The Last Van Gogh
P
RAISE FOR THE WORKS OF
A
LYSON
R
ICHMAN
Swedish Tango
“An engrossing examination of the prisons people create for themselves and the way they accustom themselves to suffering until liberation seems as painful as captivity. This is an ambitious exploration of political and personal struggles…”
—
Publishers Weekly
“A heart-wrenching story of loss and love in the lives of people affected by war and political upheaval…[marked with] sharp resonance.”
—
Library Journal
“Places an Ayn Rand lens on societal ethics against personal loyalty and safety…deep, thought-provoking philosophical questions on the needs of an individual and a family against the demands of deadly leadership and a nation.”
—
Midwest Book Review
The Mask Carver’s Son
“Recalls Arthur Golden’s
Memoirs of a Geisha…
Her sense of Japanese culture is subtle and nuanced.”
—
San Francisco Sunday Examiner & Chronicle
“This reverent, formal, and ambitious first novel boasts a glossy surface and convincing period detail…”
—
Publishers Weekly
“First-time author Richman has successfully drawn upon her historical research and her own experience…Richman’s fluid writing is filled with historical detail and strong characterization.”
—
Library Journal
“A meticulous profile of a man struggling against his native culture, his family, and his own sense of responsibility.”
—
The New York Times Book Review
The Last Van Gogh
ALYSON RICHMAN
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2006 by Alyson Richman.
Cover photo by axbgroup.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Richman, Alyson.
The last Van Gogh / Alyson Richman.
p. cm.
ISBN 9781101546246
1. Gogh, Vincent van, 1853–1890—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.I3447L37 2006
813'.6—dc22
2006045957
For Rosalyn Shaoul for her infinite wisdom
And to Zachary and Charlotte with love
The Last Van Gogh
Contents
TWO: Two Altogether Different Shoes
THREE: A Delightful Young Woman
TEN: Queen of the Weeping Willows
FIFTEEN: Stealing into the Night
SIXTEEN: A Handful of Fireflies
EIGHTEEN: A Symbol of Modern Man
TWENTY-ONE: An Adventurous Spirit
TWENTY-THREE: The Yellow Finger print
TWENTY-FIVE: Gifts and Warnings
TWENTY-SIX: Bridges in the Garden
TWENTY-NINE: Tinctures and Portraits
THIRTY: A Crane and a Plum Blossom
THIRTY-THREE: The Beautiful Canvas
THIRTY-SIX: A Conflict of Passions
FORTY: A Certain Kind of Nobility
FORTY-ONE: Two Things Revealed
FORTY-THREE: A Suitable Punishment
FORTY-FOUR: Three under the Lime Tree
FORTY-SIX: Behind Closed Doors
ONE
A Folded Red Poppy
I
WAS
the first to see him, small and slight, with several canvases under his arm, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, and a straw hat pulled over his eyes. That was my first secret—from behind the blooming chestnut trees, I saw him first.
I had gone out to do my errands, as I always did in the early afternoon. It was a warm, radiant day in May. The sky was cornflower blue, the sun the color of crushed marigolds. I have to confess that I walked a little slower that day when I passed by the station. I knew approximately which train he would be arriving on. So I walked with smaller steps than usual, carrying my basket of eggs and my loaves of bread.
I heard the sound of the locomotive’s whistle and the screeching of its brakes as the train came to a halt. I walked over and stood behind the trees that bordered the platform.
I remember how he stepped down from the carriage; he was impossible to miss compared to the formal gentlemen in their black suits and top hats. He looked almost peasantlike in his white collarless shirt, broad straw hat, and unbuttoned vest. At first, the brim of his hat prevented me from making out his features. But finally, as he gathered his canvases and slung his satchel over his shoulder, I saw him clearly.
In a strange way he resembled Papa. I was surprised when I first saw him because their likeness was so strong. It was as if I were seeing a glimpse of my father, thirty years younger. Vincent’s head was the same small shape—tapering ever so slightly by the temples. He had the same red hair and small patch of beard as Papa, the identical curved nose and furrowed brow that framed deep-set, blue eyes. He moved like a small bird, with quick, deliberate gestures, the same way my father moved when he was nervous or excited. But, unlike Father, he struck me as handsome.
To be sure, he was not classically beautiful. His complexion was pale. His cheekbones protruded; his red whiskers stood on end. Still, he intrigued me. He seemed so determined as he walked along with his head cocked high and his paintings loaded on his back. As he surveyed his new surroundings, I could see the eagerness and the energy in his eyes. And just by watching him, I could see what subjects he anticipated painting. He seemed to be assessing the rooflines of the village, the spire of our church, the clock tower of our town hall. Yet, as engrossed as Vincent seemed in his new surroundings, he seemed oblivious to the people passing him, hoisting their valises onto trolleys, struggling to make their way to their waiting carriages. He made no effort to move out of the way as he stood in the middle of the platform, his gaze now firmly planted on the river Oise.
He was like a sweep of yellow that afternoon in the rural landscape of Auvers. The sun gravitated toward him and in its warm, soft glow he appeared illuminated. I stood there and waited, watching as my father’s patient began to make his way into the village. I didn’t see him again until later in the day, when he arrived at our front door.
P
APA
had spent much of the day preparing for Vincent’s arrival. He canceled his appointments in Paris and spent the early hours of the morning in the attic, looking over the paintings and prints he had not yet framed. He took his lunch upstairs and, around two o’clock, as I was heading out to do my errands, I saw him descending the stairs.
I tied my favorite kerchief under my chin and walked to the hallway to find my basket. Papa was now at his desk, unrolling one of his prints and flattening it with four paperweights.
