The Last Van Gogh (10 page)

I was curious how Vincent painted the winter. Did he continue to paint in colorful hues? Did he forsake his reds and greens, trading them in for a palette of the palest shade of blue and marble white? And how did he paint while he was in Saint-Rémy? Although Father had initially shocked me with his divulgence of Vincent’s time in the sanitarium, the longer I thought about it, the less disturbing it seemed. For after all, Vincent appeared perfectly sane in my company. Perhaps he was a bit socially awkward on occasion, but his odd choice in clothes and his enthusiasm for painting seemed no less eccentric than my father’s own behavior.

Papa continued to methodically work on distilling his tinctures. Hunched over the wooden table, with the stems of flowers before him, he could have been an artist arranging a still life. The long-nosed bottle of spirits might easily have been filled with turpentine; the mason jars could have been holders for his brushes and water. Watching Papa, I shook my head. I could not help but see yet another similarity between Papa and Vincent. They both seemed to have a genuine disregard for what others thought of them. Father pursued his homeopathy and love of painting with a passion I could not help but respect. He thumbed his nose at the classically bourgeois life and, much like Vincent, nothing else seemed to matter to him as long as he was doing what he loved most in the world. And although Vincent’s paintings were infinitely better than Papa’s, their enthusiasm for their respective passions was undeniably the same.

TWELVE

A Slip of Paper

O
N
Tuesday, he arrived again at our house. I had heard Papa saying that Vincent might come that day, so I had spent most of the morning trying to make myself look beautiful.

I put on my pale green dress with the yellow ribbon at the hem and brushed my hair until my wrists grew tired. I took special pains to arrange the curls around my face, twisting and plumping them until my coiffure resembled one of the porcelain dolls I had been given as a child. I pinned my cameo on and sprayed some perfume behind my ears and neck.

As I had done nearly two days before, I bounded down the hall when the bell sounded his arrival. I could feel my heartbeat sounding through my bodice and my breath quickening as the bell rang again.

“Monsieur Van Gogh.” I smiled as I opened the door for him. “We’re delighted you could join us for another visit.”

He looked frazzled, far more unnerved than the last time I had seen him. He was missing his overcoat and the smock he was wearing was soiled with paint stains.

“Finally a good day! Finally some sun…I painted Père Pilon’s house in the rain and have been feeling under the weather ever since.” He placed his paint box on the floor and adjusted the canvas that was strapped to his back.

I stepped aside so he could walk into the vestibule. He seemed slighter when I gazed at him from behind, as if he had the shoulders of a young man, perhaps Paul’s age. I could see the perspiration beading on his neck, the tiny patch of freckles above his collar. I stepped closer to him.

“I’ve made some corn cakes this morning…would you like some before you paint?”

“Unfortunately, I must decline, mademoiselle. I’ve already had several cups of coffee and I’m eager to begin working.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, trying not to reveal my disappointment.

He turned to face me; the red bristles of his hair were matted in clumps and his eyes looked straight into mine.

“I want to finish the painting I began in your father’s garden last week. I want to take advantage of the sunlight.”

“Oh, yes,” I tried to reply, though inside my stomach was churning. I worried that he might find the way I dressed silly. “Let me show you out.” I motioned for him to follow me into the garden.

“Vincent!” Papa shouted as we walked through the gate. “So good of you to come by. It pleases me that you think my house a worthy perch for your easel.” He patted Vincent on the back and I could see how the sheer force of Papa’s hand caused his entire body to catapult forward. Papa turned to me. “We’ll be taking our lunch outdoors today, Marguerite.”

I nodded and excused myself. When I reached the door, I turned to see if Vincent was looking at me. But he was busy setting up his canvas. He hadn’t noticed I was gone.

F
ROM
the living room I watched them. Papa stood only steps from Vincent, his shadow blending in with that cast by the long, dark legs of Vincent’s easel. His arms were crossed before him as he watched Vincent assemble his palette, squeezing the bladders of paint onto his large kidney-shaped board. The flicker of Vincent’s palette knife—a flash of bright silver—moved vigorously over the pigments, blending them in what I imagined was a smooth, opaque consistency. The way melted chocolate or satiny lemon curd coats the back of a spoon.

I envied Father’s proximity. No doubt he could see Vincent layering the colors, carving out the highlights with the tip of his blade. The other day, he had painted the cypress tree first, like a tall violent flame in dark bottle-green and olive strokes. Next came the spiky branches of the yucca in turquoise and sea-foam, the jagged edges outlined in Prussian blue.

Now he again painted with the same fury. He did not hesitate to apply the pigment directly onto the canvas, to drag it across until he had created the intended shape of leaf or flower. He painted wet on wet, until I could not tell where one color began and the other ended. That afternoon he added a flash of orange—painting the roofline of the houses on the street below. The sky he imagined was a thousand tiny strokes of cobalt and azure. It looked as though he had penetrated the impenetrable blue of the horizon, caught the impossible drizzling of rain.

I marveled at how someone could paint with such speed. I had watched other painters who came and visited Papa in our garden, and they all had devoted several hours to a single tree or a bush or even the bell outside the garden gate. But Vincent painted as though in a trance, the color leaping from his brush.

T
HEY
ate their lunch alone, two men under the shade of our ancient trees, the summer light illuminating their helmets of strawberry-colored hair. Vincent tore hungrily from the baguette and seemed to eat far more heartily this light summer fare I had casually put out than the meal I prepared a few days before.

After coffee was served the two men excused themselves. Father informed me that they were going to the Ravoux Inn to look at some of Vincent’s paintings, so I shouldn’t expect him to return until late.

Vincent walked behind Papa, the soles of his shoes stepping delicately over the floorboards. Even his footsteps sounded like poetry to me—so much that they had a rhythm and uniqueness all their own.

I stood back next to the floral centerpiece in our hall, bursts of pink geranium and green belles of Ireland poking into my long cotton sleeves.

“Have a lovely afternoon,” I said softly as Vincent approached my side.

He did not look up at me, though I noticed he seemed to slow his pace slightly.

I was unsure what was happening when I first felt his fingers reaching out to me, searching to find my own trembling hand.

“Take it,” he whispered.

He slipped a piece of paper into my hand.

“For later,” he said and his lips barely moved as he uttered the words.

I closed my fingers around the folded piece of parchment, the blood running through my veins with such velocity that I thought I might faint from the force.

By the time my eyes lifted, he was already down the hallway, close to Papa, who was now swinging open the front door. The daylight seemed blinding as I stood in the shadows of our dark, tenebrous house. I grasped the sight of him descending the stairs, enveloped by a single beam of light. I clutched the piece of paper to my breast and hurried, as fast as a hummingbird, to my room.

THIRTEEN

Muddied Hem and All

I
WAITED
to open the letter until after I looked out my bedroom window and saw that Papa and Vincent were well down the street.

I was trembling so much that the thin slip of paper nearly fell from my hands.

It did not take long to read it as there was only a single sentence.

I still intend to paint you,
it said, in a perfectly scripted hand.

He left it unsigned but had drawn a small butterfly on the lower right-hand corner, coloring it in with a fingerprint of yellow paint.

That night I found I could not sleep. I left the letter on my nightstand so I could see it in the light of the moon. When morning came, I slipped it into my diary alongside the pressed poppy, each of its edges papery to the touch.

T
HREE
days passed with no other word from Vincent. I began to doubt whether he would ever come, or whether his letter had been sincere.

But that Saturday the doorbell rang. I had been outside most of the afternoon sprinkling bonemeal on my rosebushes.

My breathing was heavy when I answered the door. There he stood as he always did with his spotted smock and his box of paints.

“I was wondering if you might sit for me this afternoon, Mademoiselle Gachet.”

I had not been expecting him; I looked down at my dress. The hem was muddied and my hands were soiled from digging in the earth.

“I’m afraid I’m ill prepared to pose today, Monsieur Van Gogh. As you can see, I look like a potato farmer!”

He looked amused by my comment. “Not that you do, mademoiselle, but I’ve painted more than a few of those!”

“You’ll have to let me change,” I insisted. “Father would never let me pose looking like this…. I think the charwoman must look more elegant than I do today!”

“Your dress is white as those flowers,” he said, pointing down the corridor to an arrangement of camellias in a blue and white Chinese vase.

“I’ve been meaning to paint you….” He was stumbling over his words. “I hope you did not think I had forgotten.” He took a deep breath and looked straight into my eyes. “It’s only that I’ve been feeling so dark recently. This morning, when I awakened, I imagined you out there in your garden, you wearing a dress just like the one you have on now.”

He extended his hand to touch the fabric of my skirt, and I, not being used to such forward gestures, found myself tripping over my hem as I backed away.

“Monsieur Van Gogh”—my awkwardness overcame me—“I don’t think I could live up to your expectations as a model.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If your father grants me permission, I will paint you just now. Muddied hem and all.”

I
THINK
Father was taken off guard, just as I had been. Neither of us was expecting Vincent that afternoon, so his sudden appearance took us by surprise. Paul had been sketching Henrietta the goat since breakfast, and several pieces of paper were crumpled next to the garden chair where he had been sitting for most of the morning. His textbook remained on the low wooden stool untouched.

He stood up and greeted Vincent just as Father had. He carried his sketch pad with him, cocked under his arm, and wore a soft felt hat that flopped as he moved. Looking at him as he walked all gangly-limbed toward Vincent, I thought my little brother looked like a caricature—an awkward imitator of Vincent and Papa.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Van Gogh.” He tipped his hand to his head as though he were about to remove his hat, but then failed to do so. “I see you will be enjoying the visual delights of our garden.” He swept his hand across the air as if implying that he was responsible for the beauty of the surroundings.

My brother sounded ridiculous using such formal language and adopting such airs, but I could see from the throbbing of his Adam’s apple that he was nervous and trying, in his own way, to appear sophisticated.

“I, too, have been sketching,” he said, extending his sketch pad. Vincent took a quick look at one of the pictures of the farm animals, and mumbled something about all things taking time and practice. I saw Paul’s eyes fall.

“This isn’t the time, Paul.” Papa clicked his tongue to show his annoyance. “Monsieur Van Gogh has not come here to teach, but to paint and to recuperate. Isn’t that right, Vincent?”

“I plan on painting Mademoiselle Gachet today,” Vincent said, smiling back at me. “As long as the doctor doesn’t mind.”

Paul’s left eye began to twitch, the lid fluttering like the wing of a magpie. I saw him kick the ground with his shoe.

“I’m insisting that she does not change. I want to paint her just as she is.”

Papa suddenly looked alarmed. “You can’t possibly want to paint Marguerite today!”

“Yes, I most certainly do.”

“But I thought…I thought you might want to do a more formal sitting…a more—” Father stopped in midsentence. “Where do you want to paint her?”

“In the garden, near the rosebushes and the geranium blossoms.”

Father nodded his head and sighed.

H
E
painted me in the midst of the garden, between two sections, where the turgid rosebushes intermingled with the vines. I covered my hair with a yellow bonnet and stood waist high among the blooming tendrils, my muddy hem cast behind a veil of forgiving shrubs.

That afternoon the light was golden, with the shadows of the chestnut trees casting long fingers on the lawn. I stood against one of the blue-stained posts that divided the terrace, staring into my garden. I knew where each bush began, where each set of roots mingled with its neighbor, and where one stem was blooming and the other was just about to bud. I felt the soft warmth of summer on my face and a soft breeze rustling across my bodice. I suddenly couldn’t help myself from smiling. I was elated that Vincent had asked to paint me among the very things that I had spent years cultivating, toiling and tending with my own hands.

“Could you extend your hand, mademoiselle?” he called out from behind his easel.

I raised my right arm and opened my fingers slightly.

“Yes, that’s it….”

It was difficult to remain in this position for a sustained period of time, but I didn’t want to disappoint him. So for nearly three hours I stood there, lowering my hand on occasion to avoid a cramp, but careful to resume the exact position I had held moments before.