Leaving Van Gogh

by Carol Wallace

  I walked a few steps away from Vincent, then walked back to stand before him. No words came. I strode farther away, some distance down the hill, but my eyes did not even see the green and gold landscape unfurling before me. I clambered back up the hill. No rational thought drove me, and I could formulate no speech. I paused before Vincent, who was still crouched on his stool in his pose of dejection. I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. I reached out and gripped his shoulder. He did not look up from the ground, but his hand came to cover mine for a moment. Then I walked away. My feet took me down the hill through the wheat field, away from him.

  I paced around the countryside of Auvers that afternoon, as Vincent probably had done in his quest for motifs to paint. Sometimes I came across scenes that could have been cut from one of his canvases and nailed to the horizon. How could Vincent contemplate leaving a world that cried out for him to paint it? I was only vaguely aware of the continuing heat and of the sun gliding lower, the shadows thickening.

  I did not think of Vincent constantly. My mind wandered, alighting on the strangest things. I wondered whether I would ever receive the Legion of Honor, for example. I thought again about somehow finding a husband for Marguerite. I remembered that the mint was threatening to overwhelm the other herbs in the garden, and needed to be thinned. Every now and then my mind would tiptoe up to the subject of Vincent and dart away. I thought a great deal about Blanche.

  I distinctly remembered a moment, several days before she died, when her breathing grew slow and her pulse very weak. She was next to death at that point. Yet something in her body, or perhaps in her spirit—I will never know which—gathered strength. I was crestfallen when I realized that she had rallied. I caught myself wishing she had died. Surely it is a tiny step from there to easing a departure?

  Yet these thoughts repulsed me. There was a barrier that I could not cross. I could not have given Blanche a heroic dose of morphine. Fragile as the thread of life was in her, I could not have cut it. Nor, I realized, could I actively promote Vincent’s death.

  There it was, Vincent’s death. The end of Vincent van Gogh. I kept the thought in my mind for an instant. No more heated discussions about artists. No more wondering what he might say next. No more alarm mixed with admiration. No frustration, wonder, respect. Vincent believed in the power of art, his art, to console people for the sorrows inherent in life. Making his beautiful paintings comforted him, and they comforted me. If Vincent killed himself, there would be no more of them.

  When. When Vincent killed himself. I vowed to myself, for that moment at least, to try to face the facts as Vincent did. The man had just bid me farewell.

  I was tired, so I turned toward home from the top of the plateau, where I had been wandering. Vincent was not asking for my help. Vincent was not asking for anything from me. He was simply explaining. Perhaps he was absolving me, too, for it had to be faced: I had not saved him.

  I was in the woods at this point, and I had to sit down. There was a fallen tree leaning against a live trunk and I perched against it, bracing myself and trying to catch my breath. I thought of the months he had been in Auvers. I considered the inn, the portraits, the meals, the conversations. They were not insignificant. Vincent had painted many pictures here. He had been pleased with them, and these paintings would not have existed without me. Other paintings probably would have, but not these. I could fairly say that I had done that much at least.

  But I had done nothing at all to improve Vincent’s mental health. I thought back to my original meeting with Theo, and how confident I had been that I could help Vincent regain his equanimity. My failure was devastating. I had failed Vincent as I had failed Blanche.

  When I got home, Madame Chevalier fussed about my trousers and made me drink some lemonade. There were still hours until dinner, so I went into the garden. Nero lay under a bush with his tongue hanging out, and Pekin the pug panted next to him. At the back of the garden is a kind of cave, an abandoned quarry cut into the steep hill rising behind the house. We used it to store garden tools and the animals’ feed. I went in to find a wire brush and had to step over several cats lounging against the stone walls to absorb their coolness. The big gray one, Louloutte, followed me out of the cave like a puff of smoke.

  I settled onto a low chair, and Louloutte sprang into my lap. I held the brush out with my hand, and she rubbed her head against it, again and again, purring. Then she nudged my hand so that I would brush the other side, running the tines against her cheek. Her eyes were closed and her body perfectly relaxed.

  Sometimes the only comfort to be had is physical. You cannot look to a cat for sympathy, and very few are affectionate, but Louloutte’s soft weight on my lap, her constant purr, and the rhythmic strokes of the brush provided a simple consolation. Hot as I was, her additional warmth soothed me. At least I was able to make a cat happy.

  When she leapt to the ground, I sat with my hands folded over the brush, head tilted back against the chair, and fell asleep. I was wakened moments later by my jaw dropping open, and an insistent nudge on my calf. I looked down and saw Pekin gazing up at me looking heartbroken. He butted my calf again and snorted, then launched himself into my lap to replace the cat.

  Pekin was no larger than Louloutte but so muscular that he seemed a bigger burden. He was not content simply to present areas of his body to my brush as Louloutte had—he nudged, he licked, he lifted his chin and howled, his hindquarters wagged his curly tail. His every motion said, “Here I am! Love me!” Even when I finally tipped him onto the ground, he settled next to my ankle, gazing up at me hopefully. Pekin’s life was a continuous festival of confident expectation: food, affection, food, affection, surely they would come his way soon and lavishly.

  I dozed again, or perhaps I fell into a trance. I imagined Vincent’s continued existence: more days up on the hillside, with that blank canvas becoming more grimy every day but never receiving a brushstroke of paint. Vincent getting thinner, more tense, more bizarre. Vincent in the grip of a hysterical fit, rolling, thrashing, shouting, alone in the fields or on the village street. How would I feel, how would Theo feel, watching Vincent suffer all of this? Meanwhile, Theo would be suffering trials of his own: pain, paralysis, even madness. Vincent would have to go back to an asylum; there would be no other choice. I remembered my fantasies about supporting Vincent on my own, or with the help of other artists. Nonsense. There was no money. I could not afford to take him to Dr. Charcot for a private consultation. If—or rather, when—Vincent fell into his pattern of attacks, I could not responsibly prevent his being sent away.

  I dwelt for a moment on the idea of Vincent in an asylum, of visiting him, with Theo dead and Johanna back in Holland. Vincent without family in France, in despair. He would have to be watched, perhaps restrained. I pictured Vincent in a straitjacket, shuffling along a dingy stone corridor. His hands would be trapped, his arms crossed over his belly. His eyes alone would be free. That might go on for years. I had seen it often enough at Bicêtre and at the Salpêtrière: Fewer than a third of the patients ever left. Most of them simply stayed, passing the rest of their lives in what was effectively a prison. This stopped me for a moment. Would it not be kinder simply to allow every madman to kill himself? Should they not all be spared that life of imprisonment? But I knew I could not make my considerations more general. I could not think about every case, only about Vincent.

  So, then, what if he died? No, I must not mitigate the situation. What if Vincent killed himself? We would all grieve, that was certain. We would regret—oh, how we would regret—the loss of his genius.

  But would I feel relief for him? Would I be a little bit happy that his misery had ended?

  That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted him to get better. I wanted him to pick up that shabby canvas, brush new primer over it, and cover it with paint. I did not want him starving himself to death, believing he was saving the world with his hunger. I did not want him raging around an asylum in the grip of hallucinations.
I did not want him throwing himself in front of a train or jumping from a high bridge, and maiming himself yet falling short of death. I knew these decisions were not mine to make. Yet with increasing insistence I thought of the gun in my house.

  I tried to brush the animals’ fur off my jacket and trousers before I went into the house. Madame Chevalier and Marguerite both cried out when I walked through the kitchen, and Marguerite firmly turned me around and pushed me back outdoors. “Wait here, Papa,” she told me and went back for a damp cloth. “How can you even touch those creatures in this heat?” she asked, sponging off the gray and white hairs.

  “You know how insistent Pekin can be,” I explained.

  “You must take these things off,” she continued, shaking her head. “You can’t come to the table like this. Go up and change, and bring these down. I’ll brush them properly after dinner.” I nodded and escaped to my bedroom.

  Before I changed my clothes, I had to see the gun. I reached under my bed, but my fingers did not meet the box. I lay on my side and peered into the darkness. It was a sleigh bed, closed at head and foot, pushed up against the wall. I had long found that this dark, protected space attracted all kinds of small objects, ranging from marbles to watches to cravats. I did not remember exactly where I had left the gun—toward the head? Toward the foot? I crept along the floor on my belly, groping for a hard corner with my outstretched hand. I swept from foot to head and back again. The box was not there.

  I slithered a few inches closer to see if my eyes could penetrate the gloom. A shaft of evening sun raking in from the western window hit the foot of the bed, and a thin line of light glowed beneath the mattress, making the rest of the low space darker. Nevertheless, I could see nothing there at all, not even a film of dust.

  I sat back onto my heels, then stood up. Downstairs, Marguerite was placing dinner plates on the table. I moved the chair over to the armoire and climbed up on it, reaching out to feel the top shelf. Just as the dinner bell rang, my fingers brushed a familiar shape. Somehow, the gun had been moved from beneath my bed to its accustomed hiding place.

  I changed my clothes quickly and arrived at the dinner table at the same time as Paul. He asked whether I had seen Vincent, and I found myself absolutely unable to discuss my friend. I boldly pretended that I had not. I am normally a wretched liar, but on this occasion I believe I was convincing. Paul spent the rest of the meal speculating on the likelihood of catching an enormous perch that he had spotted by a weir upstream. My mind, of course, was elsewhere.

  Who had moved the box? Did they know it contained a gun? Did it still contain the gun? I hadn’t opened it—perhaps the weapon was missing! Why had it been moved? Would anyone attach any significance to it? What significance could it have?

  It would have none, unless it was used.

  Naturally as soon as we had finished the meal I made an excuse to return to my room. I climbed once again onto the chair and pulled the box down from the top shelf of the armoire. The gun was inside. So were the cartridges. I pushed the box under the bed again and went back downstairs for coffee.

  Later that night, I loaded the little revolver. I slipped it into the pocket of the blue linen coat I had been wearing when Vincent painted me. I left the house quietly, walked to Ravoux’s, and tiptoed into the shed. I put the gun on the table, over the spot where Vincent had scratched his cry of despair.

  Seventeen

  IT TOOK ME A LONG TIME to get home. At every step I considered going back. My strength ebbed and flowed so that I might be able to walk steadily for a dozen paces then find myself unable to drag a foot another inch along the powdery road. When I came to the pasture where the plow horse César lived, I clung to the fence as if a strong tide threatened to suck me away. I was glad it was a dark night, for a villager glancing through his window would have been amazed at the spectacle of Dr. Gachet, panting and sweating as he staggered along the rue Rémy. The stone steps up to the house, when I reached it, rose so steeply that I paused and sat down near the bottom. I remembered that first day when Madame Chevalier had answered the door and I had heard her footsteps along with Vincent’s climbing these steps. I put my head in my hands. Would it have been better for Vincent if he had never rung our bell?

  I imagined the gun, lying where I had left it. It would still be there. If I were not an old man, heat-stricken and exhausted, I could go back and get it. Yet even as I considered this, I saw again the image of Vincent, wild-eyed in his shabby straw hat. What I had done was the only thing I could do for him.

  Eventually I became uncomfortable. The stone steps dug into my legs. My feet ached and stung. The garden around me rustled, full of tiny nocturnal dramas as insects and birds and field mice and cats all went about their business, attempting to kill, or to stay alive through the night. A pair of green eyes glowed momentarily farther up the steps, and I thought I recognized Louloutte’s bulk in the starlight, but she had no time for a mere human. She was on the prowl and I was no prey for her—prey only to my own thoughts, regrets, imagination. I rose stiffly to climb the steps into the house. If I bathed my feet in cool water, they might feel better. I could accomplish that much.

  When I entered the house, I heard only Madame Chevalier’s snores coming from her small chamber on the third floor. Thus when I pushed open the door to my bedroom, I was startled to see a figure sitting on my bed. I nearly lost my grip on the basin of water I had brought from the kitchen, but Marguerite, ever the little housekeeper, leapt up and seized it before it could hit the tile floor. Much of the water had slopped over, so there was a confusing moment of mopping and whispering and setting the basin down in a safe corner before I could ask her why she was still awake.

  We were standing in the dark. Marguerite lit the candle on my washstand. When the flame caught, I saw the box that had contained my gun on my bed. The leather pouch of cartridges lay next to it. The box was open, empty. The padded interior had been shaped to cradle the weapon; in the gold, flickering light, there was a dark, gun-shaped cavity in the box.

  Marguerite looked up at me, with fear and puzzlement mingled on her face. “What have you done with it, Papa?”

  I sat on—no, collapsed into—the mattress beside the box. “How did you know about this?” I asked, touching the goatskin padding. I remembered having the box made back in 1871, for this gun, which I considered my spoils of war. It was the kind of foolish extravagance a younger man indulges in.

  Marguerite shook her head slightly with the look of exasperated pity I had occasionally seen on Blanche’s face. It was the expression of a woman confronted by a man’s folly. “I sweep under your bed, you know. If I didn’t …” Her voice trailed off. I was supposed to grasp the consequences of not sweeping under a bed.

  “But …?” I gestured at the armoire.

  “Madame Chevalier and I do not touch your study, but we do turn out the rest of the house in spring and in fall. What did you do with the gun?”

  My mind was whirling again. It had been such a long day, so much walking and thinking, so much agitation! What could I tell Marguerite? What did she know, what did she understand? My hands lifted feebly from my lap and dropped again.

  Marguerite stood in front of me, holding the candle. Her hand was starting to tremble. “Where … what did you do with it?”

  “Why are you here?” I countered. “Why not asleep, as usual? What is this to you?”

  “Papa, I am worried,” she suddenly said. Whispered, rather—for this whole exchange took place at half voice. “Paul said Vincent is going mad again. He did not tell you—he spoke with Vincent up on the plateau. He said Vincent looked wild, and was sitting up there not painting. And Vincent said he couldn’t paint anymore and there was no future for him.” She set the candle down on the washstand and raised her hands to her eyes.

  I stood and drew her to me. She stood stiffly, her forehead just touching my shoulder. Even so, her tears soaked right through my linen coat and my shirt. She was trying to muffle her sobs.


  “Come, let’s go downstairs,” I whispered. “No need to wake everyone.” I picked up the candle and took my daughter’s hand and led her to my study. She followed, unresisting, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  I took a cushion from the stiff settee and placed it in the armchair before guiding Marguerite to sit. I thought about a lamp, but it seemed this conversation might go better with less light.

  “So you’re fond of Vincent,” I said. “And—Paul’s tale concerned you?”

  “Paul said he was talking …” The tears began again. “I can’t even … Madame Chevalier says it’s a sin.… You couldn’t … He wouldn’t.…” Sobs alternated with words.

  What could I say? What was most urgent here? I could not tell. Marguerite’s grief? Her affection, whatever it was, for Vincent? His madness, his longing for escape? I knew I could not begin with the gun.

  I tried to soothe her, to hush her. She was twenty-one, after all. Paul was still young enough to be callous about Vincent, I supposed. He might see Vincent’s madness as a joke. For Marguerite, it was real.

  “He saw me, Papa. He painted you, you know how it is. Monsieur Vincent really looked at me. At me.” Her eyes welled again.

  It was so simple. He had looked at her. He saw her. Did I? I saw a daughter, pretty enough, accomplished enough to be proud of. To me, she was useful to have around, an excellent cook, a formidable housekeeper, but perhaps no more than that. Vincent saw something in her that I had missed.

  To this day I do not know what this meant to Marguerite, and I am grateful. Did she imagine that she loved him, that he loved her? Had they formed a bond I failed to perceive?

  I took a different tack. “Paul is very young,” I said, trying to make my voice reassuring. “I doubt that he understands Vincent’s situation. It is sad. You may weep as much as you like for our friend Vincent. When he came here, I thought that I could make him better, happier. It seems now that I was wrong.”