Gauguin couldn’t leave after just two months! It was unreasonable. After all Vincent had done to find and prepare the Yellow House. After all, Theo had done to support the project. Why go so soon? Give it at least a few more months. Long enough for some other artists to join them. What could he say to convince Gauguin to stay? How could he keep him there? It wasn’t fair. Not fair to Theo or to him.
He had tried so hard to go along with all Gauguin’s ideas about how to paint, even when he didn’t feel they were leading him in the right direction. But he had tried. What did Gauguin want? Did he just want a follower? An apprentice to do his bidding? Well, Gauguin could find someone else. He could find some place else. They were living in his Yellow House, after all. He had found it and Theo paid the rent. Why should Gauguin dictate the rules and regulations? Why did Gauguin act so haughty and demanding? He was expected to lead not dictate. His paintings were interesting, but they lacked passion. Very controlled. No true feeling there. Since Gauguin was starting to sell, Vincent suspected he felt superior to artists who were still struggling.
Gauguin and Emile Bernard seemed to get along, but Bernard was starting to paint in Gauguin’s style. Or was Gauguin adopting the cloisonne style from Bernard, in which heavy black lines enclosed areas of color? It didn’t matter. There was always something to learn. And he was willing to learn from Gauguin. But not just subjugate his own expression. Not submit to a point of burying his own creative spirit. His own artistic expression. Not be overpowered to an extent that would drown his own vision. No, by damn!
As the thoughts kept repeating in his mind, Vincent’s anger grew. Gauguin could leave! He didn’t care. He would get along just fine without Gauguin. He was being treated with distain. He didn’t need to put up with it. They didn’t need Gauguin, the arrogant, pompous, dictator. Well, not dictating to him. Not anymore. He was tired of being treated like an untalented nobody. He knew Gauguin thought he lacked talent. He had as much as said so. The more he thought about it, the more incensed he became.
After all, who was Gauguin? A man who had deserted his wife and five children in Denmark. Left them in uncertain if not downright poor financial straits. Vincent told himself he would never do that. Sien and Willem didn’t count. They weren’t his, even though he had wanted them to be at that point in his life. Gauguin was a deserter. He liked to act so superior. Condescending because he was starting to sell his art. But where was his conscience? How could he go off to the South Seas and leave his children? Vincent remembered how it had torn him apart emotionally to leave Willem, and Sien’s boy wasn’t his true son. Gauguin was heartless. Didn’t care about his own children! Where was his love for them? Ruled by his head not his heart, in his life as well as his art. Self centered and egotistical.
At the sound of the door opening, Vincent turned and saw Gauguin stepping out into the night. Where was he going? Gauguin had come downstairs from his bedroom and walked out the door without a word. Went right by where Vincent leaned against the kitchen counter, lost in his own thoughts. Gauguin had to have seen him, Vincent thought. Walked right by without saying a word of greeting or good-bye. Suddenly struck with the thought: he’s leaving for good! Vincent rushed toward the door. Had to talk to him! Convince him not to walk out on their dream. His dream and Theo’s dream. Blood seemed to suddenly race from his heart to his head. He was angrier than he had ever experienced before. He felt both slightly dizzy and suddenly driven to action. When did he pick up that blade?
Everything was a blur after that. Vincent remembered following Gauguin to see if he were heading for the train station. He hadn’t gone far, actually. Before entering a neighborhood bar, Gauguin turned to confront Vincent when he realized he was being followed. But before Vincent caught up with him, Gauguin was alarmed at Vincent’s wild expression. Light from the doorway reflected as a glint on the blade in his clenched fist, and the glint in his eye. Feeling threatened, Gauguin ducked through the doorway.
Frustrated and alone on the dark street, Vincent turned. His anger had suddenly left him feeling weak and disoriented. He half staggered back to the Yellow House, and entered feeling utterly lost and alone. He had seen the fear in Gauguin’s eyes and knew the artist he had made leader of his art colony wouldn’t stay in Arles. Dropping the knife on the little corner table, he sat down on his bed, head in his hands. He was sure Gauguin would leave.
Vincent’s head was pounding and the voices were back. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but he heard the sounds. He was tired but he couldn’t rest. He couldn’t stop shaking. If the sounds would only stop. They were maddening. Not clear enough to make out the words. What were they saying? When he tried to concentrate. When he tried to hear the words, suddenly all was silence. The moment he gave up listening for meaning, the voices started again. If they would only stop! If he could only make them stop! If he could only stop hearing them! They were driving him mad!
He had to stop the voices! Would he hear them if he had no ears? In desperation, he grabbed up the straight razor. As the voices screeched in his mind, he pinched his earlobe between thumb and forefinger and, to the accompaniment of the chorus of babble in his head, he severed the pinched flesh, then screeched at the searing pain. He gazed horrified in the mirror above the table. Almost surprised by the blood running down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Shocked by the pain that had stopped his hand from further mutilation. Shocked at what he’d done to himself. Then he realized the voices had stopped. He laughed out loud. A wild laugh that startled him. Was he going mad? He’d stopped the voices. But at what cost? Was he mad? What would he do now? Stop the flow of blood. Yes, that first. What would he do with the earlobe? His ear didn’t even hurt now. How to bandage his ear? It wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Vincent put a clean folded handkerchief over the wound. How to hold it in place? He wrapped a scarf around his head like a turban. That seemed to work. His ear had started to throb and he was beginning to feel weak. What now? He suddenly didn’t want to be alone. Where could he go? Where did he always go when he felt lonely? The Bordello. They wouldn’t ask questions. He’d give his severed earlobe to Sien. His favorite’s real name was Rachel, but he called all the whores Sien. Taking another clean handkerchief from the drawer of his little bedroom table, he wrapped up the bit of ear almost like a gift. Give it to Sien, he thought. Give her a bit of himself. She may not understand what he had done, or why he was giving her a part of himself? But she would comfort him. She would help him forget.
If only she were the real Sien. She would understand how painful it was to always be alone. Not truly loved for oneself. Every whore should know that. The act of love was just that for a whore, and for him. A substitute for love. But she would understand. Or would she? He needed her to understand. He needed someone to understand.
With the wrapped earlobe in his pocket, Vincent made his way to the whorehouse. He was weak from loss of blood by the time he arrived, and it seemed to take forever before they were alone in her room together. When he presented her with his gift he was disappointed by her shocked response. She had shrieked and dropped the offensive, bloody piece of flesh. Almost hysterical, her screams of disgust caused other whores to rush into the room. The madame called the police. Vincent was too weak to care. His disappointment at her response left him completely drained. He had been sitting on the bed. In utter despair, he simply rolled over and let a wave of darkness wash over him.
When the police arrived, they took the situation in hand. Vincent had roused, saw the police and was alarmed. Then he heard them explain to the madame that they couldn’t arrest him. The only one he had hurt was himself. It was at that point he saw his friend Roulin hovering near him in a protective way. What was he doing there? Did it matter? He closed his eyes again to the soothing sound of the postman’s familiar deep voice. Roulin told the police where Vincent lived, and helped as they half carried Vincent who was barely conscious. Once they reached the Yellow House, the police simply delivered him to the green door.
Roulin helped open the door and wanted to go into the house with his wounded friend, but was advised against it. The police said they would return in the morning to check on him. Reassured, Roulin turned to head for his home. He too, he thought, would check again in the morning. Inside, Vincent leaned against the door after it was shut behind him and took a few moments to steady himself. His head was spinning and he knew he had to get to his bed or he would collapse on the floor. He was sure Gauguin would not come back and he dreaded being alone. He felt weak and frightened. What if the voices returned? His ear was still bleeding. He felt light headed and groggy. Staggering, Vincent stumbled the few feet to his small bedroom and collapsed on the bed as another black wave relieved the throbbing in his head and he lost consciousness once more.
That’s how Gauguin found Vincent the next morning. Unconscious, his head on a bloody pillow. My god, he thought. He’s killed himself! Then Gauguin heard a low moan and dashed out to contact Theo. The telegram he sent simply informed Theo that Vincent was in a bad way. He was bleeding and in need of care. Please respond. Gauguin waited at the wireless office and finally the response came. Theo would arrive as soon as he could get there. He was told to rush Vincent to the hospital. It was enough. He would make sure Vincent was taken to the hospital, and then he could gather up his belongings and leave.
When Gauguin got back to the Yellow House, the police were already there. Gauguin didn’t need to act on Theo’s instructions. Vincent would be taken to the hospital for medical care. That resolved the urgency for action. It was already being taken care of. He had let Theo know, and he was free to collect his belongings, including his most recent paintings that hadn’t been shipped to Theo, and leave Arles. He was free to go. There was nothing to hold him there. Vincent was insane and, he decided, that was the last anyone would ever hear of the poor demented soul.