The Hôtel-Dieu
The prospect of losing my brother…made me realize what a terrible emptiness I would feel if he were no longer there
.
—Theo to fiancée Johanna Bonger,
Paris, 28 December 1888
D
ecember 29, the feast day of Saint-Trophime. At last I felt strong enough to go out, and I leaned on Françoise’s arm as we walked toward the hospital. Before we left, she warned me that we might not be able to see Vincent, an announcement that nearly sent me into hysterics. Joseph Roulin had brought her news from the Hôtel-Dieu—Madame Roulin had visited Vincent a few days earlier and he’d seemed better, but afterward he’d gone into another fit. The doctor looking after him had forbidden any more visitors. I heard all this, and yet I insisted we try.
The faithful had attended Mass at the first sign of the sun, to ask for Saint-Trophime’s continued protection of Arles and their families. Services now over, parents and their little ones, dressed in their churchgoing best, leisurely strolled the streets and gardens. Seeing them reminded me what I’d lost, and it brought a chill to my heart that mirrored the chill in the winter air. A wee boy dressed in yellow scampered past, his papa in pursuit; the boy’s laughing blue eyes, smiling up at us, cut me to the quick.
As we passed the church of Saint-Trophime, the sight of the sculptures carried me to the last happy night Vincent and I had known together, and a strange pulling sensation compelled me to stop. Perhaps if the saint listened to the prayers of other Arlesians today, he’d listen to mine too.
Françoise looked skeptically at the church door when I said I wanted to go inside, the same way I had the night of the
pastorale
. “Do you need me to come with you?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, “I’ll go alone.” I covered my hair with my shawl and ducked in a side door, avoiding the main portal under Christ in judgment. A seashell carving welcomed pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Compostela, as it had since medieval times. I was the only pilgrim here now.
Awe overtook me as I crept inside and my eyes adjusted to the dimness. I’d never seen a building like this—so much larger, so much older than my family’s church in Saint-Rémy. The long vault overhead soared to fifty or even sixty feet, and huge pillars lined the aisles. A spicy smell of incense clinging to the stones revived memories of Masses when I knelt next to Maman and Papa, blending my voice with theirs as we recited the responses and sang the psalms. Small windows high in the thick walls and stained-glass windows behind the altar admitted enough light for me to see the church was empty. Only the myriad of glowing candles in iron stands betrayed that anyone had been here.
The Christmas
crèche
stood nearby, its tall wooden figures smiling and joyful. Soon the Three Kings would be added for Epiphany, and the
crèche
would be complete. Until then,
santons
dressed like Camargue shepherds watched shyly while Mary and Joseph gazed in adoration at their newborn child. After Maman died, I would look at Mary’s serene face in every
crèche
I passed and envy baby Jesus for having a mother. Today, I envied Mary.
Another morning I might have slipped into a back pew, prayed, and hurried out before anyone saw me. That morning, I forced myself to walk boldly down the aisle between those huge pillars, summoning all my courage to ask for what I wanted. I stood before the altar and stared at a large painting of one of God’s miracles, a painting darkened by centuries of candle smoke that had witnessed centuries of prayers. But my own prayers for my own miracle would not come. Even tears would not come. Anger swept over me in their place, a suspicion that we were all pawns in some divine chess game. I wanted to knock over the statues, tear the tapestries from the walls, and scream,
“Where were you? How could you let this happen?”
What self-respecting saint would listen to a fallen woman whose illegitimate child had died and whose lover had gone mad? A whore who wanted him to be healed so she could feel his arms around her, who felt no remorse for loving him and desiring him with every fabric of her being? What had I ever done to merit Christ, the Virgin, Saint-Trophime, or anyone listening to me? I could say nothing. All I could do was stand there, clutching my shawl around me and trembling with emotion.
A priest with a kindly face and black cassock appeared beside me. I hadn’t heard his footsteps. “Mademoiselle? Is there something you need?”
So many things I needed, so many things I wanted. But I could not ask for them. I did not dare. I shook my head, then hastened out of the dark church, back into the sunlight.
The hospital stood a few minutes’ walk beyond the church. The stone portal with “Hôtel-Dieu” above the doorway looked as forbidding as the entrance to Saint-Trophime, and I balked in front of it. “What’s gotten into you?” Françoise asked. “You’ve been wanting to see him for days, now’s your chance.”
I didn’t know what frightened me more: seeing him, or not seeing him. “What if…what if he…” She shushed me and pulled me through the gateway.
Françoise gave a name to the porter on duty—“Dr. Félix Rey, please”—and he told us where to go. As we crossed the courtyard garden toward the men’s ward, Françoise said Joseph Roulin thought highly of the doctor, thought him a nice man who knew all the latest treatments and medicines. If anyone could help Vincent, he could. She told me this to make me feel better, but when we reached his office, guided now by a nun serving as a nurse, I was scared again. Françoise knocked instead.
“Entrez,”
came an efficient-sounding voice, and Françoise had to practically push me through the door.
I couldn’t believe this was the doctor. He couldn’t have been much older than I. “I’m sorry, do we have an appointment?” he asked. When Françoise told him my name and said we wanted to see Vincent, I thought I saw recognition in his eyes. “Please come in and have a seat,” he said and waved us toward overstuffed chairs. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.” I spoke for the first time, and he looked at me curiously before handing us teacups and taking his place behind the desk.
“Vincent is extremely unwell,” he began.
“Will he live?” I asked at once.
“I’m trying my best to ensure that, Mademoiselle, but it has not been easy. The situation was critical when he arrived last week.” He described Vincent’s condition in a dispassionate voice—delusional with hallucinations, extreme mental shock, severe loss of blood—and added, “We couldn’t do anything with the ear except dress the wound to prevent infection. It was too late to reattach the portion of the lobe he cut off, even though the
gendarme
had the foresight to bring it here.”
My stomach twisted, and Françoise patted my hand. “Is he better now?” she asked.
“His brother came from Paris to see him, and that seemed to help. After Monsieur van Gogh left, the hallucinations mostly stopped, and Vincent began to eat again. Madame Roulin came to visit, and Vincent carried on a lucid conversation with her. But something triggered a relapse afterward. He started hallucinating again, became violent, and we confined him to an isolation room for his own safety. Once we did that, he wouldn’t speak, he wouldn’t eat, he did nothing but sit and stare at the wall or floor.”
Vincent, my Vincent, caged like a dangerous beast. It couldn’t be.
Dr. Rey looked at my face and cleared his throat. “A few hours ago, however, he tried to talk, and he ate some soup. He’s resting now and hasn’t had any hallucinations in over twenty-four hours. This represents a marked improvement.” I asked if I could see him, and the doctor told me what Monsieur Roulin had told Françoise, that no visitors were allowed except the Protestant preacher, Reverend Salles. Then his voice softened. “Seeing you might overexcite him, Mademoiselle. He doesn’t remember what he did, but he knows he frightened you, and it upsets him. We must avoid unnecessary adverse stimulation.”
My hand flew to my heart. “You know who I am—he’s mentioned me?”
“He kept calling your name when he was first brought here.”
“Let her see him,” Françoise begged. “You don’t know what a state she’s been in, fretting about him. And who’s to say it won’t help, seeing she’s all right? Maybe he’s been fretting about her!”
I gave Françoise a grateful look as Dr. Rey gazed from her to me and back again. He tapped his pen on the desk and sighed. “Let me see how he’s doing. I shall return presently.”
His clock ticked away the time as we waited. I tried to drink my tea, but it’d gone cold and bitter. Françoise amused herself by browsing the bookshelves. “What the hell is anti—antisepsis?” She pulled a volume from the shelf to flip through it. “
Tiens
, the doctor’s got dirty books. Look at this picture.”
“Françoise, stop!” I whispered fiercely. “If he catches you, he might not—”
She got the book put away and herself back in the chair just as Dr. Rey opened the door. “I will permit you to see him for a few minutes, Mademoiselle,” he said to me. “I gave him a mild sedative earlier, so he’s resting quiet. If he becomes agitated, you must leave immediately.”
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.
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 not 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.”