23 December 1888
Our arguments are terribly electric, sometimes we come out of them with our heads as exhausted as a used electric battery
.
—Vincent to Theo,
Arles, late December 1888
E
verything fine now. He’s not leaving
.
I frowned at Vincent’s hastily scrawled note—two lines, that was all—and threw it in the fireplace. Every day I’d waited for some word that Gauguin had hopped the train to Paris, never to be seen in Arles again. Every night I’d waited for Vincent to come back to me, but he hadn’t. What was Gauguin trying to do, staying when he hated Arles so much? Did he envy Vincent’s talent even though he was the one selling paintings, did he find some perverse satisfaction in preying on Vincent’s fears? Why couldn’t Vincent see him for what he was?
I heard nothing more for over a week. “Here comes your painter!” Jacqui called from the doorway one night, and I dashed to the threshold in time to see Vincent and Gauguin disappear inside old Louis’ place up the street. Jacqui burst into laughter; I burst into tears and ran upstairs. Louis’ girls prowled his
salon
clad in see-through peignoirs, Louis’ girls did anything you paid them to do, no matter how disgusting. Maybe he was only there to drink, I told myself as I held the
santon
he’d given me to my chest, maybe he was only sketching for his brothel picture. A girl braver than I would have marched next door to find out, but I cried myself to sleep and nightmares of Vincent making love to someone else.
Sunday, December 23. For three days it’d been raining again, and with the coming holiday, business that night was slow. That morning Madame Virginie had set up the Christmas
crèche
in her parlor, and all the girls but me had gathered around it to light candles and sing songs. The cook had been baking all day to prepare for our Christmas Eve feast, and smells of ginger and vanilla filled the
maison
. Françoise tried to cheer me up by giving me an early Christmas gift—another
santon
from the man in the Place de la République, this one a laundress—and she tried to make me laugh by saying, “We make more money than she does.”
The frigid north wind blew open the door with a
bang
, and from habit I turned to look. Vincent and Gauguin. I stared at them from the bar, not moving a muscle until Gauguin waved me over and placed an order for drinks. He greeted me as if nothing was amiss, but Vincent frowned with his head bent and didn’t speak.
“Mademoiselle Rachel,” Gauguin said when I returned with the tray and took a seat between them, “I have news that will break your heart. I’m leaving. I’m going back to Paris.”
I glanced at Vincent, who was preparing his absinthe and acting as if he’d been by himself. “Oh, that’s too bad. Why?”
Gauguin slowly dripped water into his own absinthe glass. “Maybe I’ll return to Brittany, perhaps Martinique or even Tahiti. Vincent’s brother sold some pictures for me, so I might be able to afford it. Eleven hundred francs. It’s about damn time.” He stirred his drink and announced, “I think we need a toast. First, to me and my future endeavors.”
I raised my glass of wine but didn’t say a word. Vincent ignored the toast altogether.
“Second, to Theo van Gogh and his future bride, Johanna Bonger, whose engagement we learned about this morning.”
“Oh!” I gasped and turned to Vincent. “Theo’s engaged!”
“Yes,” Vincent muttered, his first word of the evening.
“Aren’t you happy for your brother? Do you not like the girl?”
“I’ve never met her,” Vincent said, still mumbling. “She’s the sister of a friend of ours. She’s Dutch.”
Gauguin jumped in. “A nice, educated girl with spirit, according to Theo. The perfect wife for a young art dealer on his way up.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I said to Vincent with an encouraging smile. “You should be glad for them.” I tried to take his hand, but he shook me off without reply.
“I’ll tell you what his problem is,” Gauguin snapped. “He thinks once Theo marries and has a wife to support, then children, there won’t be any money left for him. And it scares the hell out of him because his work’s not selling.”
Vincent glared at him. “Fuck off, Gauguin.”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Theo’s been supporting me too while I’m here, but now he’s sold some work for me, I don’t need his money. But you—you haven’t sold anything.”
“I said, fuck off. You haven’t a goddamn idea what you’re talking about.” The eyes of the two men locked, and a tense electricity crackled between them.
I almost suggested to Vincent right then that we go upstairs. In my room we could talk everything over, he could calm down, I could help him see that his brother’s marriage was nothing to envy, nothing to fear. But I didn’t. Instead I turned to Gauguin and tried to sound cheerful as I said, “Tell us about your plans for Paris.”
“A little of this, a lot of that,” he said airily. “I’ve missed the Paris girls. Nothing like them anyplace else, except maybe in the tropics.”
“Don’t you have a wife waiting for you in Denmark?” Vincent sneered.
Gauguin ignored him and slipped his hand under the table to stroke my thigh. “You know, Mademoiselle Rachel, my gin-gerheaded friend has been most selfish, keeping you to himself. Seems he’s forgotten the lessons of Christian charity from his preacher days. How about a little…going-away present?”
Vincent looked like he was about to explode. “Oh, you,” I said with pretend playfulness and swatted Gauguin away. “Jacqui can keep you plenty entertained, you don’t need me.”
“I mean it.” The hand migrated back to my leg and inched up the hem of my skirt. “That little preview I got at the house whetted my appetite. Or how about one last collaboration, Vincent, my friend? We could take turns and make her very happy—”
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Vincent shouted, leaping from his chair as I leaped from mine. He pulled me to his side, and we were both shaking: me with revulsion, him with rage. Everyone in the room was staring, and Raoul moved in from the doorway.
Gauguin raised his hands in sarcastic surrender. “Apologies,
mon ami
, I had no idea the lady was spoken for.” He looked at us curiously, first Vincent, then me, then Vincent again. “Wait—are you in love with her? Is the clergyman’s son actually in love with a
fille de maison?
” He howled with laughter and slapped his knee. “Here I thought you just liked screwing her! Mijnheer van Gogh, whatever would your mother say? Your brother picks a virgin, you pick a whore!” Vincent’s fingers dug into my hip, and I tightened my grip on his shoulder.
Gauguin reached into his pocket and slammed coins on the table. “Here’s two francs to make up for my inexcusable rudeness in propositioning your girl. Take her upstairs and do whatever you want with her. As hot as she is under that skirt, I’m sure she’ll let you.” He leered at me as tears of shame filled my eyes.
“I don’t need your fucking money,” Vincent snarled, snatching up the two francs and hurling them at Gauguin. They clattered on the wooden floor.
“Why not? She feel sorry for you and give it for free?”
Jacqui appeared and draped her arm around Gauguin’s shoulder. “You should have asked me, Paul. I’d show you boys a fine time you’d never forget.”
“I bet,” Gauguin said, smacking her bottom before pulling her onto his lap and making her giggle. “What color garters are you wearing tonight, lovely?”
She twitched her dress at him. “Why don’t you take a peek and find out?”
“Let’s go upstairs, Vincent,” I said under my breath and urged him toward the staircase.
“Did you hear that,
mon ami?
” Gauguin asked as Jacqui giggled harder. “Your little lady is ready and waiting! You sure you don’t want my money? Or can’t you—ahem—keep up your end of the bargain?”
“Why can’t you leave him alone?” I cried. “You’re jealous because his paintings are better than yours—you’re nothing but a parasite!”
“Jealous, eh? Parasite, eh?” Gauguin pushed Jacqui away to stand and take a step toward me. “Someone needs to teach you some manners, my girl.”
Vincent stepped between us, and his voice was ice. “If you touch her, I swear to God I will kill you, you bastard.”
I waited for Gauguin to charge at him, waited for a fight, but Gauguin backed away. “Stay here with your two-bit whore then, Brigadier, I’m getting my things and finding a hotel. I’m going to Paris tomorrow, I don’t want to be in this blasted hellhole one more day. You and your goddamn brother can both fuck off!”
With that he strode toward the door, but before he could reach it, Vincent flung an empty glass across the
salon
at Gauguin’s back. He barely missed, and the glass shattered against the wall. Then Gauguin did charge at Vincent, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattled. “Let him go!” I shrieked and tried to throw myself between them, but Gauguin shoved me aside. I fell to the ground with a cry, smacking my shoulder on the hard floor.
Bellowing like an enraged bull, Vincent seized the absinthe bottle and made to hit Gauguin over the head as Jacqui screamed curses and I screamed for him to stop. Joseph Roulin came running from upstairs and jumped in with Raoul to break them up, Raoul taking hold of Gauguin and Roulin wresting the bottle from Vincent’s hand. Madame Virginie ran in from her parlor and screeched like a vengeful spirit, “Get them out of here! Out! Out!”
“Let me go, damn it!” Gauguin yelled, but Raoul was far stronger, and Gauguin wasn’t going anywhere except outside. He settled for shouting at Vincent as Raoul hustled him out the door. “Fucking failure! Madman! The world will know!”
“Please let me go, Roulin,” Vincent said. I’m sure we all thought he’d chase after Gauguin, but instead he knelt beside me and asked if I was hurt.
I shook my head, although I knew I’d have an ugly bruise. “Don’t listen to him,” I pleaded and put my arms around his neck. “He’s not worth it.”
“Get him out of here,” Madame Virginie ordered Roulin, still glaring at Vincent. She glared at me too, as if all this had been my fault.
“Come on, Vincent, my friend,” Roulin said in his booming voice. “Best we get you home.” Vincent meekly followed him, turning at the door to look at me one last time.
I started to go with them, but Françoise took my arm. She’d come downstairs with Roulin at all the shouting. “There’s nothing else you can do, Rachel. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She scowled at the still-staring customers. “What are you all looking at?”
“Something else is going to happen. What if Gauguin goes after him? What if—”
“Raoul’s taking Gauguin to a hotel, and Joseph’s with Vincent. They’ll sleep it off, and if we’re lucky that Gauguin really will leave tomorrow. On the first damn train.”
I followed Françoise up the stairs, as meekly as Vincent had followed Roulin. I let her help me into my nightdress and wipe my face, fuss over the yellowing spot on my shoulder. She tucked me in, put a glass of water by my bed, told me that everything would be all right. I nodded and dutifully pulled the blanket around my chin, but I kept seeing Vincent’s eyes when he’d looked back from the doorway. Haunted. Sad. Like an animal caught in a trap.
“Don’t worry,” Françoise said and blew out the lamp. “Everything will sort itself out in the morning.”
I couldn’t have been sleeping very long when a persistent knock startled me awake. Wincing at my sore shoulder, I reached for my shawl and hurried to the door. It was Françoise again, her face white, asking that I come downstairs right away. “Vincent is here,” she said. “He wants to see you. He—”
Before she could finish, I was padding on bare feet down the hall, past the clock on the landing, down the stairs. 11:30, the clock said, only 11:30. A few customers remained in the
salon
, waiting their turn with the girls, but no one was talking, no one was saying a word. Vincent stood silent and alone in the center of the room, and when I reached the bottom of the stairs, he slowly walked toward me.
Never, not even that night of the rain, had he looked like this. A ghost of his own self, paler than ever under a black beret. Since when did he wear a beret? Was it Gauguin’s? Only when he came closer did I notice the paint-stained rag wrapped around his head—closer still, and I realized the thick red trickling down his neck and shoulder was not red paint.
This can’t be real. It’s a dream. I must wake up
.
He was near enough for me to smell the blood now, a sticky, sweet smell that dizzied me.
What should I do?
I should have taken him in my arms, I should have called for help, but I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move. His eyes held me rooted to the spot. His hand reached out to take mine, raise it and open it so that my palm faced upward. All of it so slow, so gentle, as if we had been alone together in my room or the yellow house and this had been just another caress, just another night.
He lifted his other hand, where he clutched something in his fist, wrapped in newspaper. He pressed it into my palm and closed my fingers over it, something moist and cold, never once taking his gaze from my face.
“Tu te souviendras de moi,”
he said, his voice hollow.
You will remember me.
He released my hand and backed away a few steps, watching, waiting. I stared at my fingers, smeared with blood, the packet in my hand smeared with blood, and nausea washed over me. Part of me wanted to fling whatever he’d given me far away, but another part of me…
Don’t look. Don’t look
.
I opened my hand and unfolded the paper. The rest was darkness.
Nightmares
I’m standing in the avenue of poplars at the Alyscamps
.
The mistral is blowing, and the red leaves falling from the trees are bathing me in a crimson shower. Red leaves everywhere—covering the ground, spilling from ancient coffins. The wind whistles in my ears, and in the bell tower of Saint-Honorat a fiery light shines through the shadows
. La lanterne des morts—
beckoning to all who see it, leading the way to the underworld
.
Vincent is there
.
He’s walking up the road toward the chapel, pipe in his mouth, canvas slung over his back. I call his name, but he can’t hear me over the wind’s ceaseless howling. Over and over I cry out, but he keeps walking…slowly, steadily…every footstep taking him farther from me
.
He’s almost reached the light
.
I start to run after him, faster and faster, still calling his name
.
Never stopping
.
I wasn’t in the Alyscamps. A cold morning sun poured through the window of my own room, and I lay in my own bed. Someone slept in my chair, keeping watch over me. It was only a dream. He was there. He’d been there all along.
Françoise stirred when I said Vincent’s name. “Rachel, thank God!” She hurried to me and felt my forehead. “Your fever’s broken.
Merci à Dieu!
Are you thirsty, do you want some water?”
“Where’s Vincent?” I asked. My tongue was tangled wool, my head a mess of cobwebs. “I had a terrible dream, Françoise, the strangest dream…”
She brushed the hair from my eyes. “It was no dream, little one.”
What does she mean?
Monsieur Roulin led Vincent away after the fight, but he returned. Françoise came to my room to find me. We went down the stairs. His haunted eyes, then…
My hand. The blood. The red, red blood
…
Dizziness flooded me as I gripped her arm and tried to sit up. “Gauguin did it! The police must arrest him before he leaves town!”
Françoise urged me back onto the pillow, but I’d have none of that. Didn’t she hear what I said? The police, I kept telling her, you have to get the police. Gauguin cut him. Gauguin hurt him. My fault, all my fault, if I’d only gone with him…
“Lie down, dear,” she begged, “please lie down and listen.” She took my hand, and her voice was patient and gentle—more patient and gentle than I’d ever heard her sound. I listened to her words but could not understand them. They made no sense. Gauguin didn’t do it, she said. He was in a hotel the whole time, he couldn’t have. The police made sure of that during their investigation. No, it was not Gauguin.
Vincent had done it to himself.
I sat up again, the dizziness flooded me again. “That’s a lie! A filthy lie! Where is he?”
“In the hospital—Rachel, please, you must calm down—”
“Take me to him! Take me now!”
She held my shoulders to keep me from climbing out of bed. He needs me, I shouted, he needs me, and I struggled against nausea and fatigue while I struggled against her. “Rachel, stop,” Françoise ordered. “I’ll call for Raoul if you don’t stop. What good will it do if you make yourself more sick than you already are?”
I couldn’t fight anymore. I let Françoise ease me onto the pillow, and when she brought a glass of water, I let her hold the glass to my lips. “There’s a good girl,” she murmured. “You must not worry. The doctors are looking after Vincent at the Hôtel-Dieu. He’s safe there.”
“Is he going to die?” I whispered.
She set the glass aside and avoided my eyes. “He’s very ill. He lost a lot of blood.”
“When can I see him?”
“Not yet, Dr. Dupin said you must rest quiet.” She smoothed the blanket, still not looking at me. “Anyway, it’s Christmas Day, they won’t let you in.”
“Christmas Day?” I exclaimed. “Why did I sleep so long?”
“Dr. Dupin gave you some medicine.”
There’s something else. Something she is not telling me. Something I do not remember. Something I do not want to remember
.
“I fainted…”
Françoise brushed the hair from my forehead again, fingers warm against my damp skin. “Yes, dear, you fainted. You had a miscarriage.”
Flashes of memory, flashes of pain rushed back to me, pain in the night. I’d awakened from the faint with blood staining my nightdress, dripping down my legs. Someone ran for the doctor, Raoul carried me upstairs as I cried out in terror—Vincent’s blood, fresh on my fingers, mingling with my own. I couldn’t stop screaming as I felt the life inside me slip away, as I learned for the first time the life was there. Our baby, our baby, I screamed, and I thrashed on the bed as Françoise and Madame Virginie held me down, and Dr. Dupin gave me an injection. Everything was red, the whole room was red.
I remembered everything.
I began to shake, expecting to see the sheets and blanket covered in blood, my hands covered in blood. “No…no…Vincent!” I cried as the room spun about me, as if he’d magically appear to keep me safe and chase the red away.
Françoise rocked me like a child and tried to soothe me, whispering, “It wasn’t meant to be” softly in my ear. Wasn’t meant to be, wasn’t meant to be—words I tried to hear, tried to understand, but in my mind I saw only pictures of what could have been. A baby…a family…a home. Now the baby was gone, and maybe Vincent would go too, maybe he’d die there in the hospital, and I wouldn’t get to say good-bye.
Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me
.
It was another day and another night before I felt well enough to sit up, or eat anything but the smallest spoonful of broth. Françoise stayed with me every moment, even though I barely spoke and kept my face turned to the wall. She held me when I cried, wiped my forehead with cool cloths when I felt feverish. I wandered in and out of sleep, dreams haunting me when I closed my eyes, questions plaguing me when I woke. How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed the signs, how could I not have known? The blood that still flowed frightened me: had I lost not only this child but any chance of another as well? And Vincent…I knew nothing of his condition, only that he was alive. Only that kept me from going mad.
When I felt strong enough, I asked Françoise to tell me everything that happened that night, everything that happened to Vincent after I fainted. “Oh, Rachel, no,” she said, “it’ll only upset you.”
“I have to know. Tell me.”
Vincent had stared when I’d collapsed at his feet, then knelt beside me and stroked my hair. “He had no idea who or where he was,” Françoise said. She rushed to help me, while Joseph Roulin hustled Vincent back home and Minette ran for Dr. Dupin. Roulin returned and said the house was filled with blood-stained rags and towels, and Vincent had gone unconscious. Could the doctor come? The
gendarmes
appeared then, alerted by whom Françoise didn’t know, and they hurried away with Roulin to take Vincent to the hospital. The next morning the police questioned Gauguin, convinced he had some role in it, but he’d been sleeping in the hotel all night, ever since Raoul took him there. Vincent had done the unthinkable—he’d injured himself. Had he not come to Madame Virginie’s, had he not been discovered, he would have died for certain.
There was something else I had to ask. “Did the doctor…did Dr. Dupin say…how long? How long I…”
Françoise sighed and handed me a cup of tea. “Drink this.
Millepertuis
and verbena chases away the devil, my
grand-mère
always said so.” I held the cup and waited for her to answer. “Nine weeks,” she finally said, “maybe ten.”
It must have been that day before Gauguin came, I thought, when we argued and we made up and Vincent whisked me to his bedroom to make love for hours. That day I didn’t wash myself with vinegar afterward, that day we took no precautions.
Vincent would have wanted the baby, I knew it. I could imagine the smile on his face when I told him the news, the light in his eyes. He would have been so happy. All those other things—the feelings of failure, Theo’s engagement, the strains of sharing the yellow house with Gauguin—those things wouldn’t have hurt him, and even now we would be planning our life together. He wouldn’t be lying in the hospital, I wouldn’t be lying here. “I could have saved him,” I whispered. “If only I’d known.”
“What?” Françoise asked. “No, you stop that, right now. This is not your fault. Plenty of women don’t realize—What happened is not your fault.”
Old Dr. Dupin came to examine me again. “You will continue bleeding for some days, perhaps a week or even two. You must forgo intercourse until it ceases, and you must eat more so you’ll regain your strength.” He patted me on the arm and said gently, “You can have other babies, Mademoiselle Rachel, if you want them. You are young and strong.”
“She has nightmares, Doctor,” Françoise said. “Frightful dreams that make her cry.”
Dr. Dupin frowned and peered into my eyes. “Shock,” he said. “And it’s no wonder. The cure for that is rest.”
Françoise pulled the doctor aside so I couldn’t hear what she asked him next. He shook his head, and I couldn’t hear his reply. But I knew they spoke of Vincent, and I pressed my hand to my empty womb, slow tears streaming down my cheeks.
The two of them were still whispering together as Françoise escorted Dr. Dupin into the hall. When she came back, she tried to sound cheerful. “Oh, don’t cry, he said you’ll be just fine. Are you hungry, do you want some hot broth?”
“How is Vincent?”
She poured me a fresh glass of water. “Still at the hospital. His brother came to see him, though. Someone sent a telegram, Joseph, I guess.”
“Theo’s here?”
“He was. He’s already gone back to Paris. Gauguin left too.”
Why would Theo leave so quickly? Vincent was all alone. “Can I go see Vincent soon?”
“Dr. Dupin says you must rest a few more days. When you’re better, we’ll go see him together. Now let’s get you to the chair, so I can change your sheets.”
“Françoise?” I said quietly. “The baby was his. I know it was.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “So do I.”