Finding Vincent Read online

Sunday, June 16

  Adeline laughed as I ran and jumped up into our prearranged wagon at the Pontoise station. “How do you make it in the Army where everything must be punctual?” she asked.

  I also had to laugh: “Maybe it's because I'm in the Army that I push the boundaries. But you see, I made it to the train on time!” As she laughed again, I continued: “Thank you, Adeline, for your advice about approaching Dr. Gachet. He openly showed me his collection; Marguerite expressed her feelings about Vincent – all more than expected. Now we can visit your home village. I'm very lucky to have the perfect guide!”

  “Well, I hope you'll be the perfect tourist!” she grinned. “When we debark we'll need to walk a bit to arrive at our old inn, the town hall, and church. You'll love it!”

  For the remainder of the train ride and walk into Auvers-sur-Oise, we chatted about the challenges of living at home with parents. Adeline was still in the throes of that, so she used this opportunity to clear her mind. Her love for her parents and family showed as she related her stories. I told of my apprenticeship away from home and my stay in Marseilles after so many years away. Adeline listened intently and nodded. As we approached the village I asked if we could stop for lunch.

  “Yes, let’s eat at our old inn, now called Auberge Leleu. The new owner, M. Leleu, is expecting me and I'm sure he'll welcome you, Armand.”

  We walked briskly along cottage-lined lanes and enjoyed glimpses of the River Oise. Adeline pointed out Dr. Gachet's previous residence, also surrounded by shrubs and a secluded garden. When we reached a large chateau, Adeline said, “That was built in the 17th century. Our inn is just a little further; we’ll take rue Daubigny.”

  We turned up the lane and she pointed out the town hall. Adeline then showed me the 13th-century Gothic church. Vincent had painted it against a dark blue sky. We arrived at the inn just in time for lunch. Mr. and Mrs. Leleu welcomed Adeline, and they were very gracious to both of us. The lamb gigot was especially tasteful. We talked continuously and didn’t want the afternoon to end.

  After lunch Adeline showed me the rest of the village. It felt warm and comfortable. I remarked that the town hall was so well depicted in Vincent's painting. When we walked again past the village church, it gave me the same cold feeling that Vincent had portrayed.

  We returned to the inn and Adeline led me to the room where Vincent had lived and died. It was still uninhabited. I stood entranced for several minutes and took in the loneliness of the tight quarters. I thought of Vincent's last days that Adeline's father had so well described. She patiently waited and seemed to understand my feelings.

  We descended the stairway and felt refreshed by the warm afternoon sun. “I know you must talk now with M. Leleu,” I said. “I will walk into the fields surrounding Auvers to view the countryside Vincent painted. When I see you again will you have time for tea?”

  “Yes, of course. We never miss “goûter” in the Oise region. We'll have tea here at the inn. Then we can catch the six o'clock train back to Meulan in time for dinner.” She smiled. I laughed in appreciation, and we waved good-byes as Adeline turned back to the inn.

  I continued north up the lane away from the river. The Daubigny gardens captured my eye at the edge of the village. Here was another scene that Vincent had enhanced with his brush. As I continued my stroll into open farmland, I imagined Vincent toting his easel and supplies up the road. I wondered where he had been the day he shot himself. Neither Adeline's father nor Dr. Gachet knew the exact location. A tree and shaded bench came into view at a road junction. It appeared to be a local rest-stop, so I sat and wrote my day's notes and realized that my first discoveries for Johanna had involved Vincent's last days.

  On my return to Auvers, I reflected that it would be good to have a change of scope the next day when I would meet Camille Pissarro. He had known Vincent for several years in other regions of France. As I neared the village, I looked forward to “goûter” with Adeline. She appeared at the porch just as I arrived, and we laughed as she commented, “Perfect timing, again!”

  We settled at a table in the salon that she knew so well. Mrs. Leleu served the tea for us and the inn guests. It wasn't long before Adeline and I were talking about the future. We each wanted to know the other's hopes and dreams. She told me about her love for the Oise region. She wanted to someday visit Paris, but she surely wanted to settle nearby, close to her parents and her sister.

  “You know, Germaine is only nearing her seventh birthday. I love her so much, and it's fun to see her grow and to help her learn new things. I will always want to be near her and Mother and Father.”

  When I expressed my own thoughts of the future, I realized my desires were not as well developed as Adeline's. Freedom was foremost in my mind, but I had yet to establish my goals. Certainly the Army would take care of me, but I admitted to not being sure what would be best.

  Our conversation shifted to France's current events. We commented and laughed about Fauvre as our new president who offended no one. Then we speculated about motion pictures. We had heard Paris would soon have the first public showing.

  By the time we left Auberge Leleu, I knew for certain that I loved Adeline and hoped that she loved me. It was too soon to tell her, but the time would come. We continued our chatter on the train, and held hands as we walked back from the Meulan station. Just before her inn came into view I stopped and turned to her, and we hugged. She was the first to release, and we looked at each other with feeling as we slowly took the last steps back to her family.

  Dr. Gachet, 1890, Musee d’Orsay, Paris

  Eleven

  Monday, June 17

  I found a driver the next morning willing to make the long round-trip to Camille Pissarro’s village, Eragny-sur-Epte. As the carriage bumped along, Adeline was foremost in my thoughts. Her family had offered me dinner and we had passed a wonderful evening together. Young Germaine had been a joy with her schoolgirl jokes.

  When we arrived in Eragny, it was easy to find Pissarro's large home on the tranquil single street surrounded by farmland. A boy of eleven or twelve years performed yo-yo tricks on the front porch. When I asked for Mr. Pissarro, the freckled lad grinned and said, “Yes sir, he is home. I am his son. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “My name is Armand Roulin. I am here to talk briefly about an artist he knew, Vincent van Gogh.”

  He repeated the names to himself, then bid me wait as he closed the door. I marveled how Pissarro could have such a young son. Johanna had mentioned that he had many children and was still actively painting. The lad soon returned and waved me to follow. He led me through the house and out to a barn used as a studio. Camille lowered his palette and turned to greet me.

  “Hello. I understand that you would like to talk with me concerning Vincent. Please tell me more and I will try to help. Thank you, Paul,” he said to his son and waved him back.

  Suddenly I felt put on the spot. Perhaps it was the mass of white beard and thick eyeglasses with large brown eyes peering kindly at me. I recovered myself by referring to his son. “That’s a great lad you have there, Mr. Pissarro. Is he your youngest?”

  “Yes, our last child. I’m 66 years old now, but he keeps me young,” he grinned.

  I nodded and introduced myself, then explained Johanna's search for information on Vincent and his paintings.

  “Ah, such a great artist. And his brother, Theo, helped me greatly. Before and after Vincent died he gave me two expositions in Paris. I invited him often to come and stay with me, but he never found the time. He died soon thereafter. Vincent was amazing in his ability to paint a masterpiece in a single day. It takes me a long time to complete a painting.” Camille walked around the studio and waved at two easels and four wall hangings. “This is all I have completed this year: two country scenes, three local portraits, and this Pontoise market scene.”

  I walked to each painting. The style seemed unique, yet I could see a resemblance with Vincent’s work. “I love your painting, Mr. Pissarro
.”

  “Thank you. It has changed greatly over the years, and it has included a style called pointillism.” Camille sat on his stool and motioned me to a chair. “As to your main search, I have only two Vincent paintings: a mulberry tree and a basket of apples. That work is owned by my oldest son, Lucien, also a painter. I’ll show them later. I wish I had more. Many of Vincent's friends have paintings. Be sure to see Paul Gauguin and Emile Bernard. Also see the Paris art dealer, Mr. Vollard, who I have yet to meet.”

  “Yes, I will visit all three men very soon. I have also seen Mr. Vollard's exhibition of Vincent's art. Do you have any other comments or recommendations?”

  “Vincent was a hard man to be around. He was brilliant; he wanted to learn; but he put up barriers. Theo asked me to take him as an understudy in 1884. I flatly refused; I knew I could not live with him, although I did give him several lessons. When Vincent left southern France, Theo asked me again to take Vincent. Again I refused, but I recommended Dr. Gachet in Auvers. But then Vincent committed suicide. He had a very difficult life. His genius was in sharing his vision through painting. Who else could do a painting like his starry night? He did that while at the asylum in Saint-Remy. Theo prized that work; it is surely now with Johanna. It is both eerie and almost supernatural. And his portraits captured each person's essence. I’ll never forget his portrait of Pere Tanguy, the gallery owner. Well, enough said – Vincent was unique.”

  “Thank you. Johanna will appreciate your information. I have not seen the starry night scene, but I loved the portrait of Pere Tanguy. I also love the portraits of my family in Arles that Ambroise Vollard is now displaying in Paris.”

  “I hope to visit Paris and see the exposition soon. I want to meet Vollard. Perhaps he will display my paintings. We’ll see. Now I'll show you Vincent's paintings.”

  Sunlight glistened on the flowerbeds as I followed Camille to his house and dining room.

  “Vincent painted this mulberry tree when he was at Saint-Remy. It is incredible – the colors, the sky, the rough terrain. I can feel it.” My heart felt what Camille said. As I studied it and made a note for Johanna, Camille moved to the still life, a basket of apples. “And look at this painting; it also tells a story.” Thick, colorful brush strokes vibrated in the simple scene.

  Then Camille called through the door, “Lucien, are you close by? We have here a fan of Vincent.” A man of thirty entered the room and extended his hand.

  “Hello, I'm Armand Roulin, working for Johanna van Gogh in a search for Vincent’s paintings. Your father says that you are the owner of this still life basket of apples, and I see that Vincent wrote directly here to you, ‘à l’ami Lucien Pissarro, Vincent.’ ”

  “Like my father I also paint and appreciate Vincent's art. I was honored to receive this painting.”

  “Lucien, can you show me some of your paintings?”

  “I live in England and am only visiting. However, my father has one of my paintings here on this wall. It’s titled Vue d’Eragny, a scene of this village looking across a field three years ago. Much of my painting is similar to this one of town and country. My father has inspired all his children to paint.”

  As I admired Lucien's painting, Camille smiled and said, “I hope your visit has been helpful to Johanna’s goals. Give her our best wishes. Lucien and I dearly miss both Vincent and Theo.”

  I thanked both men, then Camille led me to the door where we exchanged farewell handshakes. My driver was waiting and we stopped at the village cafe for a short meal before we departed Eragny.

  When we started back in the carriage, I realized I had seen only two paintings but now appreciated Vincent more than ever. After I finished writing notes on my visit, I became excited about the return to Meulan. I would have the next day with Adeline. I wondered what she was doing at that moment and imagined her at work on the café's evening meal. Is she also thinking of me?

  Starry Night, 1889, Museum of Modern Art, New York

  Twelve

  Tuesday, June 18

  I knocked the next morning at the Ravoux's inn as early as I dared. Adeline opened the door, then gasped and we hugged. “How can you be here?,” she asked. “I thought you had to finish your interviews for Johanna.”

  “I looked at my schedule and saw I could take a day off. I'll travel to Paris later today to interview Ambroise Vollard and Paul Gauguin tomorrow. I'm sure hoping you have some free time to spend with me today!”

  She looked me in the eye and smiled, “Yes, and you’ve come at just the right time. I’ve just finished breakfast cleanup and have some time before a busy lunch. I’ll tell my parents and we can visit our favorite spot.”

  We found a table at our café and ordered the same beverages. We talked of all that had happened. Adeline had been busy at the brasserie yesterday, but had found time to start reading Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame. She wanted to soon visit Paris and see the cathedral.

  I told her of Camille Pissarro and his sons and their two paintings by Vincent. I mentioned that after Paris I hoped to return to see her again. I would then go on to Lille to see Emile Bernard before I traveled east to Johanna in the Netherlands. Adeline nodded as I mentioned the various names. She remembered them from Vincent and our previous discussion.

  “You've been so successful for Johanna! And after you see her will you be able to visit yet again on your way to southern France?' she asked, peering bashfully.

  Her words hit my core; she had mentioned her feelings before I did. I looked into her eyes and held her hands. “Adeline, you are now constantly on my mind. I have to see you again. I don’t even know how I can go back to Tunisia. I know I must, but it will be painful. Somehow I will see you again after seeing Johanna. Yes, I must. This is love; this must be it. I love you Adeline. Can you believe that, after only seeing you a few times? I love you. I want to hold you.”

  I pulled my chair over, hugged her, and felt her passion in return. Patrons peered with interest, and we finally loosened our embrace. I paid our waiter and we took a side street and found a quiet alley back towards her inn.

  “Do you love me, Adeline?”

  She looked at me intently: “I think so, Armand. I have never had love before, but this feels like it. All I know is, I want to be with you.”

  “That's how I also feel. I've never loved before. It's better than I imagined. You are in my thoughts, my dreams.” My voice trailed off and I hugged her again.

  “I too dream of you. When I work at the inn my mind is with you. I must reset my thoughts to continue my duties.” She buried her head in my shoulder and squeezed me tightly.

  “This is real, Adeline. I don’t know how to make this come true for us, to be together; but I'm devoted to that.”

  “OK, I will hope and pray, and be here for you.”

  We clasped each other urgently, and I felt overpowering urges arise. Adeline stirred and said, “I’m sorry, but I must return to get things prepared for lunch.”

  “Yes,” I responded, “It's time for me also to get on my way.”

  It was hard to get back to the day’s obligations. We continued slowly back to the square and the inn. We kissed, held each other tightly, and said painfully happy goodbyes.

  Thirteen

  Wednesday, June 19

  Paris shined in the twilight as I debarked the train and headed to my previous lodging. Over dinner I considered how to approach Ambroise and finally figured on a tack that might work.

  Next morning I rose early and walked the streets around his gallery. I imagined myself as Ambroise. He had a difficult occupation as dealer: buy or receive consigned art; store it; display it; advertise it; sell it; deliver it. He had to stay profitable to continue this cycle. Johanna said Ambroise’s father had funded him two years earlier. He was already respected for his strong-willed ability to “buy low, sell high” and had recently opened his second gallery on rue Lafitte.

  I forced myself to look confident and approached his door. I knocked softly and entered
the gallery. Ambroise opened a back curtain and stood staring at me. “Isn’t one time enough?” he asked.

  “You are an excellent dealer, a smart dealer, Mr. Vollard. Johanna knows and appreciates that. She is a collector, not a dealer. She wants to log all of Vincent’s art to accompany the publication of Vincent’s letters to Theo. In this sense Johanna is already collaborating with you to enlarge the overall market for Vincent’s art. She would inform Danish collectors of your paintings. She also may someday want to buy some herself. She has asked that I gather an inventory of your paintings, and she will share the information on her collection. She realizes you have the talent and facility to address a large market. Would you be willing to collaborate with her for the goal of increasing both your opportunities?”

  Ambroise continued to stare, then finally lifted a welcoming hand and said: “Come in Mr. Roulin. You were the subject of one of Vincent’s paintings, and now you're working for Johanna van Gogh. Yes, I will talk with you. I will lead the discussion and ask you to take a message for her.”

  I nodded and said nothing to interrupt his clearly improved mood.

  “So let’s start. I will briefly describe each of Vincent’s works. I don’t have much time, so it’ll be quick. I won’t answer questions, but when we are done, I’ll ask you to write down a note for Johanna. Understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vollard, I fully understand.”

  “Good,” he nodded and then beckoned me. He stopped at each work and gave me the title and year. They included nature scenes like Starry Night Over the Rhone, but the majority were paintings from Arles such as Café Terrace on the Place du Forum and an impressive array of portraits. I looked twice at the one of Pere Tanguy. It was as if I had known this friendly recently deceased dealer. I studied the portrait of my mother, Madame Roulin Rocking the Cradle, and I stopped again at van Gogh’s self-portrait with bandaged ear and smoking pipe. I had a difficult time looking at my portrait.