The Last Van Gogh (7 page)

Papa nodded. “This is all completely understandable. You had a terrible time in Arles. But we will keep you away from absinthe, Vincent, and get you stronger so that you produce what you are meant to. Genius needs to be nurtured with clean air, rest, and healthy exercise. I have promised your brother that I will make sure you are well taken care of out here. And should you need a little something at night, I’ll make you a tincture of passionflower to calm those nasty nerves of yours!”

Vincent made a face at Papa’s remark about the tincture. “Well, I am happy to hear my brother is asking you to keep an eye on me. I have not heard from Theo in days, have you?”

“I saw him a few days ago in Paris. We had lunch together.” Papa went over to the server and withdrew a bottle of wine. “You’re lucky to have someone as devoted and dedicated as your brother. He’s convinced that your day of public recognition is not too far off.” Papa turned the corkscrew as he spoke, holding the tall green bottle with his other hand. “We talked about you and some of your colleagues. I think he mentioned a man named Paul Gauguin.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly. “We lived briefly in Arles together before my headaches returned.” It was obvious he wanted to change the subject. “I’m a bit anxious to have my things shipped to me…. I left a few paintings with Tanguy back in Paris and have some furniture still in Arles.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Did Theo mention anything about this?”

“No, I’m afraid he didn’t.” Father shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will all get sorted out soon. Your responsibility now is to concentrate on your painting and on regaining your health.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied softly. “I nearly finished the painting I did in your garden the other day, and I’ve begun three more.”

“Good!”

“And you’re right, when I paint things are much better….”

“Then just continue to paint and I’ll have a look at my various herbs. We’ll make you another tincture so that you can sleep better at night and be refreshed in the morning.” Father cleared his throat. “Remind me after lunch—I will give you another tincture to take home with you.”

F
ATHER
and Vincent continued to talk in the parlor before I called everyone for lunch.

I had spent the early part of the morning preparing my favorite dishes. I had gotten up early so I could get the first pick of the market. I filled my basket with chicory and small fingerling potatoes, several heads of garlic, and a generous bunch of carrots. I hand-picked the chicken from Armel, the butcher, insisting that I have the largest, juiciest one from that morning’s slaughter. The herbs in my own garden had been paltry that morning, so I indulged in buying fistfuls of rosemary, marjoram, and thyme. I never tired of the fragrance of fresh-picked herbs and as I walked home, I inhaled their heady perfume, eager to begin my preparations.

The entire house now smelled of my crisp roasted chicken and creamed, buttered potatoes. I could not help but smile as I emerged from the kitchen with the large platter in my arms. I had placed a few more sprigs of rosemary on the chicken for decoration, and the colorful contrast of the carrots and chicory made it look as though it were made for a king. I believed all eyes were on me. But just as we were about to take our seats at the table, Paul appeared. He was wearing a bright red cravat and black waistcoat, his gold watch dangling from his vest pocket.

“I’ve been painting today up near Chaponval, Papa,” Paul announced loudly as he sat down. “I’m sorry that I’m late.”

Papa shook his head, then turned from Paul to Vincent and asked, “Have you been up to Chaponval yet? The trees are over a hundred years old…. Cézanne liked to take his easel there to paint.”

I stood at the table slicing the chicken before dishing the vegetables and creamed potatoes onto everyone’s plates. I served Vincent first, trying to arrange his plate as artfully as I could. He, however, didn’t seem to notice.

“No, I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’ve been mainly painting near the Ravoux Inn and near your home.”

“Well, you are lucky that you are here indefinitely. There will be countless opportunities for you to paint these landscapes. And when the autumn comes you’ll see how it will all change before your eyes!”

I took my seat, smoothing my dress underneath me as I adjusted myself into the chair.

“Yes,” I said. “You’ll have a wonderful time painting all the colors of the leaves….”

I could see both Papa and Paul staring at me from above their perched silverware. Like two eagles, they sat hunched, glowering at me with increasing suspicion.

“If you want, Monsieur Van Gogh, I can take you to one of my favorite painting spots in Chaponval. You can see over Oise River and to the fields beyond.” Paul was speaking quickly and I could tell how eager he was to impress Vincent.

I could immediately see Father’s brain latching on to Paul’s idea of accompanying Vincent while he was painting. Just as I suspected he would, Father added: “I could always take you around as well and show you the best vistas in the area. I could bring my easel and we could paint side by side.”

Paul’s face suddenly fell. He could not conceal his disappointment.

Vincent shook his head. “It’s so kind of you both to offer your assistance, but I prefer to paint alone. Even when I lived with Gaugin, we rarely painted at the same spot.” He cleared his throat. “My creative work is better suited for solitude.”

F
OR
the rest of the meal, my brother remained unusually quiet. I could see that he tried on more than one occasion to look surreptitiously in Vincent’s direction and that his preoccupation was clearly a result of schoolboy curiosity. With a series of unsubtle movements, he shifted in his seat and cocked his head awkwardly to the side. I knew what he was up to—he was trying to confirm whether the information Madame Chevalier had told him about Vincent’s missing left ear was correct.

Papa, however, seemed oblivious to Paul’s macabre curiosity, and in between his enthusiastic eating, he continued to engage Vincent in conversation.

“I was thinking, Vincent. We could invite your brother and his family over for an afternoon…to have lunch in the garden…and you could see your young nephew. Paris isn’t that far,” he continued. “They could come out for the day.”

Vincent smiled. He seemed to brighten immediately at the thought of his brother and his family coming to Auvers.

“What a kind invitation, Doctor.” Vincent looked genuinely pleased. “I had wanted them to join me here for the entire summer—bring the baby with them and get some fresh air—but Theo has just written me telling me it’s impossible. But a lunch—that would be wonderful.”

Vincent cut off another piece of chicken, washing it down with a large swallow of wine. He cleared his throat and turned to me. Again his gaze was intense. Those two pale blue eyes framed by the ledge of his forehead. The eternal arching of his copper brows. Then, unabashed by Father’s presence, he turned to me and announced: “As long as it is no trouble to Mademoiselle Gachet.”

I don’t think I even managed to reply, so overcome was I by my blush. To hide my embarrassment, I turned my head and caught sight of my brother’s face. It took me off guard. He looked as though someone had stolen his only slice of birthday cake.

W
E
all waited for Vincent to finish eating. Paul had already eaten two helpings of everything and was still looking wolfishly at the remaining bits of chicken on the decorated Limoges plate.

“Was the food to your liking, Monsieur Van Gogh?” I asked.

“Oh, yes…I rarely eat so well…my stomach isn’t used to it.”

I attempted to smile as I stood up to clear the table for dessert. Still, I worried as I exited toward the kitchen that the menu I had prepared was perhaps too rich for his digestion.

After I served the poached pears, Papa clasped his hands and announced that both Paul and I would play something on the piano in honor of Vincent’s arrival.

“Paul will play first,” he said.

I cleared the table as the three men went into the parlor. I could hear Paul saying he was going to play a piece by Bach. It was an ambitious choice on my brother’s part, and I knew he had chosen it because he wished to impress not only Vincent, but Papa as well. He was starving for Papa to notice him (something I had long given up on) and hoped that though Papa failed to notice his paintings, perhaps he would take notice of his piano playing.

But the piece was far too difficult for him. He hadn’t been able to practice when he was away at school and the selection he made required tremendous precision. I wished that I could have taken him aside and gently suggested that he choose something a little easier for such a spontaneous recital. But I had been so busy and preoccupied over the week with the cooking and cleaning of the house that I hadn’t had the chance. Later on, I would feel guilty that I hadn’t been more inquisitive, that I had not asked him what music he was planning to perform. Certainly, had I known it was Bach, I would have tried to encourage him to perform something less complicated.

But it was too late. By the time I walked into our living room he had already taken his seat at the keyboard. His nervousness must have gotten the best of him, for as he played his fingers shook like fluttering pine needles and he was incapable of striking all the correct notes.

It was painful to watch. It was equally painful to listen to. Knowing that he was failing publicly—in the eyes of my father and his esteemed artist guest—Paul’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. His ears turned scarlet as well, and it looked as though he might faint from the sound of his own blundering at the keys. When he finally finished, I tried to clap as hard as I could. But it was little consolation. He sat sulking as I stepped up to the piano to play Chopin’s Impromptu, which I had practiced each day since Vincent first arrived in Auvers.

I settled myself at the piano. If I looked to my left, I could see both Vincent and Papa reflected in the gilded mirror on the wall so I looked straight ahead toward my sheet music and the point of the metronome just beyond.

Papa let out a small cough and I knew he was signaling for me to begin.

I smoothed out my dress and placed my fingers at the keys. I placed my foot on the pedal and took one last, deep breath.

I began tentatively, cautiously approaching the first few notes, but soon I forgot that I was playing for an audience and the melody took over.

No longer did I need to read the music; I knew each stanza by heart. My body swayed as I connected each note. My diaphragm rose—my breasts lifted—as I breathed and exhaled into the melody. I felt as though I were a fir tree shaking off a winter’s worth of snow.

The crescendo approached and as I struck the final notes, I felt a few stray locks of hair come loose from my chignon. They fell over my eyes and I fought hard not to push them back.

My fingers now felt as though they were being pulled by a spirit not their own. With lightning speed they danced over the keys.

Vincent was already on his feet clapping as I lifted my foot off the pedal.

“Such artistic passion,” I heard him gush. He was clapping so feverishly that even Papa seemed embarrassed by his guest’s enthusiasm and his sheer inability to mask his delight.

When I sat down, I could feel Paul’s eyes glaring at me. He wouldn’t be showing Vincent his paintings, and I felt sorry for my little brother. He had wanted so desperately to impress our guest.

“I
NEED
to get a tincture for Vincent,” Papa whispered to me after the recital. “Your brother is clearly upset about his performance. Why don’t you take Vincent to the parlor and entertain him for a few minutes…. I’ll only be a moment.”

Papa’s suggestion took me by surprise but I could not protest. After all, wasn’t this what I had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with him?

I motioned for Vincent to follow me into the salon. Inside I was shaking. I knew I was ill prepared to engage in small talk, let alone flirtation. For several days now my mind had been bursting with questions for him. I wanted to ask him how he chose his palette, how he learned his craft. Had he ever envisioned himself as something other than a painter?

But now conversation eluded me and my tongue failed to utter a single word.

“You play Chopin beautifully,” he finally said as we entered the room.

“Thank you,” I said with a small laugh.

Outside I could hear Henrietta making sounds at the chickens. It was strangely comforting to me, especially when Vincent smiled when one of the roosters cackled.

“When I hear you play, something about you transforms. I have been trying to place it exactly…. It’s not that your hair becomes more golden…or the fact that your hands flutter like two white doves…. It’s—it’s just—” He stopped himself. “I am sorry, the right words are difficult to find. I only want to say that I was so moved by your performance.”

“Oh, you are most kind…. But really, I lack the talent that my mother had. She was the most magnificent pianist.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed when I said this, as if he was troubled that I was selling myself short.

“That is rather inconsequential. Your talents are real—as real as the blood in my own blue veins!” He tapped on his forearm to reinforce the dramatic tone in his voice. “When I saw you in the garden that first afternoon, I noticed there was something special about you. Underneath that milk-white skin of yours, there is great passion for life. I can see it.”

“Monsiuer Van Gogh, hush! If my father hears you going on like this I will never be allowed at the piano again!” Again, I giggled nervously, as I had never had anyone flatter me before.

“Ah, so you are not used to this attention,” he said, and a small smile crept over his face. He was still sitting a comfortable distance from me but I could feel his gaze begin to intensify. Now he was staring.

I felt my face growing hot from his stare. “What you say is true. It is strange for me.” My blush now spread: a stroke of pink on a wet page.

Vincent stood up from his chair. He was suddenly more confident and his voice was stronger. “I look around your father’s house and I see all this bric-a-brac.” He pointed to the ebony pedestal in the corner, the shelves lined with porcelains. “There is too much distraction. But, you, mademoiselle, stand out among all this dark furniture and gilded ormolu.”