifted, then said, “Well, it is now time for me to get back to work. I wish you the best in helping Johanna's goal of preserving Vincent's art.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Ravoux,” I offered. Words didn't adequately express my appreciation.

  I stayed that evening at a nearby inn. As I completed my letter to Johanna, I reflected upon Arthur's obvious love for his family and Adeline, his touching recount of Vincent's death, and his true appreciation of the artist. My understanding of Vincent's sad life was growing.

  It was not long before my thoughts came back to Adeline. I tried to sleep, but I kept thinking of her smile, her personality, her beauty. The morning could not come soon enough.

  Nine

  Sunday, June 16

  Sleep evaded me until early morning, and I rose late and rushed to make the train. I dozed until the train stopped for the transfer at Conflans-Sainte-Honorine. When I arrived at Pontoise, I followed Rue Thier towards the cathedral tower in the medieval center. A local merchant directed me uphill along a lane to find Dr. Gachet's large home surrounded by a wall and garden. After negotiating the gate, pathway, and stairs, I knocked twice before the over-sized door inched open.

  “Yes?” asked a woman my age. She was plainly dressed and looked at me reticently. I guessed this was Marguerite, the doctor’s daughter, and introduced myself. I explained my mission for Johanna and requested to talk with her and her father regarding Vincent.

  “Our home is filled with his paintings. Not a day passes when we do not think of him. My father is fortunately here this morning. I will see if he will talk with you. Have a seat here in the parlor.”

  Long minutes passed before Dr. Gachet appeared at the door, stopped, stared, then slowly approached. “I understand that you’d like to question me about Vincent van Gogh. I don’t have much time and I’m not sure I want to answer your questions. Why should I?” He remained standing, waiting for a response.

  I rose out of courtesy and decided it would be presumptuous to extend my hand. After I had introduced myself and described my mission, I continued: “Johanna understands that you were Vincent’s friend and adviser when he lived here in Auvers. She has heard of your work as a doctor in helping patients realize their potentials. She understands that you helped him and that you appreciate his work. She is willing to share information on her collection and has requested to know about yours.”

  Dr. Gachet stared at me, shifted his balance, and then studied several of Vincent’s paintings hanging nearby. “Vincent is still a riddle in my life. I thought I had helped him get a stronghold, but then he took his life. It was disturbing – it’s still disturbing. There’s no doubt he was brilliant. His art captured the uniqueness of what he saw,” the doctor said emotionally.

  I waited several seconds. “How many of Vincent’s works do you have? Would you be willing to show them to me and allow me to make notes for Johanna?”

  “Yes, of course. Follow me. All of Vincent’s paintings are hanging here.”

  Somehow I had hit a chord; he was showing me his collection. We walked from room to room and Dr. Gachet copiously explained each painting as I jotted quick notes. The count neared forty with the majority being scenes from Auvers. A few of the paintings were of St. Remy, the asylum where Vincent had lived prior to Auvers. One of his favorite works was a scene from his garden with vibrant greens and blues executed with large brush strokes. Another painting of thatched cottages on a large canvas had rose, yellow, green, and blue strokes. The work that I most liked was the Auvers church with distorted scale, a dark sky, and a strolling peasant woman.

  Dr. Gachet talked longest about Vincent’s portraits of his daughter and himself. “Vincent had me sit and rest my head pensively on my hand. He painted me in an hour. He didn’t talk, just worked devotedly. When he finished I was astounded. He made me look like the saddest man living. He said he used the opportunity to show me sad, but gentle and intelligent. 'It's an expression of our time, a symbol,' he told me. At first I didn’t like it, but now I do. It certainly portrays a mood better than any painting I’ve seen. Vincent was his own man; he just painted.”

  He pointed to the garden scene with Marguerite. “It’s amazing how quickly Vincent painted this and captured the tranquility, highlighted by my daughter carrying a small bouquet. Vincent painted my daughter unbeknownst to me on successive days, and I could see that he had feelings for her. He also painted her playing the piano. I was forced to ask him to avoid seeing her.” He shook his head. “He was like a devil at times.” He turned his back to me and walked into the next room.

  Dr. Gachet now showed me several paintings by other artists that he knew. I had not heard of them, but took notes on works by Cézanne, Renoir, and Manet. He then pointed to a work by Pissarro, a man I would soon visit. “My true love is painting. Of all artists I have known, Vincent’s work best captures my heart and soul. I’m not sure why. His technique was not as well developed as many other artists. I'm a painter myself and I admit that I'm most inspired by his work. Let me show you.”

  I followed Dr. Gachet into an adjoining room where he proudly showed me his own creations. After I had politely expressed my appreciation and said that I would tell Johanna, we returned to the first room with Vincent's art.

  I used the opportunity to ask, “Would you be willing to consider sale of Vincent’s paintings to Johanna?”

  “No,” he shook his head strongly. “They mean too much to me. I knew him only three months, but he was like a brother and a son. We had our disagreements for sure. I’ve told you of his painting Marguerite, but somehow I related to him. His art uniquely captured people and places. Ah well, when I saw him the evening he shot himself I knew there was no hope for his survival. I was too overcome to say a proper goodbye. When Theo offered Vincent’s paintings to those of us who attended his funeral, I took advantage. Vincent lives on for me in his art. Theo asked me to write an article on Vincent’s work. I fully intended to do so, but never felt able to adequately express his prowess. Then Theo died soon after.” Dr. Gachet shook his head and I felt both his sorrow and guilt.

  I asked a diversionary question about the sequence of Vincent’s paintings. Dr. Gachet responded briefly and soon excused himself, saying he would send Marguerite. I thanked him graciously for Johanna's sake, and he nodded silently as he left. My mind raced over the complexity of his relationship with Vincent: doctor-patient, father-son, friend-friend, and father-daughter’s suitor.

  Marguerite returned to the parlor. “My father said you have some more questions?” I nodded and asked about Vincent’s most notable qualities and his painting.

  Marguerite paused, then walked across the room and sat across from me. “It is hard for me to talk about Vincent. He was his own man. He and my father would seem very close at times; but at other times I could sense their differences. Of course my father was the caring doctor, but there were times when it seemed Vincent would try to help my father…” her voice trailed off.

  “Can you tell me about his paintings?”

  “I see them daily on our walls and so admire them. Vincent was very different from other painters. I would have liked to know him better and understand him. I can't explain anything about his paintings or technique. He was so intense when he painted my p
ortraits. He did not say a word, and he worked quickly. Yet he captured my feelings at the time, especially my joy and serenity playing the piano. That was easy for me; I merely played a repertoire. And then when he painted my father, he incredibly captured the sadness.”

  I nodded and Marguerite continued, “Vincent was so like my father. Maybe that is why they had troubles at times. My father actually became jealous of the attention that Vincent showed me. That was crazy, but my father is very protective. When Vincent painted me on two successive days, my father prevented me from seeing him again. Can you imagine that? I think that Vincent was depressed to have my father tell him to stay away. I was only eighteen, but I could tell that Vincent liked me and I liked him. I admit that I still think of him. Every day I see his art. Ah, well, perhaps I will some day meet a man who my father does not spurn.”

  At her pause I used the opportunity to warmly express my thanks and excuse myself. As I walked back to the station I noted that Vincent truly lived on in Dr. Gachet’s house.

  The Church in Auvers, 1890, Musee d’Orsay, Paris

  Ten