The Last Van Gogh (17 page)

The choir sang, the organ sounded, and our village priest droned on about Christ’s sacrifices and our shortcomings in a sinful world.

I debated whether I should make confession and ask for forgiveness for my sins of the night I snuck out.
Surely a kiss as passionate as the one I shared with Vincent was a sin!
I thought to myself.
Shouldn’t I ask for forgiveness?

But I did not want to go into that rosewood closet and seek forgiveness for something that made me feel more alive than I ever had before. I did not want to hear that it was wrong, or ask for penance, and I certainly didn’t want the memory of it to be washed away. To ask for it to be cleansed was the cruelest thing I could imagine.

So after the service, and after taking communion, I forwent confession. I walked out to the front of the church, where Vincent had painted that night, and remembered how we two stood there heading toward our first embrace. If I could have replayed it in my mind a thousand times, I would have. But the bell tower was sounding the end of the service, and Papa and Paul would be waiting for their lunch.

I gathered the folds of my skirt and began to make my way around the circular path that Vincent had painted so symbolically. I took one last look at the church’s spire, the peaked roof that he had depicted partially aflame. It now looked charcoal against the noon sky.

I walked to the left side, the direction his little Dutch figure had taken as she hurried away. With the billow of my gray skirt whipping behind me, it amused me to think how much I now resembled her.

TWENTY-FIVE

Gifts and Warnings

O
VER
the next few days, he painted in our garden as well as in the neighboring fields. Every morning when I woke up and began my way toward the village, I looked for him. Sometimes there would be traces of him. A paint-spotted oil rag left behind, or a canvas stretcher that had fallen out of his rucksack. Each time I spotted a sign that he had been in a certain place, I stood there for a moment and looked out into the landscape and inhaled what he had thought beautiful enough to paint.

I had begun to take Louise-Josephine’s words to heart. If she were right, as I now began to suspect, Papa had little expectation for me other than to maintain his household. I would not let myself end up unhappy and disillusioned, as Mother had been in her last months. I wanted to love.

I
REJOICED
when, earlier in the week, Father mentioned that he had invited Vincent’s family for lunch.

“Perhaps the Van Goghs can help us lift Vincent’s spirits a bit,” he told Madame Chevalier over dinner.

I bit my lip to hide my excitement, not wanting to give myself away and let Papa know how happy I was. I was anxious, after all, to meet Vincent’s family.

“I sent Theo an invitation in Paris,” Papa told Madame Chevalier. “His wife can bring the baby, and Marguerite can prepare lunch. I’ll entertain them all in the garden.”

“You’re so thoughtful, Paul-Ferdinand,” she said. I thought her comment ironic, as I knew she would not be invited to this luncheon. She turned her face toward Papa and smiled at him. She was wearing makeup. Her face, dotted with circles of rouge, stood out against the black collar of her dress. I could see a dusting of powder caught in the tendrils near her ears.

“I’ll help with the cooking,” Louise-Josephine piped in suddenly. Her voice startled me, as I was not used to hearing her speak at the dining table. It was clear and strong. She was obviously determined to make a lovely gesture for me in honor of the occasion.

“Oh, no…don’t be silly,” Papa said. “Marguerite will have no difficulty preparing something for the afternoon. She can easily handle it by herself.”

“Yes, I know she
can
do it,” Louise-Josephine answered. She was looking Papa straight in the eyes. “But two sets of hands are better than one. And after all,
I
need to get better in the kitchen.”

Papa raised an eyebrow and looked at me. He was suspicious of Louise-Josephine’s gesture. He knew we had never been close in the past, barely exchanging words in his presence.

“Well, the two of you can work out the details by yourselves. In the meantime, I’ll send an invitation to Vincent.”

A
LL
week I waited for his visit. I had so much energy, but my only outlet was throwing myself into my chores. I took out my metal pail and scrub brush and scoured the floors. I washed the curtains even though I had washed them the first week in April. I weeded my garden with extra tenacity, pulling out the tall green stalks—sometimes three at a time. I dusted Father’s bookshelves and took out one of the de Goncourt novels that Vincent had painted, lightly touching the leather binding with my fingers.

I thrust open all the windows to force the light into the parlor. I filled several of Mother’s Dresden vases with fistfuls of gardenias and peonies so the house had pockets of pink and white blooms. The air, no longer stale from the faint medicinal smells of Father’s tinctures, was now filled with the light fragrance of flowers.

Papa also seemed to take extra measures to prepare for the arrival of Vincent’s family. He brought extra canvases down from the attic and hung them along the hallway of the house, making the entire first floor more crowded than ever. He filled the cave behind the picnic table with a case of wine he’d ordered from Paris, and brought home a basket of fresh cheeses and cured meats from his favorite stores. On Friday, when I returned home from my errands, I found Papa sitting in the garden with Madame Chevalier behind him. She was busy massaging a henna shampoo into his hair. She had tied a thin strip of cotton around his scalpline so the orange color wouldn’t tint his skin.

“Marguerite,” he said as I walked closer. The olive green mixture had a strong smell and it looked as though his entire head was caked in mud. Madame Chevalier hadn’t applied the shampoo in months, and I knew Papa had been anxious to hide the white in his hair.

“Did you decide on the menu for Sunday?”

“Yes, Papa,” I replied. Madame Chevalier did not look up. She was busy scraping some of the dried mixture at the nape of Papa’s neck.

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “We have everything in order then.”

I nodded my head. “The sun is quite strong today, Papa. Don’t stay out too long or your hair will look like a tube of crimson madder.”

He chuckled. “Well, I just might. After all, Vincent might want to do a second portrait of me then. We know how he likes vibrant colors!”

T
HE
next day he arrived just before noon with Theo and Jo and their little son. Louise-Josephine had spent much of the morning helping me, and I felt awful when the bell sounded and she was forced to scurry back to her room.

Her assistance had been invaluable. Not only had she helped me with all the baking and preparations, she had also given me more advice on what dress to wear and how I should plait my hair.

“Wear blue,” she told me that morning. “It will offset your eyes. And let’s weave a ribbon through your braids before we twist and pin them back.” She picked a lovely cornflower blue one from my dresser and started braiding it right away.

She was right as usual. The color did make my eyes seem bigger. She took a step backward and pinched my cheeks. “And the final touch,” she said with a flourish. She reached into her apron and handed me some lipstick that she had stolen from her mother’s drawer.

“Thank you,” I gushed.

It was so refreshing to have Louise-Josephine close by and I felt an outpouring of love toward her, as if I suddenly understood the blessing of having a sister. It was her sophistication and her reassuring nature that gave me a rush of confidence before seeing Vincent.

Papa greeted Vincent and his family as soon as they arrived, showing them directly into the garden where the red picnic table was crowded with food. The baby, who had been named for his uncle Vincent, was resting in Jo’s arms, and was immediately amused by all of Father’s animals.

Later on, just before we all settled down to eat, Jo came over to me and thanked me for making such a lovely luncheon.

“Theo and I wanted to give you and your brother a little something for being so kind to Vincent,” she said. She reached into her basket and handed me a small flat package neatly wrapped in festive paper. “I’m afraid Theo’s already given your brother his….”

I looked over and saw Paul laughing heartily with Theo. He was holding a book in one hand and the wrapping paper in another. Paul had finished his last exam just the day before, and had arrived home in Auvers only one train earlier than Vincent’s family.

“Thank you,” I said appreciatively. “It wasn’t necessary at all. Vincent is more like a friend of the family now than a patient…and I know how happy Papa is—all of us are—to have him here in Auvers.”

Jo smiled at me and urged me to open the present.

I carefully fingered the edges of wrapping paper so I wouldn’t tear it. Inside I found a book on the art of Japanese woodblock prints.

“Vincent is a tremendous admirer of these plates,” she said softly, “and we thought you and your brother might enjoy them too. We bought the books at an exhibition on Japanese art in Paris a few weeks ago. We actually went there with Vincent just before he left for Auvers.”

“Oh, they’re lovely,” I said, as I turned the pages and saw the beautiful scenes of women in kimonos, bridges at sunset, and branches of plum blossoms.

“It makes Theo and me so happy to see how well Vincent is doing here,” she said to me, again touching my arm. “We were terribly afraid before he came north, but it seems your father’s been a positive influence on him.”

I tried to muster a smile but it was difficult. Obviously, Vincent had not written to Theo about Father forcing him to take his homeopathic tonics.

“Well, the good thing is,” I said, trying to sound positive, “that he’s painting a great deal. It seems he does at least one painting a day…sometimes more.”

Jo smiled at me. “He
is
prolific,” she said with a warm smile. “And Theo’s certain of his genius. It’s a shame he wasted his early years at Goupil’s.” She let out an exhaustive sigh. “Then there were those years as an evangelist…” She shook her head. “He’s spent most of his adulthood searching for himself, searching for something greater. Theo is just so happy that Vincent has finally found something that gives him some peace.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know Papa said it is imperative that Vincent continue to paint.”

Jo sighed again. “It’s been trying,” she said, shaking her head once more. “We have been through a lot with him. The attacks, the bills…It has been a difficult road getting him on his feet.” She looked at me and smiled, and gently reached toward my wrist in a gesture of affection. “My husband and I are obviously most concerned about his health, of course. I don’t know what Theo would do without Vincent…they’re like twins…the two of them so close.”

I nodded my head. It pained me to think of Vincent so unhappy in the past.

“I love his paintings so much,” I said softly.

Jo chuckled. “Yes, they’re lovely. But now we must all wait for the collectors to come and buy.” She emphasized the last word ever so slightly and then smiled at me again.

I nodded back and the two of us looked over to Vincent, who was now deeply engaged in making faces at his young nephew.

“He’s certainly good with children,” I said, more to myself than to Jo, but she obviously heard.

“In short spurts, I suppose,” she said as she crossed her arms. “But he certainly wouldn’t make a very fine husband. His last love affair proved that much.” She turned to me and smiled. Perhaps it was a warning for me. For she clearly knew what was on my mind.

TWENTY-SIX

Bridges in the Garden

T
HEY
left our house a little after three o’clock. Vincent wanted to take Theo to the Ravoux Inn to show him some paintings before they returned to Paris. It had been a festive afternoon, and the picnic table showed how heartily we had all eaten. Only the bones from the chicken remained on our plates, and a pile of olive pits was left in a small ceramic bowl. In the middle of the table, the cake stand held but a single slice of butter cake, with a few strawberries submerged in a melted puddle of whipped cream.

Papa was lying down in one of the lawn chairs, his waistcoat half unbuttoned and his swelling belly eager to find release from his leather belt. His shirtsleeves were rolled high above his elbows, exposing a smattering of pale freckles, like tiny constellations, on his long, wiry arms.

As I collected the plates for washing, I could hear the sound of the birds chirping and Papa snoring in the garden. The animals were nestled on the grass, and Paul was hosing down some of the furniture so the bugs wouldn’t feast on any of the leftover food.

Jo’s cautionary words were still echoing in my head. I had never thought of Vincent with another woman, though now I realized that it was naïve of me. Perhaps she had been one of his models; the idea crept into my mind like ants feasting on crumbs. I imagined her dark and experienced, with the black eyes of an Arlésienne, her brightly colored dress and apron discarded carelessly over one of the chairs in his studio. I could never imagine myself casting off my clothes so effortlessly. I had cultivated my modesty to a high art over the years. Madame Chevalier’s penchant for rouge and lipstick, her garish boudoir, and her midnight tiptoeing to Papa had inspired me to be the opposite of her. But now all I could do was think of ways to capture Vincent’s attention. My skin—which knew no other hand than my own—my body—which had never been caressed by anything but a washcloth and a bar of soap—now yearned for that hand that I had pushed away that night in front of the church.

I scraped the last of the plates furiously. I wanted to rush to Louise-Josephine’s room as quickly as possible and tell her about the conversation with Jo, admit to her that the news of Vincent’s past experience with love made me even more insecure about my lack of it.