by Les Furnanz
As we completed the tour Ambroise waved me to take a seat. “Please write a note for Johanna. Are you ready? I'll speak slowly. Write this: ‘Johanna, I do want to collaborate in some manner with you. We are both dealers in Vincent’s art, although with different purposes. Holland is Vincent’s homeland and is the best market for his works painted there. Similarly, France, his adopted home, is a good market for his works from Paris, Arles, and Auvers-sur-Oise. We are both working to increase the awareness of his talents. Let’s keep in touch. Please consider selling some works to me and I will consider selling to you. Best wishes in your efforts. Ambroise Vollard.’ Did you get that, Armand?”
“Your message is very clear, Mr. Vollard. I will give it to her as written. Do you want me to read it back to you?”
“That won't be necessary. Now I must get busy.”
“Your exposition is splendid, and we went through it so quickly. Would you mind if I stayed a bit longer and reviewed the works again?”
“All right, but I want you to call me just before you leave.” I nodded, knowing that he would confirm that all was in order before he bid me farewell. He retired behind the curtain and I turned again to the paintings.
All right, I congratulated myself, my approach worked. I learned from Adeline and applied the lesson well. As I toured the gallery and jotted notes, my eye again caught the humanity of Vincent's portraits. I admitted pride of my own portrait. Some day, I thought. Some day I must obtain this painting.
I called Ambroise and he returned and looked closely over his gallery. I thanked him and wished him the best. As he showed me to the door, I took the opportunity to inquire, “Mr. Vollard, Johanna has asked that I interview Paul Gauguin, who painted with Vincent in Arles. I understand that you are his art dealer. Do you have a recommendation on how to best approach him?”
Ambroise shook his head, “That man! He returned from Tahiti two years ago and became even more impossible. I make do with him. He will leave again soon for the islands, and I doubt he'll ever return. All I can suggest is to carefully ask low-key questions and listen patiently to his declarations. It's the only way to receive any information. Now it's time for you to go. Please be sure to give Johanna my message.”
Fourteen
Thursday, June 20
My hotel patron kindly drew a map to guide me to Paul Gauguin's address. I traversed the Seine at the Port Royale bridge and noted the bustling river traffic, then headed down Boulevard Raspail towards Gare Montparnasse. The Eiffel Tower loomed north as I crossed to Gauguin's apartment on rue Vercingetorix.
I knocked repeatedly and was ready to turn away when his bearded visage appeared in the doorway. He had clearly aged in the seven years since I’d seen him. “Yes?” he asked. He looked like he’d just risen, dressed in a rumpled Tahitian outfit.
“Monsieur Gauguin, you probably don’t remember me. I’m the son of Joseph Roulin, the postmaster you knew in Arles.” He snarled, and I continued, “The wife of Vincent’s brother, Johanna van Gogh, has asked me to gather information on Vincent’s art. She plans to open a public gallery in his honor and desires more knowledge of his works. She respects you and knows you collaborated with Vincent. Would you be willing to share what you know?”
He seemed ready to slam the door, so I added: “Johanna has heard nothing but good of your impact upon Vincent and she hears praises of your art. Since you will soon return to Tahiti, Johanna would greatly appreciate any information you can provide.”
He mulled over the situation, then fully opened the door as he gnarled: “Only to briefly discuss Vincent’s art and my own. Not a thing about him or our relationship. I did not like the man; you will be out immediately if you dare!”
I entered the drawing room and noted walls decorated with Tahitian costumes, masks, weapons, and his paintings. “Have a seat on this sofa,” he ordered crabbily. “Again, I’ll only answer questions in fact, no opinions. Be quick.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gauguin.” I settled in the chair; drew out my notepad; and calmed myself. “First, please describe Vincent’s paintings that you once owned, but have given away or sold.”
“That’s easy, as it was only recently that I discovered I could sell any of his work. In fact, my own art dealer here in Paris, Mr. Vollard, bought two works this year. They were a self-portrait that Vincent had done before I arrived in Arles, and a scene of two cut sunflowers. That’s it.”
“Thank you, and can you please tell me of Vincent’s works that you still own?”
“Two portraits. But it won’t be for long; I’ll sell them or give them away before I leave for Tahiti. One is a young Arles woman, titled La Mousme, sitting in the Japanese style. The other is a portrait of your mother, Madame Roulin, rocking the cradle with your baby sister.”
“Mr. Gauguin,” I blurted, “Can you give that last painting to me for my parents. I cannot pay you for it, but how could you sell such a painting?”
He shook his head and replied angrily: “I may sell it; I may not; I won’t give it to you or anyone in your family.”
It was hard to control my feelings. Finally I said, “Sorry for the interruption, sir. Can you please show me those paintings and I’ll take some quick notes.”
“They are both being displayed now at an exhibition at Mr. Vollard’s gallery. You can see them there!”
I reflected that I’d seen the paintings and responded calmly: “Thank you, I will. You sound mad.”
“It’s none of your business, young man. Vollard is my dealer, yet he opens his new gallery with a van Gogh exposition – the crazy van Gogh. Vollard himself is crazy. At least I’ll be shortly out of this Paris scene. My other dealers, Durand-Ruell and Schuffenecker, had the courtesy to exhibit my work in February. But with this city’s taste for art, it didn’t go well. I can’t wait to get back to Tahiti to live the natural life that encourages my painting. I am appreciated there for who I am and for what I do. I may even go to the Marqueses, the most primitive isles. There’s no stress, no pressure. Well, enough, enough, it’s none of your business.”
I realized that Gauguin was nearing his patience limit. I softly asked, “Can you tell me about any of your works or Vincent’s works that could interest Johanna? Please consider her developing role in Holland.”
Gauguin thought for a while and responded: “I only remember the works that Vincent did when I was in Arles, and not much of that. Johanna and Vollard know more than I. As for my work, my best pieces come from Tahiti, the nature and people of those islands. Please take a note of my paintings here on these walls and tell Johanna of their beauty. Ask her to mention me to those who are interested in real natural art. It is available with the dealers I mentioned.”
“Yes,” I said as I toured the works and saw the subdued colors, rustic feel, almost expressionless natives. It was so different from Vincent’s art, yet it told a unique story. I made some notes with the goal of helping Gauguin feel that he was appreciated.
“Mr. Gauguin, I thank you so much for Johanna’s sake. She will value this information and be glad to know your art is available here as you travel on. One last question, please tell me what you remember of Vincent's cutting his ....”
He interrupted, “That’s it, young man! I'm done! It’s time to move on.”
He walked to the door and motioned me to leave. I gathered my notes and quickly followed. “Again, I thank you, Mr. Gauguin, and wish you happiness and success.”
As I walked to the station, I mulled over the situation. I was fortunate to have interviewed this frustrated man. My business in Paris was finished. It had been difficult, but I had the information Johanna desired. However, she would never know the full story behind Vincent's ear.
As I waited for the train north to Meulan, I thought ahead happily to seeing Adeline again. Questions ran continuously through my mind. What is she doing now? How does she look? Is she more beautiful than ever?
Fifteen
Friday, June 21
The connecting train from Paris arr
ived in Meulan-en-Yvelines too late to visit Adeline. I settled into the nearby inn and wrote a letter to Johanna that summarized my visits to Ambroise Vollard and Paul Gauguin. She'd be glad to hear the news of Ambroise's paintings but disappointed to learn nothing new concerning Vincent's ear.
The next morning I knocked excitedly at the Ravoux's. When the door opened, Adeline rushed into my arms. We hugged and kissed before catching our breaths. “It's been too long; it's hard to go a whole day without you!,” I panted.
“Yes, Armand, it seemed like days. I know I love you. I told my parents you’d be visiting, and they have given me the morning. It’s free for us!,” she exclaimed as she hugged me tightly.
“Where can we go to have time by ourselves? Is there a park nearby?”
She nodded, “Yes, very close, just a few streets away.”
First, we saw Adeline’s parents and I thanked them for giving her a morning off. We strolled quickly toward the park with arms around waists. We talked little as we sensed our mutual need, and soon found an intimate glade surrounded by dense shrubbery.
“Oh, Armand,” she said, as I turned to her. We kissed frantically. My arms encircled her as she pressed the small of my back. I spread my coat on the damp grass and we lowered ourselves to the ground. We clung to each other frantically. I felt Adeline’s legs press tightly against mine as we intertwined. I caressed her breasts as she laid her head back and sighed strongly. As I started to lift her blouse, she suddenly bolted upright and rose quickly.
“No, Armand, no, we must wait. I can’t do this. I want to, but I can’t.” Adeline cried softly, her eyes aglow with tears. She looked away and murmured, “I can’t. You must understand. We must wait.”
I had been so en-wrapped in sexual intensity that it took a moment to realize what she'd said. I clumsily hugged her. “I’m sorry Adeline. You can see and feel how much I love you. I don’t want to wait. I know more than ever that our love is real and deep. It's all new to me. I'm frustrated now, and it seems you are too.”
“Yes, Armand, frustrated, but also very happy to have found such a strong love. It is hard to be alone with you because of our desire. I want to feel you fully. It’s best if we go somewhere now so we can talk.”
I did not want to leave, but I followed her lead. “Our favorite café is on the way back. We can stop there.”
Adeline smiled and hugged me tightly. We then strolled hand-in-hand back through the park. From time to time we glanced at each other, smiled, and then laughed. The laughter helped me to overcome my passion and feel that everything would work. When I shared that thought, Adeline kissed me fervently. We hugged tightly until we recaptured our breath.
By the time we reached the café, we had talked about our wedding and honeymoon. Our first disagreement came when we discussed where we might live. Adeline looked at me slyly over her coffee cup and said: “I would never consider living far away from my parents, Armand. It would even be good for us to live with them for a few months. That would give us time to find a nice place of our own.”
“I thought you would love to be with me in Tunisia. I'd serve a couple more years in the army and we could decide if we want to remain there or move back to France. It would be exciting and all new for you, Adeline.”
She shook her head. “How can you think I would leave France, or even this region? I love my family too much. We must come up with a plan that works for both of us, not just you. It must work also for my parents. You will be talking soon with Father. You will see.”
I nodded, but I held my thoughts. It might be right for me to leave Tunisia. I was still young and wanted a new life with Adeline. But what would I do? I understood the army; I knew the routine. I nodded again with a forced smile as these thoughts crossed my mind.
“All right, I understand your wishes, and all this is new to me. I love you. We will find a way to make everything work.”
She grinned and said, “Yes, I want to make everything work!”
We then both realized that it was almost noon. Adeline had to return home to help with lunch. I needed to travel to Lille to interview Emile Bernard before reporting back to Johanna. As we parted, we agreed I'd visit again on my return trip to southern France. We would finalize our plans, tell Adeline's parents of our love, and ask for their blessing.
Sixteen
Saturday, June 22
Thickly green grain fields flashed by my window as the train approached Lille. Would Emile Bernard be available? He had appreciated van Gogh's work and had helped Theo develop exhibitions after his brother's death. Both Gauguin and van Gogh had considered him their protégé. He had recently sold several of Vincent’s paintings to Vollard.
The city buzzed with action as I traversed the main square and walked narrow streets in search of the address that Johanna had provided. I slowed to gather my thoughts as I approached the apartment and knocked. The door opened quickly and a thin, pale, dark-haired young woman stood before me.
“Hello” she said faintly. I introduced myself and asked to see Emile. She responded, “I’m very sorry; he’s not here. He lives in Cairo now. It’s been two years since he left France. Why do you wish to see him?”
I explained my mission for Johanna and she peered down for a second,. She then looked up and responded: “I knew Vincent a bit, and Emile spoke often of him and his work. I am Emile’s sister, Madeleine. He married an Egyptian woman and he may never return. I plan to visit him soon. Come in; I will try to help.”
In response to my nod, Madeleine led me to the salon. I told her more about Johanna and her goals. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s good that Johanna is working to preserve Vincent's art, especially as she works to support herself and her son. I can attest that my brother admired Vincent more than any artist he knew.”
Madeleine continued, “He helped Emile get his work into an exhibit in Paris in 1887. Emile was only 19 years old, and I met Vincent at that exhibit. After Vincent's death Emile promoted his work in Paris and helped Theo stage an exposition. A couple of years later Emile wrote articles and tributes to Vincent, including excerpts and illustrations from Vincent’s letters to him. He also staged an exhibit of the seven Vincent paintings that he owned.”
“This would most interest Johanna,” I responded.
“Five of those paintings were recently sold by Emile through me to the Parisian gallery owner, Ambroise Vollard. You mentioned that you recently saw him, so you probably viewed them. I am storing only two remaining works that I can show you now.” She rose and led me to a hallway with two framed paintings. “These are from Vincent’s days in Holland.”
Although small with subdued colors, they evoked strong emotion. One portrayed a long-haired elderly man holding an umbrella. The other showed an anguished peasant woman with a large white cap. “Do you know when these were painted?,” I asked.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Johanna will be very interested,” I paused and looked calmly into Madeleine’s eyes. “I’d also like to know more about your brother’s art. Johanna mentioned that Vincent had found Emile to be very promising.”
“Yes, I can give a brief summary. Emile studied from an early age in Paris, but he was expelled from the École des Beaux-Arts. He was too independent. At twenty he had developed the style now called the “School of Pont-Aven,” with its simple symbolism. When I was seventeen I joined him at Pont-Aven and he painted my portrait. Look on the wall there,” she pointed. “I’m on the grass gazing up at the trees of the Bois d’Amour. It’s simple; I love it. After Emile’s Pont-Aven experience he returned to Paris and sent some paintings to Vincent in Arles. Vincent and Paul Gauguin each painted their own version of one of Emile’s paintings. But soon Emile abandoned symbolism and started painting a unique brand of realism. He continues that style in Egypt.” She shook her head. “It is a hard life for an artist. I am excited to visit him and see his new work.”
“Do you plan to stay long?”
“I’ll admit that I like Egypt. I was ther
e with my man five years ago, but now I’ll be alone and there are very few Europeans these days. Although Emile married an Egyptian, I'm not so inclined. But not much holds me to France either. I don't yet know what I'll do.”
I nodded and offered,“I wish you the best in your decision.” I reflected that I was facing my own dilemma as to where I'd settle, then continued: “If you are interested in selling those paintings of Vincent for your brother, Johanna would consider purchasing them. I will see her tomorrow, so I can let her know.”
Madeleine nodded, “Let me think. As I mentioned, Emile may never return and he needs funds. He appreciated Vincent’s art, but it was not his style and he had me sell the other five. As I talk through this I am convincing myself. Yes, it could be the right thing. I'll think a bit and write down the price.”
“Thank you. I know she would gladly consider the opportunity to purchase them, despite her limited income. Would you mind if I look at them again?”
“No, please do.” She fetched paper and a pen as I walked back to the hallway. I made small sketches of the works, waited briefly, then walked slowly back into the salon.
With pad in hand she said, “I hope Johanna feels this is reasonable. I would sell those two framed paintings for my brother for 150 francs. They will be available until the end of next month.”
“Thank you. I made small sketches of the works that I'll present with your price. If she decides to purchase, she will contact you soon.”
“Well, thank you for your efforts. Any further questions?”
“Do you have other information of Vincent or his work that could help Johanna?”