The Last Van Gogh (14 page)

“I found the novels you requested,” I said.

His face was flushed with excitement. “Excellent. Excellent. Art and neurosis!” he said, referring to the books. “The two things your father knows best!” He let out a small laugh. “Would you be kind enough to put them down next to your father?”

I quietly walked over to Papa, who continued to stare at me with fixed eyes, and placed both the water glass and the books down.

“Now, if I could trouble you with finding me one more thing…could you pick me two stems of foxglove?”

I knew Father would not be happy if I went into his medicinal garden without his permission, so I looked over in Papa’s direction and asked him if it would be alright.

I could tell by the strained way in which he answered me that he was less than pleased that I would be entering his private garden, but he did not want to appear rude in front of Vincent. So he reluctantly agreed.

It was only a few meters away from the picnic table, fenced off by a small border of white posts. The foxgloves, being among Papa’s most frequently used herbs, grew abundantly in the left corner. I lifted the hem of my dress and knelt down, careful to pick two stems with several lavender bellflowers.

“I will come and see if you would like lunch in a few hours,” I told them as I placed the foxgloves on the table next to the glass and stack of books.

They each nodded to me and I smiled a little as I left, leaving Papa to be immortalized, just as he had always dreamed, in a canvas full of creamy paint. Finally, the symbol of all great men—his conscience weighted, his spirit full of melancholy. He was no longer just Gachet the doctor, the collector—he was now included in an exalted circle: a temperamental artist and a deep thinker. Papa beamed.

V
INCENT
spent several hours on the portrait, painting at his usual lightning speed. He had Papa lean his head on one hand and rest his other palm on the table. Eventually Father’s face softened from the energetic mask he wore when guests arrived to the one he wore in private. It was a tired, sadder expression and that made him appear lost in thought.

Only after Vincent had finished could I detect the rapid, intense brushstrokes that ran across the painting. My first impression upon looking at the painting was that it seemed as if Vincent had taken a scalpel with paint on the end and carved the frustration that emanated from Papa into every one of his features: his hands, his long face, his mournful eyes.

Papa’s skin was layered in yellow and taupe, and accented in puce. He looked unhealthy; the sockets of his eyes were hollow and underscored in green. Vincent had used a palette that was full of different shades of ultramarine. Papa’s dark blue smock was executed in a repetition of deep indigo and gray. One lapel curled into the other; the three round buttons popped out in apple green.

The flame of Father’s hair peeked out from underneath his white cap. His nearly white hands rested like a monk’s on a burning red table. And his eyes looked out into a corner of nothingness, while the two de Goncourt novels shone in bright yellow and the blooming foxgloves twisted in a glass jar in the foreground. Years later when I looked at the painting I wondered if the placement of the herbs—an allusion that a tincture was imminent—was meant for Father or for Vincent. I was never sure.

NINETEEN

The Isolated Ones

V
INCENT
stayed for dinner that evening. The wet canvas was taken upstairs to Father’s studio to dry. Papa showed Vincent some more of his prints while I prepared supper.

Madame Chevalier and Louise-Josephine remained, as per Father’s orders, behind the closed doors of their bedrooms and Paul was in the parlor with his sketch pad and paints. Like me, he had dressed up for Vincent’s arrival, though I knew that Vincent had said nothing to him since he arrived that morning. Nonetheless, Paul waited patiently on the couch near the fireplace, his black hair and goatee shiny from pomade, his exuberant bow of red silk tied underneath his chin.

He had been fussing over his sketches far longer than it had taken me to prepare our meal. When I went into the parlor to escape from the heat of the stove, I found him with his face scrunched up and his fingers nearly breaking the vine of charcoal.

“You’ve been quite industrious today, Paul.” I sat down beside him and placed my feet on the small cushioned stool.

He looked up and, still, his face did not soften.

“I’ve been trying to do an interior scene all afternoon, but I’ve had no luck with the perspective.” He took the pad and turned it to me. “I will have to leave it for the moment and get back to studying for my exams.”

“At least you’re starting to realize what you need to work on,” I said, trying to sound positive, though I could clearly see that the lack of perspective was not the only problem with the sketch.

He seemed to grunt when I said that, as if I had just made him feel worse. He took the pad and leafed three or four pages back and lifted the corner. “Look, I have done several other sketches of the same scene, but each one is as bad as the one before!”

“Oh, Paul…” I sighed. “You shouldn’t make yourself feel bad about this. Look at Papa. He always wanted to be a painter, and although he wasn’t talented enough to become a professional, he’s still having quite a run at being a dilettante.”

“I’m not like Papa. I will not be satisfied just with being a dabbler!”

There was something noble in how Paul desperately wanted to push himself. But he lacked practicality.

“Have you seen Vincent’s painting of Papa?” he asked.

“Yes, it is not like anything I’ve ever seen before,” I told him. “He uses color almost as metaphor, and everything from the objects in the foreground to the expression on Papa’s face is symbolic of something. I am not even sure I understand it all.”

“I found this over there.” Paul pointed to a small table next to the upholstered chair. He handed me a torn-out magazine article entitled “The Isolated Ones: Vincent van Gogh” written by the critic Aurier.

“Have you read it?” I asked quietly.

“Yes.” Paul made no attempt to lower his voice. “It praises him. It says he belongs to a new movement of symbolists.”

I held the article in my hands and tried to read it quickly. I knew I would have to return to the kitchen shortly.

“Papa will be angry if he sees it’s missing. You should put it back where you found it.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.” He placed his pad down beside him and took the article from me, placing it on the table next to the chair.

“So you never answered me. Did you like the painting of Papa?”

I stood up, anxious to get back to my cooking. “Like it?” I repeated his question. “I think he captured a side few people have seen of Papa.”

“Really?” he said, seeming intrigued. “I want to see it!”

“Perhaps you should wait until after dinner,” I tried to caution him. “It’s probably better to wait to be invited, rather than to barge in when he and Papa are discussing things.”

“Papa won’t mind,” he snapped. “What’s wrong with a son visiting his father unannounced?”

“It is not Papa who might mind,” I said softly. “I was thinking about Vincent.”

TWENTY

Permission

I
’M
not sure what happened when Paul went upstairs to Papa’s studio. I only know he returned quickly and with an even more sour look on his face than before. I, however, had little time to talk to him. I was finished with the cooking and had just rung the small bell we kept outside the dining area to signal dinner was served.

I was placing a bowl on the table when Vincent and Father appeared. Paul had come a few seconds earlier and was already standing by a chair.

“Sit here,” Papa said to Vincent, pointing between him and Paul. I returned and took the only remaining seat, which, although it was not next to Vincent, was directly facing him.

I had not changed out of the yellow dress I had worn all afternoon, and my skin was now damp from having been next to a hot stove for so many hours.

I tried not to appear self-conscious, but with Vincent sitting across from me, it was hard to escape his eyes. He ate sparingly, seeming to spend more time looking up from his plate than putting a morsel of food on his fork.

It was difficult for me to raise my head and meet his gaze because I felt Papa’s eyes equally heavy on me. I am not sure if he noticed that I was acting differently or if he noticed that Vincent seemed unable to stop looking at me. All I know is he tried his best to distract his patient with endless conversation.

For nearly a half hour, Papa asked him questions about his time and his paintings in Saint-Rémy, especially one called
L’Arlésienne
. He wanted to know about what inspired him there, and whether he wanted to paint similar subjects while he was in Auvers.

“My friend Paul Gaugin,” he said after swallowing a glass of wine, “did a painting while we were in Arles called
Christ in the Garden of Olives
. I did not understand it at first, but it haunted me all the same. Now, today, when I painted you, I did not draw upon that which I already knew when I painted my Arlésienne.” Vincent paused to take another sip and made a quick glance at me. “Instead, I sought to answer the questions I had about my friend’s painting of Christ. How does one paint beauty, using color and creating an aesthetically satisfying painting, while also alluding to despair?”

Papa nodded his head and chuckled. “You’re both a psychologist and a painter. You’ve succeeded in making every impressionist painter look lazy!”

“I cannot succeed in what I’ve set out to do without looking into the soul of the person I paint. I would rather paint a landscape than a person who doesn’t interest me psychologically.”

I could have anticipated Paul’s interrupting Vincent even before he opened his mouth.

“How can you tell who’s interesting and who’s not?”

Vincent spoke without turning to him. “I can tell by looking behind the eyes,” he replied. “Far too often, there’s nothing there.”

“But that can’t be your only criterion, Monsieur Van Gogh….”

Vincent still did not turn to him.

I did not want to look at Paul. I knew he was trying to formulate why Vincent had not yet asked to do a portrait of him. He was now grasping at straws, trying desperately to unlock what it took to be painted by Vincent.

“Sometimes people are shy. Sometimes they just hide behind awkward masks….” He was using everything he could to engage Vincent.

“That may very well be true,” he finally replied to Paul, with little compassion in his voice. “But an artist knows almost instantly what will inspire him and what won’t. I would never even begin to paint something that did not immediately excite me. To tell you the truth, I prefer to paint that which doesn’t naturally draw attention to itself. I would prefer to paint a farmer, an average postman, or a common barmaid than paint a beautiful aristocrat. I would like to think of myself as seeing what eludes the average eye—to show that there is great beauty in what is normally overlooked.”

When Vincent said this, I could not stop the smile from crossing my lips, even though I knew I should be more sensitive to my brother’s feelings. Vincent thought
I
possessed something special! It was the first time I felt a form of self-satisfaction and I nearly burst out giggling from the sheer joy of it. If neither Papa nor Paul had ever seen that I had something unique, Vincent at least had!

My brother was not used to me receiving any attention, and it clearly disturbed him. For Vincent to have painted our father was one thing, but for me to be among his chosen subjects was a huge needle in Paul’s side.

Already his annoyance was visible. His face appeared to swell like a chestnut soufflé, accentuated by the billowing silk of his scarlet foulard. Things were only made worse when Vincent mentioned he wanted to do a second portrait of me.

“I have been meaning to ask you, Doctor,” he began politely, “if I might not return and do that second portrait of Marguerite.”

Father looked up from the table, clearly surprised that Vincent had been sincere when he had first mentioned it. I too could hardly believe my ears and as Vincent continued, my heart began racing and my face grew hot and red.

“She was such a moving subject, and I have already written my brother that I imagine painting her sitting at the piano.”

Papa did not answer him at first. I could see him moving his vegetables across his plate with a fork, contemplating how he was going to reply.

“Our Marguerite is so busy these days with the garden and with her chores around the house,” he said dryly. “Since her mother died, we’ve always relied on her to manage the house while I attend to my patients and my clinic in Paris. There is little time for her to do anything else.” Papa cleared his throat but continued: “By late next week, Paul will be done with his studies and home full time; you might want to consider painting him.”

I looked over at Vincent and at my brother Paul. Both were staring blankly at our father. He had already suggested Paul once before and had been rebuked.

“Forgive me, Doctor. I would like permission to paint your daughter at her piano. I mean no disrespect to you or your son. It is only that I have already envisioned the painting of Marguerite at the piano and will have little rest until I complete it.” He paused. “As fellow artists, I’m sure both you gentlemen can understand what that’s like.”

Father let out a small sigh and placed his hands on his lap. “Very well, Vincent, in a few days’ time you can paint Marguerite. But in the meantime, I urge you to paint some more of our beautiful surroundings.”

“I will,” he answered Father quickly. “Tonight I’m planning to paint your local church.” He turned and took a glance outside the window. “The moonlight should be perfect in a few hours.”

“Vincent’s father was a minister,” Papa said, addressing Paul and me. “His brother told me Vincent nearly became a man of the cloth at one point.”