by Betsy Draine
Curry’s thesis was that Van Gogh’s artistic vision stemmed from the effects of digitalis, concocted from the foxglove plant. The drug was in the homemade remedies he was given by Dr. Paul Gachet, who treated Van Gogh for depression in 1890, the last year of his life. Digitalis can affect vision in dramatic ways. Objects may appear to shimmer, and the patient sometimes sees a yellow halo around lights. Those ocular effects, Curry pointed out, appear in several of Van Gogh’s best-known works. The slide Curry used for an example homed in on the quivering lamps hanging from the ceiling in Vincent’s Night Café. Curry noted that while small doses of the drug can be beneficial for certain heart conditions, digitalis is toxic in an overdose. Gachet, he argued, was a quack. The doctor meant well, but his foxglove remedies only made Van Gogh more ill. Indeed, Vincent had doubts about his treatment. He wrote to his brother that the doctor seemed even more depressed than he was.
The next slide showed Vincent’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet, in which the melancholy doctor is seated at a table in his herb garden, leaning his head on his right hand. Sure enough, on the table in front of Gachet, in a glass jar filled with water, are several stems of foxglove with their lavender-colored blossoms. Other scholars have suggested that Vincent included the herbs in the portrait as tokens of the doctor’s calling, but Curry went so far as to attribute Vincent’s painting style to them. It was an intriguing theory. It was also intriguing that Curry was so unnerved by his missing samples. He finished his talk to a smattering of applause.
After a break for coffee, Montoni introduced Sister Glenda, who stepped up to the podium. There couldn’t have been a greater contrast between Curry’s presentation and hers. From the moment she began to speak, Glenda was relaxed and in control. She spoke without notes, whereas he stuck rigidly to his text. If Curry’s talk reduced the artist’s vision to a pathology, Sister Glenda’s expanded it into a philosophy. Her topic was “Christian Humanism in Van Gogh’s Art.” She began by reminding her audience that Vincent turned to art only after failing as a minister. (Apparently no one could stand his sermons.) But she claimed his approach to art sprang from the same motive that led him to the ministry: compassion for human suffering. His ability to feel the pain of others was evident from his earliest paintings (The Potato Eaters came up on the screen) to the very end. “We see it,” she noted with a nod to Curry, “even in his portrait of Dr. Gachet, whom Vincent recognized as a fellow sufferer.” According to Sister Glenda, the key to Vincent’s art is contained in a letter he wrote to his brother, Theo. She looked down at her single notecard and quoted: “In a picture I want to say something comforting. . . . I want to paint men and women with that something of the eternal which the halo used to symbolize, and which we seek to give by the actual radiance and vibrations of our colorings.”
With that, Sister Glenda looked at the audience and said: “With all due respect to Professor Curry, I’d like to suggest an alternative to his theory. Perhaps it is Vincent’s spirituality that explains the halo effects we see in the paintings. Maybe the vibrations in his colors are meant to suggest our mystical bond with something of the eternal.” Her last illustration was The Starry Night. The audience clapped enthusiastically, many with hands held high. Glenda grinned. Curry scowled.
At lunch after the session, we found ourselves seated with Curry and Sister Glenda. The etiquette at a small conference like this one is to circulate, especially at mealtimes, so that participants get to know each other. Jane Curry invited Maggie and Angie to join her at a nearby table, along with Klara de Groot. That left Toby and me as referees between Glenda and Curry. Lunch was a light affair, featuring a choice of salads. Toby filled our glasses from a carafe of rosé wine that stood on the table.
“That was a fine paper,” Glenda said to Curry, opening with the standard remark at gatherings such as these. “I hope you don’t mind my disagreeing with your conclusions. Obviously we bring different perspectives to our work.”
Curry was not about to be gracious. “You can think what you like,” he grunted. “I don’t see any need to bring religious hokum into the discussion. Science provides a better explanation.”
Glenda didn’t take the bait.
“Hokum? Isn’t that a bit strong?” said Toby. Not that he’s a defender of religion. On the contrary, Toby’s a thoroughgoing skeptic. He calls himself an “Orthodox Reprobate.” But he won’t put up with a bully, and Curry was being one. Sister Glenda was traveling in our company, and out of chivalry, Toby felt called upon to defend her, whatever his personal views on the subject.
However, Glenda was perfectly able to defend herself. She said, “Come now, Professor. There’s always room for another opinion. I have great respect for science, but it may not hold all the answers.”
“I never said it did,” Curry retorted. He began worrying a piece of crusty French bread, pulling out chunks of the doughy center.
“Of course, there are different theories to account for Vincent’s style,” Glenda continued, ignoring Curry’s hostility much as a parent might deal with a cranky child. She reached for the decanter. “You don’t have to accept my views as gospel.”
I waded in. “Take that remark Vincent made about looking at nature through his eyelashes. It’s in one of the letters. Didn’t he say that squinting at objects helped him to see the relations between colors? Well, if you look at the world long enough through half-closed eyes, everything starts to shimmer. Maybe it’s as simple as that.”
“You think I don’t know that passage?” Curry bristled. “What he was doing with his eyelashes was trying to mimic the effect that digitalis had on him when he wasn’t on the drug, that’s all. If anything, it strengthens my argument.”
“Couldn’t I say the same thing?” Glenda emptied her glass with a swig. “That by looking at nature through his eyelashes he was trying to replicate the impressions he experienced in a heightened state?”
“What kind of heightened state? A mystical trance, you mean?” Curry sneered.
“People do report having them,” I said.
“Hallucinations, you mean. The mental wards are filled with such people.”
“Van Gogh was in a mental ward, wasn’t he?” said Toby. “Who’s to say how he interpreted his experiences?”
Outnumbered three to one, Curry stiffened. “Oh, and I suppose you’re to say? Who exactly are you, by the way? You’re not on the program. Are you an art historian? A psychologist?”
“You know who I am. We’ve been introduced. Do I have to be on the program to have an opinion?”
Uh, oh. Trouble on the way. Toby has the sweetest temperament on earth, but get in his face while he’s chugging along amiably, and watch out. He sat back and looked at Curry as an entomologist might examine a new species of bug. A malodorous bug. Coolly, Toby said, “What I do for a living is sell antiques.”
“Antiques. And that makes you an expert on Van Gogh.”
“No. But I’m entitled to an opinion.” Toby’s voice was level. “And by the way, Professor.” The appellation was dripping with sarcasm. “When you were little, didn’t anyone teach you how to play well with others?”
Curry flushed. Toby could have stopped there. He should have stopped there. But he didn’t. He leaned forward and said, “I’ll tell you what I think. You may be an expert when it comes to plants, but when it comes to dealing with people, you don’t know your cul from your coude.” No translation was necessary.
“I don’t have to take that from you,” said Curry.
“Oh? Does that mean you’d take it from someone on the program but not from a peon like me?”
“Why, you cheeky beggar,” Curry sputtered, slamming his palms against the sides of the table and rising quickly. His chair tottered. At other tables, heads turned.
By now Toby had been thoroughly provoked. “You’ll take it, and what’s more, you’ll like it,” he said, with a sibilant curl of his upper lip. He was channeling Humphrey Bogart.
Curry didn’t recognize the line from The Mal
tese Falcon. I don’t know if that movie is as big with the Brits as it is with us. Besides, if you don’t know Toby, you might not get it either. His Bogart imitation is only so-so.
Curry threw down his napkin and stomped out of the room.
Sister Glenda, placid as a pasha, refilled her glass.
“Toby,” I whispered, “did you have to do that?”
“Have to? No.” He reached for the decanter to refill his own glass. “But that guy is a—”
“Don’t say it,” said Glenda.
“Right,” said Toby, checking himself.
I just shook my head. Once Toby gets on his high horse, he’s off in a cloud of dust.
Jane had risen from the adjacent table as if to go after her husband, but instead she came over to our table and sat down in his empty seat. Embarrassment tinged her pale English complexion. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s been so touchy lately. I’m sorry. Please don’t take it personally. These days he’s like that with everybody.” She pulled her lips in, as if to silence herself.
“I guess it was my fault,” said Toby. “I didn’t mean to get him so upset.”
“He’s always had a bit of a temper, but nothing like this.”
“When did you start noticing a change?” asked Sister Glenda.
“I’m not sure. He’s been disagreeable for months.” She looked around, as if the wrong person might be listening. Reassured, she continued. “He’s been barking at me over every little thing. In November, I got a call from the head of his department asking if everything was all right. Bruce got into a shouting argument with a colleague at a meeting and they had to ask him to leave the room. That sort of thing never happened before.”
“Has he seen a doctor?” Glenda asked.
“We have an appointment with a neurologist after we get back.” She cleared her throat, as if to clear her voice of emotion.
“This must be hard for you,” I said.
“It’s not only his irritability. He’s been forgetful, does things that he can’t remember the next day, misplaces things. Like this business with the foxglove. He got terribly disturbed when he found that it was missing. I think he just forgot what he did with it.”
“Could it still be in your room?” I asked.
“We looked everywhere. No. He thinks somebody stole it.”
“Who would want to do that?” asked Toby.
“That’s just it. Nobody.”
“But could someone have taken it?” I wondered aloud.
“Bruce thought the maid stole it, but really, what would a maid want with foxglove? More likely, she thought a sack full of dried-up flowers was trash, and she threw it out. To hear him go on about it, you’d think somebody stole the crown jewels.”
Toby asked, “Did anybody else know you had the foxglove in your room?”
Jane thought a moment, then said, “Bruce was showing the De Groots the herbs yesterday, when we were checking in. He was explaining their properties, and there were quite a few people in the lobby at the time.”
Toby asked, “You keep your room locked, right?”
“Not always. Bruce is forgetful about that too.” She sat up straight, reviving her poise. “I’m sorry for what happened just now. I hope it didn’t spoil your lunch.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” said Glenda. “It was good of you to come over. Perhaps you’d better see how he’s doing.”
“Yes. Thank you for your understanding.” She rose and headed upstairs.
Toby gulped. “Look, I’m sorry. That puts a different light on things. I feel like a jerk. I hope the guy doesn’t have something seriously wrong with him.”
“God forbid,” said Sister Glenda.
Toby and Glenda quietly nursed their wine, while I excused myself to go back to our room. I brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face, going back over Curry’s behavior. Something had been bothering me since his talk, and now I realized what it was. I rummaged in my purse and dug out the card with Lieutenant Auclair’s phone number. After a moment’s hesitation, I made the call. The phone rang a half-dozen times before going to voicemail.
At the beep I said “Bonjour ” and identified myself, making an effort to enunciate clearly. I thought it would be best to keep my message short. “I’m calling regarding the death of Isabelle La Font. I suggest that you look for the presence of digitalis in her body. I can explain why. Merci, madame.” I repeated my name and left my number.
Vincent had come to Auvers to be treated by our local doctor. The Good Lord knows why. We didn’t think much of Dr. Gachet ourselves. Vincent, they said, had just been released from an asylum. So, people in town called him crazy. He took his meals in the inn, where he had a room. During the day he painted, and when he wasn’t painting, he spent most of his time with us. It must have been a strange sight. Here he was a grown man, and we were just boys, but he tagged along with us.
It was Gaston, the older of the two Secrétan boys, who befriended Vincent. At nineteen, Gaston had an interest in music and art. He told me that someday he hoped to become an artist himself. As for René, his only interests were hunting, fishing, and chasing girls. Although no older than I was, he boasted that he already had lots of experience. And perhaps he did. He knew some dance hall girls in Paris and invited them up for an outing one weekend. They arrived by train. Vincent sat with us on the bank of the river, hoping to attract their attention, but the girls would have nothing to do with him. His hair was unkempt and he was dressed like a scarecrow. And then, there was that ear. We had a bottle of wine in our picnic basket, and Vincent consoled himself with that while the rest of us squeezed and kissed the girls. Of course, René had to take out his revolver and show off by taking potshots at the fish. That made Vincent angry. With contempt, he called René “the terror of the herrings.” Then he went off by himself to sit in the long grass with his back toward us. You never knew when Vincent’s mood would change. One minute he would be cheerful and talkative, especially when his nose was in a glass, but in the next he would become sullen and morose.
At that age, boys can be cruel. We teased him mercilessly. I say “we,” but I never participated in the taunts, and neither did Gaston. But the others—I cringe when I remember some of the pranks they pulled. And I am ashamed to say I did nothing to interfere. For instance, when Vincent was working, he would absentmindedly suck on the end of one of his brushes. One day someone put chili peppers on the brush, with what results you can imagine. Then they put salt in his coffee, and it made him choke. Another time, René caught a grass snake and hid it in Vincent’s paint box, and he nearly fainted when he reached into it. For a few days, Vincent kept his distance, but then he returned and things went on as before. Poor man! How lonely he must have been to put up with us.
4
TOBY LOOKED SHEEPISH when he returned to our room. “I know. I know. I shouldn’t have let Curry get under my skin,” he began.
I stopped him. “I’ve just done something myself that I’m beginning to regret.” I was having second thoughts about my phone call. When I explained, Toby replied with a noncommittal “hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“Well, you’ve stirred up the pot. For all we know, the woman died of natural causes.”
“And what if the cause wasn’t natural?”
“Do you really think Curry would use his foxglove to poison someone? Even if he is a bit cracked?”
“I don’t know what to think. This business of Isabelle’s death has got everyone rattled, including me.”
“There’s one thing you can count on. You’ll hear back from the lieutenant.”
I slumped down on the bed. Toby sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. “What’s on for this afternoon?” he asked.
“I’m going shopping in the village with the girls. Want to come along?” The girls were Angie, Maggie, and Shelley Bennett. In the van from the Maeght, we’d agreed to go for a stroll in Saint-Paul after lunch.
“Shopping? Not a
chance. But I could use some exercise.” He nuzzled my neck, and pulling back said, “I know what I’d like to do. I’ll check out the ramparts. Walking the walls should give me a workout.” Fine, that would keep him out of my hair while I shopped. There’s nothing like a husband’s surveillance to inhibit a wife’s natural inclination to forage.
“Just be careful,” I said. “I’m going to ask if Sister Glenda would like to join us.”
“She’s gone to take a nap. Did you see how much wine she drank at lunch? She sure can knock ’em back.”
That brought a smile to my lips. “She’s a good woman. Let her have her little pleasure.”
“Right. So you go off with the girls and have a good time, and I’ll do my own thing. How about meeting later at the café, around five?”
“Sounds good.”
I was meeting the walkers at two in the front hall. That gave me time to look over our guidebook. Without shame, I tore out the map of the village, folded it neatly so it could be reinserted later, and put it in my jacket pocket along with the cell phone and a card on which I’d written the name of the hotel and its phone number. Always prepared for disaster.
Shelley was there when I arrived, both of us early. She was eager for the walk but not well dressed for it. Her stretch pants might do for a French woman, but French women keep themselves tautly thin, whereas Shelley was bien en chair. In France, this means well filled out. Over the tight pants, she wore a loose top with a boat neckline, and the boat was sinking. No jacket, no shawl. I barged in, as is my failing.
“You might want something to put on later. They say it gets cool in the afternoon.”
Shelley gave me an appraising look, taking in my worn Nikes, my roomy sweatpants, and their matching zip-up jacket. “I never feel the cold,” she said. “I guess I’m warm-blooded.”
“I like your top,” I said (realizing too late the double entendre). I did like the pattern. The front was printed with an Andy Warhol Campbell Soup can, and as Shelley turned around so I could get a look at the back, there was his multicolored image of Marilyn Monroe. Her fashion idol? As she turned back to face me, her Marilyn moue gave the answer. With her thick strawberry-blonde hair and her straining-at-the-seams pants, Shelley did approximate the look of the later Monroe.
