Mail slot minutia

You can consider this blog as another in my series of "Little Things I Learned On the Way To Writing a Historical Novel." In looking over a scene in Arles, one in which the point of view character is not Van Gogh but Gauguin, I was reminded of one of those little bits of historical detail that I want to make right before I declare my novel done. In the scene, Gauguin reclines on his bed in the Yellow House, enjoying a cigarette and an hour free from Vincent's company. The postman delivers the mail. From upstairs Gauguin hears it drop through the slot and on to the floor. Gauguin, enjoying his leisure, is slow to check on the delivery, but finally he does. The mail contains both positive and annoying news for Gauguin, and how he reacts to that news throws light both on his character and his relationship with Van Gogh. It also contributes to his initial decision to leave Arles and the Yellow House behind.

But my immediate concern as I looked over the scene yesterday wasn't the thematic but the mechanical. To wit: Would the mail have entered the Yellow House through a slot? I wrote the scene and revised it several times without worrying too much about this point, although it did cross my mind a time or two. Old homes have mail slots, I figured. So I guess that's how this mail comes in. But would it have? Really? It's become a question I can't ignore, as the clock ticks down on this last flurry of revisions on the book. I wasn't sure if I could find an answer that would satisfy me, and I'm not sure I have, but think I've got an answer that my book and I can live with. After a little internet research, I've learned that mail slots did not become common in Europe until the mid-1800s. In some parts of Europe, they did not become common until the late 1800s. Well, what about Arles? (And is 1888 "late" enough to be the late 1800s?) I don't know, but I do know that in Paris mail slots began to appear in the late 1700s. Whatever happens in a country's captial will eventually find its way to the provinces, and since Paris was one of the first world capitals to employ mail slots, it seems logical that the provinces of France would begin using them before other parts of Europe. Since I don't want Gauguin to show any hurry in getting the mail, I'd rather not have him get up to answer a knock from the postman. So the only reason I'd ditch the mail slot is if the evidence is obviously against it. That not being the case, I'm keeping it.

By the way, do you know why mail slots were invented in the first place? No, not to look all gold and glittery on a wooden door front. The reason is that prior to their use the postman would indeed have to knock and wait for someone to answer the door to receive his or her mail. The amount of time wasted standing at the door convinced someone to introduce the mail slot. (And later, in the United States--in 1915--the all too familiar tunnel-shaped mailbox, invented by one Roy J. Joroleman, a U.S. Post Office employee.) I'll count this knowledge as a one more peripheral benefit to starting down the long Van Gogh road five years ago.

The Langlois bridge?--Part Two

In my last post, I described the somewhat off-the-beaten-path Van Gogh site of the Langlois Bridge, or "Pont Van Gogh" as it is actually designated on maps (because the real Langlois bridge was removed several decades ago). Besides the bridge itself, what I was most intrigued by when I went there was the tall, dying, long unoccupied house that sits very close to the bridge. (That's it in the photo.) Even on my first visit to Pont Van Gogh I think I took more pictures of this house than the bridge itself. And on my most recent visit last May, I left the bridge behind and walked through waist high weeds to circumnavigate the house. I would have taken more and closer pictures of it except that the battery in my camera died. So I brought out my sketchpad and starting drawing it from several different angles. Having to do so was a real blessing, because it forced me to look a lot more closely at the house than if I were merely snapping a photo.

I cannot swear to the age of the house, but I have to assume it was once occupied by whomever was responsible for operating the bridge. In fact, in Van Gogh's painting of the real Langlois Bridge, a similar structure does sit off to the right. When I decided for the sake of my novel to accept a tour guide's story that the Langlois Bridge was really called the "L'anglais" Bridge in Van Gogh's time, because an Englishman was the bridgemaster, this old house became more important. It would be the home of this unknown and unnamed Englishman, who I decided would feature prominently in my Arles scenes. After all, Van Gogh depicted the bridge in several paintings and must have walked to it from his hotel room in Arles repeatedly. Plenty of occasions for interaction. In my novel, his friendship with this English bridgemaster has essentially stood in for the friendship that in real life he seemed to have enjoyed with his postman Roulin. That is, a good-natured, easy going, rather masculine give and take, which allowed him, as I imagine it, to escape for a few moments or hours the severity of his commitment to painting. Roulin's physical appearance, as depicted by Van Gogh in a well known portrait, actually influenced my mental image of the English bridgemaster, whom I've named Portis. They aren't identical by any means, but elements of Roulin's appearance--his heft, his beard, his hail-fellow-well-met redness--coordinate pretty well with an Englishman occupying an easy job who enjoys his pint (or more) every day.

But it's a fair question to ask: "Why do this?" All I can give as an answer is to say that I never asked myself the question; instead, I asked "Why not?" I liked the idea of semi-slothful expatriate Englishman in my novel, one who lives in a crumbling old house with his lovely provencal wife and two children. And just as in real life Van Gogh eventually painted Roulin (see photo) and his wife, in my novel Vincent--at Portis's suggestion--paints Portis's daughters. On of these daughters, who I've named Elise, is in my telling the model for Van Gogh's famous "Mousmé" sketch and painting. (I posted about that some weeks back.) Later, Van Gogh's fallout with Gauguin is catalyzed by tensions and jealousies involving Elyse and the entire Portis family. In real life, the failure of the experiment of the Yellow House was rooted in differences between Van Gogh and Gauguin over matters of art, taste, and technique. Fundamental aspects of any friendship--like respect--were in question. It wasn't simply a matter of one man getting angry over unwashed dishes. This is all true of my novel as well. But it's a rare interpersonal combustion that has only one cause, and deciding to bring the Portis family into the mix has made, I hope, for a more drastic, believable, and intriguing blowup between the two proud men.

Next time: Even more about the Pont Van Gogh! Who knew there was this much to say?