The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 157 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Finally, the scene I've been longing to see is here.

Soon, the reason for Van Gogh's suicide will become clear.

Despite his struggles, he never forgot to celebrate life. When he visited the wife of his recently married brother Theo, he was cleanly shaven, dressed in clean clothes, and displayed impeccable manners.

Observing his life in Auvers-sur-Oise, where he spent his last days, it seemed he never had a moment that would push him to give up on life.

Though I can't physically intervene, I can watch and uncover the secrets hidden within.

'Why, why did he do it?'

I check the time on the antique clock in the corner of the restaurant.

'It's just past lunchtime. There's still time.'

That day, Van Gogh was out in the wheat field, painting.

As I ran, the contents of Van Gogh's letters came to mind.

'I saw many crows in the cathedral this morning. Spring is coming soon, and the swallows will return. It is written, ‘God renews the face of the earth.’ ‘Behold, I make all things new.’ And just as God renews the earth's surface, so can he breathe new life into the human soul, mind, and heart.'

'Really, did you choose to end your own life?'

'If so, why, why did you?'

It's unheard of for someone who attempted suicide by shooting themselves to miss, then drag themselves back to an inn and languish for two days before dying.

Many pathologists and gunshot experts argue that Van Gogh was murdered. They say:

‘It’s unlikely for someone committing suicide with a gun to shoot themselves in the side.’

Objectively, it doesn't make sense.

Autopsies of those who chose suicide often reveal a significant portion of their brain melted due to extreme stress.

But humans instinctively fear death. Thus, even in their final moments, they choose a method to die as painlessly and quickly as possible.

Would such a person shoot themselves in the side?

Was it because he was not in his right mind, like when he cut off his ear?

No, that's not it. The Van Gogh I observed was not like that.

People, who couldn't understand Van Gogh's work, also failed to understand his mental state.

That's why it was easy to conclude it as suicide.

But I can assert this. He was not insane. He was not mad.

After Van Gogh's death, a gun was found in the wheat field, but Van Gogh had never owned a gun. Where did he get it?

Although from a different era, I had visited this place before, so I found the wheat field without getting lost.

The late autumn wheat field stretched endlessly, bathed in golden light, and the sky was filled with crows, just like the scene Van Gogh had painted.

The tall grass. Somewhere here, Van Gogh is.

I make my way through the underbrush, struggling to see, searching for him.

And he was surprisingly easy to find.

"Get away, you creatures!"

I hear a shout.

Heading towards the sound, I see Van Gogh, chasing crows off his canvas.

He swings his paintbrush around, trying to chase them away. One flies off, another takes its place. They seem to enjoy pestering him, constantly hovering nearby.

They don't peck or attack, but they're definitely a nuisance to the focused painter.

"Why are they like this today? Go away!"

Angry, Van Gogh spins a water bucket around to scare the crows away. They fly overhead, cawing as if mocking him.

Van Gogh looks at his palette and frowns.

"Damn! Crow poop on my palette!"

White crow droppings were smeared on it. After initially getting angry, Van Gogh stared at the droppings and suddenly burst into laughter, mixing them with other paints.

“This crow dropping has a strange color. Gray, white, a bit of black—does it create this hue?”

A true artist at heart. Thinking of paint even when looking at crow droppings.

Van Gogh wiped his palette clean with a towel, then sat down on a wooden chair he brought over and began painting again.

The painting we know as 'Wheatfield with Crows' isn't the one. The painting he worked on today remains unfinished.

Then, from a distance, I heard a loud 'Bang!' followed by children's voices.

"René! Shoot in that direction, those guys have been raiding the storehouse. Drive them all away!"

"You can't eat crow meat, it's tasteless, don't hunt them like game, just shoot wildly!"

Wait, was that a gunshot just now?

Could it be the voices of kids who followed their father out here? Isn't it dangerous for such young children to play with firearms?

I briefly pondered this but then felt a chill run down my spine.

'They just said René...'

René Secrétan.

The boy who disappeared from the village after Van Gogh's death. And his family also vanished at that time. Could it be?

Then, from the bushes, a boy holding an old-fashioned .38 caliber handgun emerged.

A mischievous-looking boy in his early teens, with rosy cheeks and freckles, appeared.

"Hey mister, painting again?"

Van Gogh, familiar with the boy's presence, waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't bother me, go on. Get back to what you were doing, you little rascal. Didn’t you put salt in my coffee last time?"

"Hehe! It was just a joke!"

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