The Last Van Gogh (8 page)

“You are much too kind,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.

“No, I am not,” he insisted. “A painter yearns to paint that which others fail to see. If someone tells me the sky is full of clouds, I am the artist that rushes outside to find what is hidden behind. “He now came closer to me so that he was standing only inches from where I sat. And even though I tried to force my pupils to burrow into my lap, his eyes were still planted firmly in my direction. His gaze began to fixate on my features and I began to suspect he was studying my face, imagining how he might build the flesh from layers of thin, blended pigment.

When I finally did raise my head, I could now make out each of his lashes, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the follicles of his whiskers.

His mouth remained perfectly still. The feather-soft lines in his lips looked like the tiny veins of an autumn leaf, and the sweep of skin below his eyes was so pale it appeared almost blue.

“I would not be so distracted if I could paint you, mademoiselle.”

I looked up at him. The irises of his eyes were not solid aquamarine as I had believed, but speckled with gold and apricot.

“Monsieur Van Gogh,” I stammered. My skin felt as if it was burning right through the silk of my dress. I had never been so close to a man before and I was trembling.

“You will need to ask my father,” I finally blurted out. “He will be here any moment!”

He let out a small laugh, obviously charmed by my awkwardness.

“Don’t worry, Mademoiselle Gachet, I intend to ask permission from your father. I would not do it any other way.”

He was now pacing while I sat there with my limbs frozen. And although I could hear Father opening and closing the drawers in his study upstairs and I could smell the yeasty perfume of my dough browning in the oven, I still sat there motionless, staring at Vincent as he moved in slow steps around our parlor.

It was he, again, who broke the silence.

“You should know that I do not take my portraits lightly. I choose my subjects carefully. Deliberately.” He remained by the window with his face turned away from me.

“I want the people who see my portraits in a hundred years’ time to see them as I did when I first painted them—as apparitions—as selected slivers of the divine.”

I desperately wanted to tell him how honored I was that he wished to paint me, but before I could manage the words, I heard Father’s footsteps bounding down the hall. He entered with a great flurry, his hands stretched outward as if he were making an elaborate delivery.

“Here, Vincent. Take three doses of this daily. It should help calm your nerves.”

Vincent turned directly to my father and took the glass flask from his hand.

“I don’t have the passionflower prepared, but take this; it’s mugwort,” Papa said. The vial contained a moss-colored liquid which was almost translucent when Vincent held it up to the sunlight. “The Saxons believed it was one of the nine sacred herbs. Even I take it every now and then when I’m feeling depressed.”

“I told you,” he stammered nervously, “I’ve been trying to wean myself from the green-eyed devil for several months now….” Vincent returned the vial back to Father. “I don’t think I should take it.”

Papa shook his head and pressed the tincture back into Vincent’s palm. “No, this isn’t absinthe, Vincent.” He let out a small laugh. “It’s medicinal. I’ve been prescribing homeopathic remedies to my patients in Paris for years.”

Vincent looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know….” He appeared agitated and there seemed to be genuine fear in his eyes. “I don’t want to get addicted to anything again, and if there are side effects…I couldn’t bear that.”

“These tinctures will only help you get better, Vincent.”

Still, Vincent hesitated.

“No, I am going to insist you take it, Vincent.” Father’s voice now sounded stern. “I doubt Theo would be pleased to learn you’re not taking instruction from me. After all, I’m your doctor.”

I was sure Vincent then cast his eyes in my direction, as if he thought an approving nod from me might assuage his doubts.

I did not, however, acknowledge him in any way.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I desperately wanted to meet his gaze and interpret his expressions more clearly. But I was afraid that Papa might see me and suspect I was trying to undermine his authority. I wasn’t a doctor. I knew little about the curative powers of plants and flowers. And I was fearful of igniting Father’s wrath after Vincent left.

“Take it….” Papa’s voice was more persistent now. There was an urgency to it that made it sound like an order.

I saw Vincent take the flask from Father, place it in his side pocket, and reluctantly acknowledge his instructions with a nod.

EIGHT

A Female Model

I
HAD
difficulty sleeping that evening. All I could think about was Vincent’s eyes heavy on me. I had been right that the first afternoon, when he had handed me the red poppy, he
had
seen something in me. Now, he had articulated his desire to have me sit for him and I was dizzy from the anticipation.

The following morning, Father mentioned in passing that Vincent was eager to have a female model and had asked if I could pose for him.

“Modeling is not an easy task, Marguerite,” Papa warned me. “You will need to act like a professional.”

“Yes, Papa,” I said in my most serious voice. I had to fight hard not to show just how elated I was.

“Some people would frown on my decision to let you sit for him, but I promised his brother I would do all that I could to help Vincent continue his painting. And anyway, this will not be as though you are modeling for an art class.” Papa laughed to himself. “No, I would never allow my daughter to do that sort of modeling!”

I blushed when Papa made this off-color remark. “No, of course not, Papa. Of course not.”

I, on the other hand, could not have been more pleased that Vincent had made good on his promise. As a child I had posed for Armand Gautier, another painter friend of Papa’s, but that was a long time ago.

I wanted to tell someone that I—Marguerite Gachet—had inspired a brilliant painter. That he had chosen to immortalize me in canvas and his luminous paint. My head was now filled with questions. Would Vincent use vibrant colors or choose the muted ones I feared my plain countenance deserved? Would Papa let him paint me unchaperoned or would I be allowed to sit with him alone?

But I had no one to discuss this with but my diary and myself. Paul had chosen to postpone going to Paris until Tuesday as the school was engaged in a reading period before exams. And although he remained in the house, he still had not spoken to me since his piano debacle. By that evening, he still had made no effort to speak to me, or even acknowledge me when I went into the parlor to do my needlepoint. He sat on one of Papa’s armchairs with his head buried in one of his schoolbooks, his legs extended like two strips of timber, never looking up at me once.

I was used to his bouts of moodiness. He had been petulant even as a child whenever he didn’t get his way, but it bothered me that he was angry with me because I had performed my piano piece without error and he had heard that Vincent wanted to paint me and not him.

“How’s your painting going?” I finally got the courage to ask him. “Perhaps you can ask Monsieur Van Gogh for some instruction; I’m sure he could offer you some sound advice.”

“He has little interest in me, Marguerite. You know that.” His lip was curled up in a nasty little scowl.

I spent several minutes trying to reassure him. “If Vincent can’t assist you, I’m sure Papa’s other artist friends might be able to offer you some guidance on their next visit.”

He shook his head. “Papa will monopolize them so, I will have little opportunity.”

“We must remember, Paul,” I said as I sat next to him and gently took his hand, “Vincent is one of Papa’s patients, and we cannot push too hard with him. He is here to recuperate and to get himself back to his painting.”

Paul nodded.

“I too am anxious to get to know him,” I said, lowering my voice. “It will happen over time. Once you’re home for the summer in a few weeks I’m sure you’ll have ample opportunity.”

Paul smiled. “Yes, perhaps after my exams are over and I’m here full time, he’ll give me some pointers.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will.”

I touched Paul gingerly on the knee and made my way to the kitchen. I had left a pile of potatoes in the sink. When I slid open the Algerian striped curtain, I found Louise-Josephine standing over the potatoes with a bowl of water in front of her and a peeler in one hand.

“Oh, thank you,” I said. I was surprised to find her there. I quickly reached for a knife and began helping her. We stood next to each other, aprons tied, the ribbons of potato skin falling into the sink. She hummed softly as she worked, a smile permanently fixed on her lips. After a moment, she turned to me and said, “Mother tells me you are to be painted by Monsieur Van Gogh.”

My heart stopped as she spoke as if the fact that she knew about Vincent’s request cemented it in stone.

“I’m sorry”—she hesitated—” perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I didn’t answer her at first. I was still holding one of the potatoes in my hand. I expected her to look away from me out of shyness. But Louise-Josephine did not waver. She stood there staring at me, her eyes dark as claret.

“Yes,” I finally said. “It’s true. He’s asked Papa if he can paint me.”

She nodded her head and placed one of the potatoes in the bowl of cold water. “I suspect there will be some excitement in this house this summer.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “It will be a pleasant change, don’t you think?”

I looked at her as if I didn’t know what she meant by such a comment.

She turned away from the table and brushed her hands on her apron. Looking directly in my eyes, she said rather matter-of-factly, “Of all the treasures in this crowded house, you’re the thing that has caught his eye.”

I wanted to embrace her when she said that. It was probably the kindest thing that anyone had ever said to me in my twenty-one years.

“You really think so?” I said to her as I inched closer. I was like a starved child desperate for any other morsel of flattery she could give to me.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He would never ask to paint something that didn’t inspire him. It must be a wonderful feeling to know that someone finds you so beautiful.”

NINE

Secrets

F
OR
years now I had tried to convince myself that Madame Chevalier and Louise-Josephine were just visitors in passing, that one day “Chouchette,” as my Father affectionately called her, would pack up her one suitcase and take her daughter and leave.

I imagined her leaving as she had arrived. Wearing that memorable black dress, the silver buttons still shiny, her figure still poking through the cloth. It was a ridiculous fantasy, now that I look back on it. For I knew early on, though I didn’t want to accept it, that Father never had any plans for her to be a real governess to us.

I am not sure if it was because I was looking for someone to reaffirm my suspicion that Vincent might be attracted to me or because she seemed to be taking notice of my feelings for him, but I suddenly welcomed Louise-Josephine’s overtures of friendship toward me.

She was twenty-three now. Although she had lived nine years under our roof, I had never formed a close relationship with her. Over the years we had been polite to each other, and we had worked occasionally in the kitchen together when I needed assistance. She had helped me with the spring cleaning, even when her mother remained in her room doing needlepoint. She tried perhaps on more than one occasion to speak kindly to me but our exchanges rarely went beyond common pleasantries.

Though our lack of common interests had something to do with it, another part, I realize now, was my own snobbery. I resented the two of them living with us while their responsibilities remained unclear. Paul and I were old enough that we no longer needed Madame Chevalier’s supervision. I did not expect to be waited upon, but I did not understand, either, why Father, who clearly had feelings for Madame Chevalier, went to such lengths to pretend that she and her daughter were living here to assist Paul and me—when clearly they were not.

Now, however, I began to welcome the idea of having a girl close to my age in the house. Louise-Josephine no longer seemed preoccupied with coddling Paul—he was too old for it now, and I’m sure she noticed, as I had, that he seemed to be going through an awkward stage of wanting to do everything like Papa.

I felt myself beginning to warm toward her. After all, she was kind to tell me she believed Vincent thought I was beautiful—and I yearned for a few moments alone with her to ask her why she believed that to be so.

I began to observe her routine. I noticed how she tried to stay out of our way, how she did little things to try and be helpful. I had never noticed before that she would often snip the dead flowers off my arrangements so that they appeared fresh for longer periods of time. Nor would I appreciate it when I sometimes lost track of time and Louise-Josephine would rescue my baking so it didn’t burn.

Her comings and goings now intrigued me as well. Although Louise-Josephine remained sequestered on the grounds of our house, there were rare occasions when she ventured outside with Papa’s permission. A few years after Louise-Josephine began living with us, Madame Chevalier had suggested that she might take her daughter into Pontoise once a month in order to buy her a few necessities. Papa had agreed, as he knew that Madame Chevalier and Louise-Josephine could take the small roads behind our house into the next village where their activities would go unnoticed.

When they returned from their monthly excursion together, their arms would always be filled with new bolts of cloth, their satchel filled with glass buttons and ribbon. Papa had given Madame Chevalier a small allowance and I knew she saved it for these excursions with her daughter.