The Last Van Gogh (25 page)

FORTY

A Certain Kind of Nobility

T
HIS
time, I waited an extra hour just to make sure that everyone in the house was sound asleep. Everyone except Louise-Josephine, of course.

I had spent the past several hours alone in my room, lying on my bed with my eyes planted on the ceiling. There were several tiny fissures in the plaster and I helped pass the time by imagining them as a web of thin, black vines. In my mind, I created tiny flowers to accompany them—small pink and white blooms—so that soon there was an entire imaginary garden suspended over my head.

When it seemed as if the house had finally gone quiet, I got up from my bed and stood in front of my long dressing mirror. In the moonlight, I could see the faint outline of my body through the thin veil of my nightgown—the soft mounds of my breasts, the rose tip of each nipple. I pressed my hands flat against my abdomen and mimicked the effect of a tight corset—forcing my décolletage to pop up through the square neckline of my gown.

The girl who first snuck into the cave was slowly vanishing. I was far more nervous this time. It was as if I could feel his presence receding. What had once been an enormous force of energy, a tornado capable of capturing a landscape in a thousand tiny brushstrokes, was now fading. A formidable spirit now breaking into thin air. This feeling was palpable. I imagined him alone in his room, his paintbrushes thrown in a corner, his slender body becoming sunken and concave, and there was nothing I could do to pass the hours until I could get to his room and help him.

I tiptoed into Louise-Josephine’s room nearly thirty minutes later, having changed into a simple cotton dress. She was awake and sitting up in bed, obviously waiting for me.

“You kept your hair up,” she said.

I touched the braids on top of my head.

“I thought it best under the circumstances,” I said.

She looked up at me and nodded her head. “It’s good that you are going. If he is in as bad a state as you suspect, your presence can only be a comfort.”

I smiled and took her hand. Then Louise-Josephine walked quietly to her window, slowly opening the latch and lifting the sash.

T
HERE
was the faint sound of crickets chirping in the flowers beds as I walked up the rue de la Sansonne. I knew Vincent had painted this winding road a few weeks earlier.

The gate to the inn was on the right. From the street, I could see over the red wooden pickets and into a small courtyard, but I could not see directly into the building. There was an unexpected stillness to the air, as if the trees had ceased to rustle and the fireflies had hid behind bended boughs.

I had never been inside the Ravoux Inn, but I knew from Papa’s description of Vincent’s room that they often entered through the back courtyard. Unfortunately, I hadn’t the faintest idea how I’d actually gain access to his room.

I threaded one hand through the latch and slowly used the other one to push open the gate. The hinge made only the faintest squeak as I walked into the garden.

The inn was completely dark except for a single room on the top floor. There, against the thick glass pane, I could see a faint flicker of a candle.

That must be either Vincent’s room or Hirshig’s, I thought to myself. I had heard Vincent speak of the only other boarder at Ravoux’s—a Danish artist who boarded in the room adjacent to his. The Ravoux family, who resided below their tenants, were clearly sound asleep, as the ground floor was completely dark.

I stood there trembling in the courtyard and was suddenly overcome with a sense of ridiculousness. How could I have come out like this—in the middle of the night, no less—when I hadn’t a clue about how to let Vincent know I was here? And even worse, I didn’t have the faintest idea what I would say to him if I did get his attention.

I was just about to turn back when I noticed a small stairway on the outside of the inn. If I was correct, it seemed to lead directly to the attic where Hirshig and Vincent slept.

Still, there was a door at the top which I was sure would be locked. And even if it wasn’t, I would still run the risk that Monsieur Ravoux might hear me creaking up the steps.

I had resigned myself to going home, when suddenly I saw a shadow at the window. At first I thought it was my imagination but, sure enough, it was Vincent standing by the glass.

I heard the din of the window opening and then saw his face emerging.

I stood there, my flesh suddenly gone cold. Had I made a terrible mistake in coming out unannounced this evening? The last time, our meeting had been romantic, but this time his head was heavy with personal problems. I suddenly worried that he might consider me a nuisance, when he obviously had so many other things on his mind.

He looked down and saw me standing on the cold pavement. “Marguerite?” He mouthed my name, but did not utter a sound. He held his lantern out of the window, shining the glow on my face down below.

I lifted my arm and gave him a small wave.

He closed the window and snuffed the candle. Moments later, he appeared creeping down the outside stairs.

He looked haggard, as though he had been tossing in his bedclothes all night. His face was lined and his hair on end. I almost didn’t recognize him, he looked so different from the wiry and energized man whom I had admired that day he first arrived at the station.

I walked over to him and, not knowing how to comfort him, could think of nothing else but to take him in my arms.

A few days of not eating had left him almost skeletal. The pointy blades of his scapula protruded like skate wings. His rib cage felt like an empty barrel. It was as though I were embracing a rag doll.

We stood there for several moments in silence before he moved away from me.

“It was so kind of you to come here. I know it’s always a risk for you to be discovered by your father.”

“Someday perhaps we will not need to meet on such clandestine terms. That is something I truly wish.”

His face seemed to change when I said that. “Your father will never approve of me, Marguerite. No father would. I will only end up a burden to you. Just as I have for Theo and Jo.”

“Oh, don’t even say such nonsense!” I said. My heart was breaking that he would even think something so terrible.

“It’s true, Marguerite. How could I ever support you? I’ve sold only one painting in my life. How could I keep you in the way you deserve, with fine dresses, a house with a garden, even a piano for your fine hands. Seeing Theo, seeing how hard he struggles to be both a dealer and a good husband and father, was humbling. I have been too selfish my whole life and now I regret it.”

“You are a great artist!” I interjected. “Even Jo spoke of your genius when she was here. She does not resent you. She and Theo are confident that one day you will succeed.”

“Things are different there now. My nephew’s ill. They need to care for him and put his needs first. It is only right.”

“Then let me take care of you. Let Papa! Together we will make sure that you are comfortable and that you always have a place to paint!”

The desperation in my voice was escalating. The feeling I had in my bedroom earlier that evening of Vincent physically shrinking from me was now becoming a reality. I could see him physically retreating from me, even when we were steps away from each other.

Vincent’s voice, however, was clear and determined.

“Your father cannot help me, Marguerite. I just wrote to my brother that when a blind man leads another blind man, don’t they both fall into a ditch?”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“Your father’s tinctures cannot help me!” He placed his hands over his eyes. “This is something that will not change within me.”

After a moment he went on. “I do not have the stamina for both a woman and my art. My passion cannot support it. I have tried before and failed. I once had a relationship with a woman back in the Hague,” he said beneath his breath.

“I don’t want to hear this now!” I said, choking back tears.

“No, you must listen. Marguerite, in the end, I had to leave her. Not only because my brother could not support us both, but more because my art suffered.” Vincent took another breath before continuing. “This woman…although my feelings for her could not compare to the ones I have for you…I did care for her…at least as much as I could at the time. But when I finally did leave, she tried to poison herself. I cannot do that again to another woman, especially you. Just the thought of the despair I caused her terrifies me…. I’m afraid I will only hurt you in the end.”

Tears began to roll down my cheeks.

“I have often thought of how it might be to be your wife,” I said. I hadn’t thought I had the courage to say it but somehow the words flew out of my mouth. “I have spent nights imagining what it would be like to help you with your paints, to care for you when you are sick, to make sure that you have good meals and a tidy roof over your head.”

“Marguerite.” He pulled me closer so that now my face was in the crook of his neck. I felt the hard nob of his collarbone against my cheek and again, the pinelike scent of turpentine imbedded in his skin. “I, too, have thought that way. I have imagined you in a small yellow house, in the south, with me upstairs painting. I have imagined the smells of your cooking, coming not from your father’s kitchen but one we share as our own.”

His voice was soft now, cracking slightly over the words. “But then I worry. My brother can no longer support me…let alone my wife. And, even worse, what if I were to become sick again? I am no use to anyone when I am helpless and full of despair. That would be terribly unfair to you.”

“I would not mind at all!” My voice leapt forth. “I am used to my father and his own mecurial nature, his fits of despair. I would not be frightened by it!” I took a deep breath. “Vincent, if you give me the opportunity, I will leave my father’s home in a second. I would take only the clothes on my back…I wouldn’t even return to retrieve my shoes that I left at the front gate. I would leave tonight with you and never return, not regretting it once, not even for a moment. I would work as a housekeeper…a cook…a charwoman even…so that you could paint. We needn’t rely on your brother’s kindness—I would work my fingers until they were as brittle as straw just so that your hands could bring beauty into this world!”

Vincent trembled as I stood there. He looked as fragile as glass.

“Marguerite….” His voice was quiet at first but then gathered force. “I saw a special light in your eyes that afternoon I first came to your father’s house. I gave you the poppy because I saw the life in you. You were bursting like a spring flower and I recognized that flame in your gaze. But I won’t let myself drain the life from someone I love.”

I was now crying and he took a small handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my eyes.

“You came to Auvers to paint, not to find a wife,” I finally managed to say through my tears. “I realize that.”

“But without even trying I found you, Marguerite,” he said, again touching my cheek. “My little piano player. My Saint Cecilia.”

He took my face between his hands and kissed me, not on the lips as I had hoped, but on the forehead.

He pulled away from me and said, quite softly, “I never wanted to hurt you. Sometimes I think the Japanese have it right. There’s a certain nobility in death. There’s no shame in it. Only honor.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve shamed my family by having them think I’m a parasite. If only I were Japanese, I would take my own life and my honor would be restored.”

FORTY-ONE

Two Things Revealed

I
T
started to drizzle as I ran home that evening and my tears mirrored the rain. I had failed to comfort Vincent and I was now certain that my romance would not have the same ending as Louise-Josephine’s. But what upset me more were his parting words. They worried me greatly. I was anxious to seek Louise-Josephine’s counsel. She would tell me if I needed to tell Papa. I trusted her judgment to always be right.

Sadly, I did not get the chance. I was halfway up the stairs when I suddenly had the sneaking suspicion I was not alone.

He was standing there in his silk bathrobe, his face crooked and cross like a gargoyle.

“Papa,” I whispered. But he did not hear me, or at least he chose not to. When I reached where he was standing, a cold slap found its way across my face.

“Where were you?” His voice was icy and harsh. I realized that he had no intention of keeping my excursion a secret from the rest of the household.

I did not answer him at first, and again his voice boomed, this time even louder. “Where were you, Marguerite?” he bellowed. “Answer me, now!” Again, he slapped me. The sheer force of his hand made me totter backward. Quickly, I grasped the banister so that I wouldn’t fall down the stairs.

I looked up at him with tears filling my eyes. My cheek was stinging as if I had been hit with a mitt of hot needles. I sensed his hand had left a large print across my skin.

In the corner of the hallway, I saw Louise-Josephine stick her head out from her door. She had a terrible look on her face, half fright and half anger. I tried to tell her with my own expression: “Go back! Go back to your room and save yourself from Papa’s anger,” but she would not be deterred.

She walked over the floorboards to where Papa was standing and in her white nightdress tapped Papa on his shoulder.

“Please,” she begged of him, “please stop! It’s my fault she left this evening. It was all my doing!”

I was in a state of disbelief.

“No, Louise.” I tried to stop her. But she would have none of it.

“It was me—all my fault,” she repeated. I could see the outline of her spine through her white cotton gown. Her slender frame trembling through the cloth. Still, she continued to defend me.

“I told her to go. I told her that Monsieur Van Gogh might need comforting. It was me who put the idea in her head. It is me you should blame!”

Papa now seemed visibly confused.