The Last Van Gogh (6 page)

Papa had begun making “Gachet’s Secret Water” several years earlier as part of a personal experiment. He had a secret recipe that he planned on taking to his grave. He cultivated homeopathic herbs in our garden and distilled his elixir with great reverence and care. As children, we were taught to take a spoonful of it every night before we went to sleep. Our personal bottles of it still stood on our nightstands as a constant reminder.

But the winter before Vincent arrived, I had decided to stop drinking it. It was my secret way of rebelling against my father, and even though he would never know of my silent dissention, it pleased me anyway. For although my mutiny was passive and perhaps one might even say cowardly, I did it to satisfy myself. From that spring on, every night before I went to sleep, I would open my window slightly and pour a few capfuls out into the garden.

Paul, however, continued to take his daily dosage of Father’s curative water, even boasting that he sometimes took two capfuls a day. His blind idolization of our father bothered me, and I soon bemoaned the fact that there weren’t more years separating us so that I—rather than Madame Chevalier—could have been more involved with his upbringing after Mother died.

I had wished on more than one occasion during my childhood that our family was a more typical one, like those I imagined our neighbors having. Not one that isolated itself and strived to cultivate an air of mystery or drama. I wanted to be like the other young girls, who had girlfriends of their own. I would often see the other girls my age walking arm in arm around town. They would giggle to each other behind a fan of fingers or run after each other in the park. I longed to be like them. To have such companionship. But I knew such relationships were impossible. Father limited my movements and was adamant about maintaining our family’s privacy. So the only contact I had with anyone my age was my brother and the daughter of a purported servant who carried on more like a country doctor’s wife than my own mother ever did when she was alive.

My contact with boys was similarly limited, basically only to Paul. As my birthday approached, I prayed that Father would at least acknowledge that I was approaching a marriageable age. There were obviously few options for the daughter of a Parisian doctor to find a suitable match in Auvers, but I was nearly twenty-one and Father had still not mentioned any social events that might afford me the opportunity to meet eligible suitors. Indeed, he had yet to speak of making any arrangements at all for me or my marital future.

I worried that Father might approach my matrimony very much the way he approached education for both Paul and me. He refused to bring a teacher into the house even after we had exhausted the limited teachings of our alleged governess, Madame Chevalier, and it was very reluctantly that he let Paul enroll in secondary school. And even that had been delayed until only this year.

“One must learn everything on one’s own! Instruction is useless, a joke! One learns only when it is voluntary,” my father boasted to a distant aunt who visited us once after Mother died. “There are hundreds of books in my house, and if my children are curious, they can read and do their own investigation!”

But marriage and love could not be found in a library of old books. And I wondered if Papa realized that, but preferred to have me wait—on him and his household. Me, the child who reminded him of his late wife, but with healthy lungs and a quiet demeanor.

F
ATHER
arrived home the following evening, and went straight to his office to tell Madame Chevalier the reason for his good mood. His meeting with Theo had apparently gone well and, as Papa made no effort to stifle his voice, it was easy for me to hear the details of his afternoon. “Vincent is lucky to have such a devoted brother. The boy idolizes him, will do anything for him…. He’s confident that the art world will eventually recognize Vincent’s genius.” Madame Chevalier did not answer Father. I imagined that her head was down and she was concentrating on her knitting. “He’s entrusting me to maintain Vincent’s health and to make sure that he’s able to paint.” I could hear Father dropping his cuff links into the ceramic box he kept on his mantel.

“We ate a wonderful lunch at La Coupole,” Father continued. “I told him how I was not unfamiliar with the artistic world. He already knew about my collecting but he had no idea about my ‘Wednesdays at the boulevard Voltaire.’” Papa chuckled. He was referring to the address of the pastry chef Eugène Murer, who hosted a weekly salon at his apartment that was frequented by the painters Pissarro, Sisley, Monet, and Renoir. Somehow, Papa had always managed to get himself invited.

“I told him I’d pay him a visit at Goupil’s and take a look at the other artists he’s representing.”

“You might want to invite Theo and his family here to visit Vincent,” Madame Chevalier suggested quietly. “It might make him feel less isolated in Auvers.”

“I will—it’s an excellent idea.” I could hear his footsteps treading over the floorboards. “And that reminds me,” he continued. “There was a note from Vincent saying that he would accept my invitation to lunch this Sunday. Make sure Marguerite prepares something appropriate.”

I could not believe my ears. Did Father think I wouldn’t make something appropriate? I wouldn’t have that much time to prepare my menu, but I would certainly never make something that would embarrass Papa or insult our guest.

I felt my entire body stiffen with annoyance. I was more than capable of making a meal that Father wouldn’t be ashamed of!

Irritated by his words, I tried to distract myself. I walked over to my window and opened the shutters. Outside, the sky began to fill with stars, and I could hear the grasshoppers down below chirping at the moon.

I opened my journal and found the folded red poppy that Vincent had given to me a few days before. It was still damp between the pages.

I picked it up carefully and studied its scalloped edges and crimson petals.

When folded, it was like a fan. I imagined it as a miniature opera fan that, had it been larger, might have accompanied a woman who wore black gossamer silk and an enormous bustle attached to her skirt. One who was chic and elegant. One who alighted from her carriage with creamy white skin peeking from her collar and fingertips gloved in black satin.

That night, I fell asleep with the pages of my journal open, imagining my mother as I had last seen her, though in my dream she wore two matching velvet shoes and held a magnificent scarlet fan.

SEVEN

Like Two Eagles

S
UNDAY
morning, I awakened early and began my preparations for the luncheon. I didn’t ask Louise-Josephine to assist me because I thought that might appear a bit cruel, considering that neither she nor her mother would be invited to eat with us. It was at times like these that I didn’t know how to treat her or Madame Chevalier. In name, they were servants and, truth be told, the ones that should be making the lunch. Yet Father treated Madame Chevalier more tenderly than he did my late mother, and he certainly appeared to shower Louise-Josephine with affection. He never asked either of them to do the errands or the cooking. The only housework she or her daughter really did was a little dusting or light sweeping. They didn’t even do the laundering, as Papa insisted that it be sent out.

I would be lying if I said that I did not suspect that Louise-Josephine was his daughter, born out of one of his long visits to Paris when my mother was alive. She had a sense of entitlement that I would otherwise think peculiar in a typical servant’s child. However, I never questioned it out loud. Just as I never mentioned my suspicion to Paul—though I’m sure he, too, heard Madame Chevalier’s footsteps, the tiny patter that echoed through the house as she routinely walked down the stairs at night to visit Papa in his room.

As I trimmed the tough ends of the asparagus stalks, I found myself wishing that I had secrets of my own so that I could distract myself from the ennui of my everyday life. I thought about how my mother must have felt quarantined in this house, distanced from her beloved Paris. No place to dress up in the silk gowns that lined her closet. No boulevards to promenade down or damaskupholstered salons to visit, where one could gossip for hours and sip tea. It would have been a painfully lonely life for her—remaining indoors all day with few or no distractions. But now I realized that my late mother was not the only one who led that life. So, clearly, did I.

S
HORTLY
before Vincent was scheduled to arrive, Paul came into the kitchen. “Do you think Father would mind if I showed Vincent some of my paintings?”

I was stirring some poached pears, trying to ensure that I didn’t get any red wine on myself. “I don’t know, Paul,” I replied. “Perhaps you should ask Papa.”

He looked crestfallen. “He’s been in the studio all morning, and I think he’s preparing to show Vincent some of his paintings.”

“Well, lunch is supposed to be for Vincent and Papa, not really for us,” I reminded him. “We should be happy that he’s including us at all.”

It would never have occurred to me to be so brazen as to show Vincent my watercolors. I would have been embarrassed to show him something that I knew he would consider amateurish.

“Do you think he might like them, Marguerite?” Paul asked. For several moments I ignored him. I was trying to focus on the food preparations and making sure that the table was set with great sensitivity—silently hoping that Vincent would notice my efforts to create some semblance of beauty in our otherwise crowded, dark house. Paul, however, was too absorbed in his own dilemma to notice my concentration on matters besides him.

He clanked one of my pot lids down and the noise startled me. “Paul!” I cried. I poked him with the wooden spoon I had been using. “Vincent will be arriving in a few minutes and nothing is done yet!”

“But what about showing him my paintings? I am going back to Paris this evening and I won’t have a chance to see him all week!”

I let out a loud sigh, unable to conceal my growing impatience with him. “I don’t know, Paul…. Papa wants us each to play him something on the piano. See how much he enjoys that. If he likes that and shows enthusiasm, then you might ask him if he’d also like to see your paintings.”

Paul straightened his back and beamed.

V
INCENT
arrived twenty minutes late, huffing and puffing like a laborer who had been in the fields all day. He had changed his clothes and wore a jacket and hat, but the cloth seemed worn and his shoes were scuffed and tracking mud. “Mademoiselle Gachet,” he said when I opened the door, “your father has been most kind to invite me for lunch.”

“Yes,” I said. “We’ll be eating in the dining room this afternoon.” I motioned for him to come in. “It’s unfortunate about the rain,” I murmured apologetically. “The garden would have been nicer.”

“One appreciates the sun so much more after a bit of rain,” he said as he took a peek out the window.

For a second, I thought I caught him staring at me, his eyes traveling from the lace on my collar down the front placket of my dress.

“How true,” I said and I was unable to prevent a small smile from appearing across my lips. I was happy that he seemed to be taking notice of me. Then, as if suddenly freed from the insecurity that plagued me, I uttered, “An artist sees the beauty in the world, but I suppose a woman often only sees its limitations.”

He looked at me quizzically as if surprised that I had the capacity to speak.

“What a curious thing to say, mademoiselle.” He reached into his pockets. “I suppose the same thing can be said about the impoverished. A day for the poor is full of hardship and limitations, but the rich man and the artist only see its possibilities.”

I smiled. “That is probably the
only
place they overlap.”

He seemed amused by my answer, and I noticed that he continued to stare as he took off his hat and coat and handed them to me. They were damp from the rain, but they felt nearly weightless in my arms. I thought about Papa’s cloth coat and Paul’s as well—they were both so heavy in comparison, with silk lining and tortoiseshell buttons. Vincent’s, however, seemed like it was made from muslin. As I hung it on one of the wooden pegs near the vestibule, I noticed that I could see my hands through the threadbare cloth.

I was just about to take Vincent into the parlor when Father’s voice interrupted me. “Vincent!” he said, his tone revealing his great enthusiasm. He had heard Vincent’s footsteps and was now rising from his chair and rushing toward him.

“I’m thrilled that you could join us today.” Vincent nodded and thanked him quietly for extending the invitation.

“How are you feeling today?” Papa asked him, while patting him on the back. “Terrible about the weather…I bet it’s been difficult to paint this morning.”

“I began a sketch of an old vineyard this morning,” Vincent replied. “But my mind is still not at ease.”

“You need to paint as much as possible,” Papa reminded him. “It will help keep your head clear.”

“I am restless.” He spoke softly. “You are right, the painting helps…. But when I don’t have a paintbrush in hand, I am filled with anxiety.”

Papa chuckled. “I hear similar complaints from other artists. It is not unusual.”

I could see flashes of Cézanne and Pissarro go through Papa’s mind. A smile crossed his face just to utter those names in passing.

Vincent nodded and glanced down at his fingers. I noticed the skin spotted in paint, the faded patches of pigment—cobalt blue and thin lines of cadmium red. It looked as though he had tried to scrub them raw but, still, traces of the pigment remained.

“You know, Vincent, I have a saying written in Chinese letters by my office and outside on one of the walls on our cave. Translated it says: Work and you will be happy. I believe strongly in that saying. It’s good advice for you.”

“I want to paint—I am painting. It’s just that when I’m in my room at night and my fingers are so tired I can barely lift a comb to my head, I find myself staring at the ceiling and then a flood of fear washes over me…the fear my blackouts might return, the fear of another attack…. There was a time when a glass of absinthe would send my demons away but my doctor in Arles has strictly forbidden it….”