The Last Van Gogh (23 page)

I tried to put on a brave face, but inside I was crumbling. I yearned to see Vincent’s face. I needed confirmation that his feelings for me were genuine. I had interpreted the energy with which he made love to me to be reminiscent of the way he seized painting. But now, I began to wonder if I was wrong. As I tried to make sense of his absence, I had no other choice but to wait.

On the first day of July, the boaters were out on the banks of the Oise, and I decided to ask my father if I might be able to go out for a few hours.

Papa had been sitting in the garden with his feet propped up on one of the lawn chairs. He was wearing a pair of darkened spectacles to protect his eyes from the sun and a large floppy hat I had never seen before. From a distance, he could have been Vincent, and I wondered if he had purchased the hat because he thought it would make him appear more artistic.

“Papa,” I asked as I set down a small tray with some sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea beside him, “might I spend a few hours reading by the river?”

He placed his papers down on his lap and removed his glasses. His eyes looked glazed and tired.

“By yourself?” He raised an eyebrow and I felt my skin grow cold even though the summer was hot upon us.

“Yes, of course, Papa,” I replied. “Unless you count Flaubert.” I withdrew the novel from my apron pocket. I had finished reading
Paul and Virginie
a few days earlier and was now on to another novel.

Papa reached over and poured himself a glass of tea. One of the lemon wedges fell into the cup and caused a slight splash to fall on the tray.

“I’m not feeling so well today,” he said as he took a sip of tea. “You can go, but before you leave can you bring me a vial of my foxglove tincture? I left it on my desk.”

“Of course,” I said and patted his knee. It wasn’t a gesture I often did, but he looked unusually vulnerable sitting in the chair. Even when he lifted his eyebrows in suspicion at my request, he didn’t appear threatening. Perhaps it was the heaviness in his lids, the thin papery webbing that made him suddenly appear older than before.

I went upstairs to his study. The green and red wallpaper shone between patches of oil paintings from his collection. Tacked against his desk was the etching Vincent had done as a preliminary sketch for his portrait of Papa. Vincent had made a copy of the oil painting of Father sitting at the picnic table; this one was loose and rested against the wooden side of his desk. The copy did not include the two Goncourt novels, and the foxgloves in this version rested on the table, not in a water glass. Father had yet to have it framed.

I hadn’t been in this room for several days, and the veil of dust on the windowsill was a blatant reminder that I needed to be more on top of my chores on the house’s higher floors. I went over to his desk and straightened some of his piles of papers and found the vial of his medicine near his pen and ink set.

The silver flask felt nearly empty. I had seen him refill it only days before with a larger pitcher that he stored near the icehouse. Obviously Papa had not been feeling well for some time, and his self-medication had not yet remedied his ailments. He claimed he took foxglove to cure a slowness that often overcame him, a sort of melancholy and a weakness of the heart combined. But there were always periods of highs and lows with him. Much like Vincent, I thought, and my skin grew cold.

I tapped the tiny flask through the cloth of my apron and hurried down the stairs and into the garden.

I gave Papa his tincture and gathered my things. I took with me a small woolen blanket, my novel, and a small kerchief that I filled with some rounds of bread and a napkin knotted with some cheese. I was eager to have a few moments outside the house, for I was secretly hoping that I might see Vincent.

I
T
was a bright, clear day and the water of the river rippled in small green waves.

Past the bridge near the village church, I found a grassy area where I could see the boats launch. The punters had lined their boats against the shoreline. Women in crisp linen dresses and straw hats sat at the bows holding parasols the color of meringue.

I couldn’t help but smile, as there was something so refreshing in seeing the boats bobbing against the tide. One of the boatmen called to me and asked if I might like a ride.

“Come with me, mademoiselle!” he cried. “Don’t hide your face in a book when the river begs your reflection!” He motioned with his hand for me to come over.

I laughed and buried my head in my book.

Again he tried to persuade me, as he stood balancing himself on the ribs of his boat.

“Oh, I couldn’t, monsieur, but thank you….” I waved my hand to indicate he should go ahead without me.

Just then I heard a rustle in the trees.

“Why didn’t you go off with him?”

Vincent’s voice took me by surprise. He was standing before me carrying a wet canvas and his box of paints. His face was streaked with red and blue pigment. Absentminded fingerprints intermingled with the stubble on his cheeks.

“I was saving myself for Flaubert,” I replied sarcastically and buried my face in the book. Seeing him act so flippantly after four days had passed since our liaison angered me.

“What’s the matter, my little piano player?” he asked.

“It’s been nearly a week since I last saw you.” I felt my face grow hot and I was fighting back tears. “I feared you had forgotten about me.”

“I’ve been painting,” he said, his voice strangely unapologetic. He turned and motioned toward a canvas he had rested against a tree.

It was a beautiful painting filled with colorful boats moored against the river. He had painted the water in a series of emerald and blue strokes, with two white figures between a bright red dinghy.

“I didn’t forget about you, Marguerite,” he said, his voice softening this time. He took my book and moved it out of the way so he could sit down beside me. “How could I forget that slender white neck of yours, that skin as supple as a camellia blossom? You should not worry yourself unnecessarily.”

I managed a weak smile.

“My absence had nothing to do with how I felt about our last evening together. This week has been a very difficult one for me…one full of trials.” He looked away from me and took one of the pebbles by the blanket’s edge, throwing it into the river. “Theo wrote that little Vincent has been sick, and Theo has been having problems with his employers. I’m planning to go for a visit because I worry Theo is holding back from me in his letters.”

I looked down and saw Vincent’s hand now on the grass, the long white fingers nestled against the green, silvery blades. The cuff of his sleeve had a smudge of red paint on its edge. Against the white cloth, it looked like a smear of lipstick on a husband’s collar. Even as I heard him talk about his troubles, I could not help but feel a silent jealousy against it.

But the allure of his genius was intoxicating. The sight of his painting nestled against the tree, beautiful in its waves of color and crosshatch of sea-foam and malachite green, took my breath away. It was impossible for me to maintain my resentment.

So with the brilliance of his work before me, I tried to soften my tone toward him. “You needn’t take everything so much to heart, Vincent,” I counseled. “I’m sure Theo is just preoccupied now that the child is sick.”

Vincent rubbed his face with his palm.

“I came to Auvers to escape worrying about such things so I could paint, but it seems I can’t avoid it. Life, with all its aches and pains, still follows me.” He let out a small cough. “But the sight of you, Marguerite, is a welcome relief.”

He moved closer to me, the bottom of his trousers sliding over the wet grass. His mouth was now only inches away from mine, and I could feel the heat of his skin hovering close to me.

I didn’t feel as sure of myself as on that night in the cave. There was no blanket of darkness to mask my clumsiness or to hide us from the eyes of gossip. But I was weak in his presence. The image of him small, with his threadbare coat on my shoulders, was a distant memory. Once again I was that young lover who ventured into the night, greedy to be close to someone who made everyday things beautiful. After all, he had made me feel that way, and I could not help but feel grateful.

THIRTY-SIX

A Conflict of Passions

“P
ERHAPS
you should consider running away with Théophile and me,” Louise-Josephine suggested one afternoon while we were sewing alone in the parlor. Vincent had left to see his brother in Paris and Papa and Paul had gone to Chaponval for the afternoon to pick up some more canvas stretchers.

There was great excitement in her voice as if the possibilities of adventure were at our fingertips.

“Oh, Louise-Josephine,” I said. I was always the sensible one in her company and the dreamer when I was alone. “We can’t possibly do that….”

“And why not?” she asked. “What’s left for us if we are to remain here? I will continue to be kept upstairs and you will continue to remain a servant or, worse”—she placed her fingers over her mouth and whispered comically—“an unmarried spinster, serving your father and brother for the rest of your life.”

I shuddered. The thought was truly terrifying to me.

“Does Théophile know that you cannot get married without this certificate that you speak of?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “He tells me it’s no matter to him.”

“And his family?” I asked tentatively. “Will they object to the relationship?”

Louise-Josephine shook her head. “Although his family lives locally, he’s been living in a small boardinghouse in Pontoise for the past several months. He tells me he is able to support himself independently of his family.”

“Then he’s better off than Vincent,” I sighed.

“He was just promoted to senior conductor,” she beamed. “And he suspects he’ll have enough money saved to buy us an apartment in Paris by next year!”

“This is wonderful news,” I said as I forced a smile. I could not help but feel a little jealous.

“I know he realizes that I have no father to speak of, but he assures me that his parents will accept me. His sister married an Italian man three years ago.”

“Then it seems like it will all work out for you.” Again, there was tinge of regret in my voice. Not because I didn’t want Louise-Josephine to be married, but because, in my heart, I wanted the same thing, too.

“Do you think Papa will object?”

“What—to me marrying Théophile?” She shook her head, scoffing at my suggestion. “Why would he object? As long as we do it quietly outside of Auvers, it will only be good news to him. He won’t need to go to such lengths to keep me hidden!”

It was bittersweet for me to hear her speaking. I was happy that finally things would be in Louise-Josephine’s favor after a lifetime of having little opportunity. But I knew Papa would be harder on me. He had more to lose if I were to leave. There would be no one to help him with his tinctures, Madame Chevalier was not much of a cook, and I knew how to make everything run smoothly for him.

Louise-Josephine pulled another length of thread through her needle.

“I would love to see you leave this place, Marguerite. You really could come and live with Théophile and me.”

“But what about Vincent?”

Lousie-Josephine shook her head. “You must remember, Marguerite, Vincent came to Auvers because he wasn’t well. Will he be willing to fight with his own doctor? The man who is supposed to oversee his care?”

I looked over at her with disbelief and paused. The dress I was working on remained forgotten on my lap. “What are you saying?”

“I just worry that Vincent might feel conflicted…that his passion to get well might supersede all other desires.”

“Why should one mutually exclude the other?” I asked, clearly puzzled.

“He might feel that your father will no longer provide him his tinctures, if he is cross with him.”

I remained quiet and tried to concentrate on my stitching, but my mind was now racing. I knew how Vincent had become used to Papa’s remedies over the past few weeks. He had started out quite skeptical of them, but now I saw him swigging regularly from the little glass flask Papa prepared weekly for him. I no longer knew what Papa was mixing, as he began to get up earlier and earlier, making them before I was even down to fix breakfast.

“He has to stand up to Papa at some point if we are to have a future together….”

She shook out the skirt she was hemming. “No matter what happens, Marguerite, you must have some satisfaction in your experiences with Vincent…. Even if you and Vincent don’t end up together, you’ve still had an adventure!”

I put down my sewing again. “I could not think like that!” I blurted out at her. “I am not like you! I did not embark on all this just for silly amusement!” I shook my head. “I have a proper family name and I’m entitled to a marriage of my own—a family of my own!” I was crying now. My face was red. I had believed that night I snuck out the window that I had no other expectations except to be with Vincent for as long as he’d have me, but now the bourgeois little girl in me was returning. If Louise-Josephine could muse on her future life in Paris, I, too, wanted all of the things that were promised in storybooks.

But my words had been cruel to Louise-Josephine and as soon as they flew out of my mouth, I regretted saying them. To this day, I can’t believe I lashed out at her with such venom.

She sat there staring at the skirt that now took over the entire breadth of her lap. Her face was without expression; her eyes were downcast.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I put my sewing completely aside and went to take her hand. “It’s just that I want to have a life outside this place and sometimes I fear that will not be possible.”

Louise-Josephine remained stiff. I had wounded her. I could sense it even though her face revealed little reaction. This was the other side of Louise-Josephine, the one that I had known in the past. It was the harder side, the one she had cultivated all those years she lived with her grandmother in Paris.