The Last Van Gogh (15 page)

“Now I am just a man that uses cloth,” he said with a chuckle.

I covered my mouth and giggled. Paul and my father remained unamused.

“I look forward to seeing how your painting turns out, Vincent,” Papa answered. “I’m glad that you’ve been so prolific since you’ve come to Auvers.”

Vincent smiled. “I had no idea I would find the north so inspiring.” He exhaled. “As long as I have something to paint, my attacks will hopefully be kept at bay.”

“That’s what I’ve said all along!” Papa agreed excitedly. He tapped Vincent on the shoulder. “Just remember before you leave tonight, I have your weekly vial of medicine.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to leave here without that.”

TWENTY-ONE

An Adventurous Spirit

T
HAT
night I could hardly contain my excitement to tell Louise-Josephine what had happened. I had barely finished explaining what had transpired over dinner when she suddenly perked up.

“If you know that he will be painting the village church this evening, then you must sneak out and visit him there.”

Her eyes were bright with a sudden devilishness and I could see how her mind was spinning just trying to plot the logistics.

“It will be too difficult,” I whispered. “And anyway, he hates to be disturbed when he is painting. I wouldn’t want to distract him.”

“No, no,” she agreed with me. “Go a little later when you suspect he will be finishing. You can wait in the bushes until you see him begin to pack his things up!”

It was a masterly plan and it made me reaffirm, again, what an invaluable ally she was to me.

“You really think I should go?” My voice was shivering from the thought of doing something so secretive, so romantic.

“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “You have to! It will be the only time you’ll have the opportunity to see him alone.”

I was filled with excitement at the prospect of sneaking out the window just as Louise-Josephine had and meeting Vincent underneath the stars. I only wondered if it would be unwise to surprise him.

“He’ll think you have an adventurous spirit.”

She took hold of my brush and gently pushed me toward the bed and sat me down. With her small nimble hands she quickly unpinned my hair and began brushing it furiously.

“I think you should wear your hair down,” she said as she held a thick chunk of it between her fingers.

Indeed, it did feel luxurious on my shoulders, and the mere weight of it forced me to hold my head straighter.

I took one of the ash-blonde locks and twirled it around my finger.

“You look beautiful, Marguerite,” she said and she handed me a mirror. I held it close, barely recognizing myself in its reflection.

She took a pot of lip rouge from her pocket and undid the lid.

I was so excited about the nascent possibilities of that evening. I did not know if I would be successful in sneaking out of our house, and if I was, whether I would be able to see Vincent at all. But without Louise-Josephine’s encouragement, I would have never had the courage to try either.

So much adrenaline rushed through my veins that evening. Louise-Josephine stayed with me as we waited to hear Father and Madame Chevalier go to sleep and, finally, to hear the end of Paul’s footsteps pattering around his room below.

“We must wait to make absolutely sure everyone’s asleep before you sneak out,” she warned.

We waited, speaking in hushed voices and keeping our ears attuned to every sound that echoed through the house.

Finally, when nearly a full hour of complete silence had passed, Louise-Josephine whispered to me her secret for scaling down the trellis.

“You mustn’t wear shoes,” she said solemnly, holding one finger to her mouth. “They will only increase the noise and inhibit your flexibility.” She looked down at my feet, which were in tightly fitted ankle boots.

“Go barefoot and then slip into your garden shoes by the gate.”

I knelt down to untie my boots as she continued on with more important details of my imminent escape. Over the past few months she had become masterful at sneaking out of our house. She knew which rail squeaked and which stone made a sound when you walked on it. She even knew how to turn the latch of our gate without making a noise.

“There is an extra key in the flowerpot by the door,” she told me carefully, drawing a diagram of our front lawn with her finger. “Use that to get in when you return and drop it back in the morning after breakfast.”

I nodded my head, but felt that my head might explode from all the information she wanted me to command to memory. I could feel myself starting to panic, and when I pushed the hair away from my face, I’m sure Louise could see I was terrified.

“I’m not sure I’m capable of doing this,” I muttered. “What if Papa discovers me?”

“He won’t,” she said reassuringly. “He and Mother sleep soundly. You must trust me, I’ve done this at least a dozen times….”

I nodded my head in assent. My shoulders were trembling underneath my gown and my heart was racing.

“Don’t worry so much, Marguerite,” she said, placing her hand over mine. “The first time it’s petrifying, but you’ll soon find it’s not so hard!”

I shook my head in disbelief. “I wish I had your courage,” I whispered.

She tossed back her long black hair and smiled. “Marguerite, you’ve already proven that you do.”

TWENTY-TWO

Rendezvous

I
T
was eleven o’clock when I began my descent from Louise-Josephine’s window. I wore a simple blue cotton dress and my hair swept loose.

I stood there barefoot, waiting as she quietly undid the latch and opened the window.

“Hold on to the ledge when you first secure your footing,” she warned as she helped lower me down. I held on to the stone lip with one hand and to her tiny fingers with the other, watching her face without blinking as I lowered myself to the garden below.

She was right about the added agility from going barefoot. I was able to lock my toes around the wooden slats and claw my way down. Louise-Josephine continued to watch me as I made my way through the garden, and did not close the window until I slipped safely through the front gate.

With my garden shoes inelegantly cloaking my feet, I lumbered down the rue Vessenots. I had never been outside our house at such a late hour, and I reveled in the silence of our village. The moon illuminated the limestone farmhouses, and the daylilies that grew by the cobblestone streets were as tight as fists.

The warm balmy breeze penetrated the cotton weave of my dress, and my breasts revealed my excitement. There was something so liberating about having my hair loose and my bare feet slipping against the soles of my woven garden sandals. The air was heavy with the perfume of jasmine and roses as I headed down the street. I could see the stone bell tower of the church and wondered if he would still be there working under the white globe of moonlight, his canvas already heavy with paint.

It took me nearly twenty minutes to reach the center of town, and I tried to catch my breath before making the final ascent to the church. I smoothed down my hair with my palms and patted my neck with my handkerchief. I could see the faint outline of his body as I began walking up the hill to the church’s entrance. He was hunched over his easel, the cuffs of his smock cloaking his hands.

I dared not approach him as he labored furiously over the stretchers. I took a step backward and camouflaged myself among the poplar trees.

It was such a joy to watch him work. He mixed his pigments expertly, squeezing his bladders of paint onto his palette with deliberation and care. He took not only brushes to his canvas, but also alternated between sweeping the canvas with a thin piece of willow and at other times cutting through the paint with a blade.

I waited, watching him for nearly an hour as he painted the ominous spire of the church, its dark, hollow windows, and the crouching gargoyles from above. Only when he had stepped back from the canvas and begun packing up his satchel did I finally approach him. And even then, I trembled with fear.

“Vincent,” I said with a hushed voice.

He looked up from his canvas, alarmed that someone was whispering his name.

“I hope you’re not angry that I came.” I stepped out from behind the trees.

To say he was surprised was an understatement. He could barely speak when he saw me there, standing in front of him like an unkempt mermaid with my downswept hair.

“I nearly did not recognize you,” he said, stuttering to overcome his shock. “I was not expecting visitors this time of night.” He wiped his palette knife with a rag and placed it on the lip of his easel and smiled.

I took one step closer and stood there looking first at him, then at his painting.

It was darker than I expected. Most of his other paintings had been full of high tones of bright yellow, green, and white. But this one, with an opaque whale-blue sky and violet stones, sent chills down my spine.

I stepped another foot closer to him; the edge of my arm grazed his as I moved closer to see the painting. There was something skeletal about the bones of the church, the sharp jagged outlines, and the tower that nearly pierced the cobalt sky. He seemed to capture the church as if it were frozen. Blue-white, dove-gray—it was completely devoid of light except for the patch of flame that rose from the roofline.

There was a curious forked path in the front that was accented by quick staccatos of brown and yellow. To the left, he had drawn the figure of a Dutchwoman with a pointed white hat, gathering her skirts and hurrying past darkened windows.

“Who is she?” I asked, pointing to the figure. “I’ve lived here all my life and have never seen a Dutchwoman scampering around our church in the middle of the night.”

He seemed to be taken aback by my question, as if it made him uncomfortable.

“There’s no need to tell me, “I said softly. I was sure he now thought me rude.

“No, that isn’t it,” he answered. “I suppose I’m just pleasantly surprised that such insight could come from a girl who, as you say, has lived in Auvers her whole life.”

He looked at me and smiled.

“You are right to suspect the figure is a symbol,” he said. “I once considered a life in the clergy but was rejected by the Church.”

He said no more but it was obvious whom it really was passing to one side of the road, the one that led away from the church’s entrance.

“I read the Aurier article, and they’re saying in Paris you’re one of the great symbolists.”

“You read that article?” He seemed surprised yet visibly pleased. “Well, then, you already know I often place symbols in my paintings.”

“Like literature!” I said enthusiastically.

“Yes, just like literature, Marguerite.” He paused.

“Then there was a specific reason you placed the foxgloves and those two books in Father’s portrait….”

“Yes. There was,” he answered but he did not elaborate any further, as I hoped he would.

There was silence between us. I became concerned that I had begun a conversation I was not intellectually prepared for. I understood the notion of symbols and metaphor but anything beyond that was treading foreign ground for me.

I stood there shivering as the night grew colder. Staring at the dark, swirling canvas before me, I clasped my fingers around my arms and pulled them close to my chest.

“Does your father know you are out this late?” Vincent asked as he unbuttoned his smock and handed it to me. He was looking at me intensely, his eyes steadfast on mine.

I slipped my shoulders into his smock and inhaled the heady smell of turpentine and perspiration.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I snuck down the trellis to come see you.”

“To see me?” He chuckled. I could see he was delighted with my response.

“Yes,” I replied. “I wanted to see you paint.”

“You placed yourself in such great risk just to see me paint, Marguerite?” he raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite brave of you.”

“Well…I…,” I stammered. “I also wanted to see…”

“Yes?” he asked, stepping closer to me. I could smell the scent of his skin. It reminded me of the forest, high and green. Pine and juniper wood combined.

Suddenly I felt dizzy. He was no more than five inches away from me, and the air that separated us seemed laced with tiny magnets that forced us closer.

“You’ve got your hair undone,” he said. His soft breath seemed to caress my cheeks.

I looked up and smiled at him. He took his finger and rested it beneath my chin, lifting up my head to meet his.

His hand rested underneath my chin for several seconds, and the soft fingertips of his other one stretched toward my neck.

My eyes must have been closed when he kissed me because I have no memory of his eyes, only his lips placed on mine. It was soft and gentle at first, a peck that one might give a small, fragile child. But soon his mouth enveloped mine more passionately and I found myself echoing his movement, my own fingers reaching into his back and clawing up the sides until I reached the top of his shoulders. He returned my kiss more powerfully. His hands, no longer cradling my chin and ears, now slipped over my shoulders. He unbuttoned the top of the cloak, kissing the top of my breasts with a gentle press of his lips.

His hands began to search through the fabric of my skirt, rustling through my petticoat. I felt the warm sensation of his hand on my leg, the grasping of the flesh between his calloused fingers. I could barely stand when he touched me there. I could feel myself collapsing into him. But a voice in my head warned me to stop.

“Vincent,” I said, leaning slightly away from him. His hands immediately dropped from where they were, and cool air suddenly seemed to billow up my skirts where his palms had been moments before.

He pulled away from me and pushed his hands through his red hair, which was now standing in all directions from where my fingers had just run through it.

“I—I’m sorry,” he said.