The Last Van Gogh (19 page)

“You have my permission to do that,” I teased.

“I fear I’ll need more than that.”

With his rucksack strapped to his back, he knelt down on the ground and began to work with the tarp.

I tried to assist him. “No,” he said, correcting me. “We cannot put the tarp directly on the painting. It’s still wet. It will smudge.”

I watched as he created a protective bridge with some extra canvas stretchers.

It was a marvel to watch him, so calm and in control, and I found myself admiring him even more. With his damp hair pushed back one could see every angle of his face; his skin glistening from the rain looked like wet stone.

The water began to beat down harder on us and I feared my dress would soon become transparent. “Vincent,” I shouted, “I think I had better head home!”

He stood up and hoisted the wrapped painting underneath his arm. “Yes, you had better, my little piano player…” I caught him looking at my breasts, every bit of them accentuated by the wet cloth. “Or your father will send out the gendarmes…”

I
T
was true, I needed to hurry back to the house or else Father would notice that I was away far too long. I had not been able to stay dry; my dress was completely soaked and my boots were ruined with mud.

I hurried up the narrow stairs and hid my boots under a garden pail. I would clean them after the rain stopped and, hopefully, with the proper polishing, Father wouldn’t notice how stretched the leather had become.

But when I entered the house it wasn’t Papa who reproached me, it was Paul.

“Where have you been, Marguerite?” he asked. He stood there at the doorway, his face drawn and unhappy. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his face, long and disapproving, looked like Papa’s when he was in one of his foul moods.

I was shivering in the hallway now, my wet clothes hanging on my bones like soggy drapes.

I tried to move past him. I wanted to change my clothes and dry off my hair.

“Paul,” I said, nudging him slightly with my shoulder, “I was only out for an hour! I saw Vincent painting in one of the potato fields and I went over to say hello.”

I had my hand on the banister when he took hold of my arm.

“You shouldn’t be carrying on like this…with one of Papa’s patients; it’s just not right.”

I wiggled out from his grip. I could see a red welt spreading underneath the material in the place where Paul’s hand had just been.

“Paul, let go of me!” I said. “I need to change before Papa arrives home!”

“If he saw you returning home like this, he would never let you out!”

“I don’t know why you’re carrying on like this, Paul. It had begun to rain, and I thought Vincent might need some help wrapping up his canvas.”

“He is a grown man, what good would your help do him? I’m sure he knows how to wrap up his own canvases.”

I shook my head at him. The house, dark from the rain outside, cast long shadows across Paul’s face. The length of his nose, the heavy draping of his hooded eyes, all seemed more unattractive in unflattering, gray-blue light.

“I don’t know why my helping Vincent with his painting bothers you so much.”

He didn’t answer me, as I walked up the stairs to my bedroom. But I knew all too well why it bothered him. He was jealous.

I
FOUND
myself in the kitchen more out of comfort than out of necessity. I took down a stack of dishes and set about rearranging the cupboard in order to calm my nerves. A few minutes later, Louise-Josephine joined me. She had a novel under her arm and she placed it down on the butcher’s block.

“I heard what Paul said to you,” she said sympathetically. “He is struggling so much these days, and I’ve tried to be kind to him.”

It was true. Whereas my relationship with Louise-Josephine was new and fresh, Paul and Louise-Josephine had been quite close before. After all, she was the one who had assisted her mother in his care when he was young.

“Perhaps he is feeling threatened…. You and I are friends now, and also he sees Vincent developing a fondness for you. He can’t help but be a bit jealous.”

I shook my head. I knew Louise-Josephine was right. Paul was observant and I’m sure he noticed the strengthening bond between Louise-Josephine and me. And, to make matters worse, Vincent still hadn’t asked him to pose for him.

“Do you think he will tell my father?”

Louise-Josephine looked pensive for a moment. “I’m not sure, Marguerite. I would hope not, but he’s always been eager to gain your father’s favor.”

I nodded. She was right. And one could only imagine what Paul might do to gain Papa’s approval.

TWENTY-NINE

Tinctures and Portraits

P
APA
told me on Friday that he had invited Vincent for Sunday lunch. I breathed a sigh of relief. Paul had obviously not said anything to Papa. At least, not yet.

“Can you make a quiche and a salad? Vincent has complained of a delicate digestion,” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Good, then. I need to make more tinctures for him, so please try not to disturb me this afternoon.”

I nodded my head and went downstairs to get his glass jars and the press. I brought them out to the outdoor stove we had in the garden and hurried back inside to let him be alone.

Around three o’clock, I went outside to water the garden and noticed Papa was still there, snipping stems and flowers off his plants. He held a basket in one fist and scissors in the other. The wicker basket was overflowing with hyssop and foxtail.

I walked past Father and went straight to my roses, pouring water over their hearty pink and white blooms. It bothered me to think of Papa medicating Vincent and it was a struggle to clear my mind of the image of Father pressing that tincture so forcefully into Vincent’s hand.

I wanted to believe Papa’s homeopathic remedies were actually working. After all, Vincent didn’t seem to be complaining of any of the maladies that had plagued him back in Arles. I had never seen him act weak or vulnerable, but I had overheard his conversations with Papa where he described these awful periods of his life where he could do nothing—not even paint.

I didn’t want to believe that Papa’s remedies might be flawed. I wanted to have confidence in his curative powers not just because he was my father, but also because I so desperately wanted Vincent to be well. But still, something was gnawing inside me—signaling that something wasn’t right about Vincent’s seemingly endless productivity since he came to our village. A painting a day seemed exhausting. I remembered how in summers past, Cézanne and Pissarro worked furiously in the beginning of a painting in order to capture the immediacy of a landscape, but how they then took the canvas back to their studio and worked at it for weeks.

Certainly, Father behaved differently after he had ingested one of his own homemade remedies. After one dosage, he could hardly sit still, and he suddenly had limitless energy. I wondered if he was giving Vincent a similar dosage.

I had only touched upon Vincent’s medication once with him. It was the afternoon he came to the house to thank me for the party I had hosted for Theo and Jo. As we walked toward the garden, Vincent mentioned how he had previously relied too much on absinthe to soothe his nerves. The doctor in Saint-Rémy had warned him that his condition—particularly the seizures—were worsened by his weakness for it.

“Can you not take wormwood?” I had asked, concerned. I knew that Papa had often prescribed this to his patients in the past. Because absinthe was derived from wormwood oil, I feared Papa might rekindle Vincent’s addiction.

“Your father is aware that I am trying to curb my addiction, Marguerite. He knows one of the main reasons I came to Auvers was to ensure that the seizures and depression don’t return.”

“Oh, how you’ve suffered…it’s terrible.” I could see Papa in the distance and I made sure my voice was almost a whisper.

Vincent’s face changed. “It was terrible. Those months in Saint-Rémy were some of the worst in my life, but I must continue to be positive if I am to remain well. I have confidence in your father’s expertise.” He waved to Papa in greeting. “If he has treated Master Pissarro and his family with his medicines, then I am in capable hands.”

I could feel my conscience begging me to correct him. Papa hadn’t treated Monsieur Pissarro or his family for depression. He had treated his son once for a broken wrist and the rest of the family for their occasional aches and pains.

A
T
noon, he showed up at our door, bringing with him his most recent painting. He had only finished it the night before.

“I’m calling it
Ears of Wheat
,” he told Father as he set it against one of the benches. He took a few steps back to give Papa space to look at it.

It was a beautiful painting, done in a magnified composition so that one could see the detail of the sheaves of wheat. Tiny braids of gold spearheaded the tall yellow shafts. Pale yellow ocher and sea-foam green highlighted the leaves. The canvas seemed to have captured the movement of the wind. Both the grass and the wheat were intertwined, each one swaying into the other.

“It’s exquisite,” Papa told him as I carried their lunch outside. “You’ve made the sheaves look like delicate ribbons.”

“It was good for me to do a study up close. It forces me to examine every detail.” Vincent took a deep breath. “Still, I’ve been anxious to begin working on some more portraits.”

Immediately my ears perked up, as I was hoping Vincent was trying to lay the foundation to ask Papa for me to sit for him again.

“Well, that’s a good idea,” Papa responded rather absently. He was still studying Vincent’s painting.

“I am expecting some more supplies from Paris, so I should have more pigment in a few days. I’m hoping to do a portrait of the innkeeper’s daughter, Adeline. And of course, I would still like to do another one of Marguerite.”

“Adeline?” Papa asked; now his interest was finally piqued.

“Yes,” Vincent replied. “Monsieur Ravoux’s girl.”

Father let out a small laugh. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she? Bright eyes and a lovely profile.”

I could tell by the clarity of Papa’s voice that he was trying his best to ensure I heard the contents of their conversation. It was obvious that he wanted me to realize I was not as unique as I might have thought. Clearly, Vincent had other girls that he wanted to paint. But Papa needn’t have tried so hard. I was close enough that I could hear every word.

I was now clutching the pitcher of water so tightly in my hand that I thought the tiny veins in my palm might burst.

I knew Adeline was only thirteen. But she did look mature for her age and, had Monsieur Ravoux not informed Vincent of Adeline’s age, one could easily mistake her for a girl of at least sixteen.

And she was beautiful. With large saucer-shaped eyes and a long mouth that turned up at each corner like a cat’s tail, it was no wonder Vincent had asked her to pose. Still, I was angry at my father for making it seem like Vincent had eyes for every young girl in the village. And I was upset with Vincent for even wanting to paint another girl’s portrait before he had completed a second one of me.

My mind began to flood with doubts. Had his kiss meant nothing? Had I naïvely believed he had no feelings for any of the other girls in the village?

Yet just when I thought I might faint from the humiliation, Vincent changed the direction of the conversation.

“So I only need your permission now for a second portrait of Marguerite.” Vincent sounded eager and not at all aware of the fact that he might upset me by painting Adeline. “Perhaps Wednesday would be good?”

Father looked as shocked as I felt. I was trembling so, my pitcher began to leak water down my wrist. I saw Papa nod reluctantly and look up at me. “Very well. Not this week, but next.” I had been trying to busy myself around the table, but it was obvious that I was eavesdropping just as Father suspected.

“Will the two of you need anything else before I return to the house?” I stammered.

Vincent looked up at me, but I quickly turned away. I wanted him to know I was still smarting over the fact that he wanted to paint Adeline.

But neither Vincent nor Papa seemed to notice my displeasure. Probably because it seemed only natural that Vincent would want to vary his subjects as much as possible. Perhaps that was why Papa didn’t understand why Vincent would want to paint me more than once.

As I went back to the house, I overheard the last remnants of their conversation.

“Vincent, remind me to give you your next batch of tinctures,” Papa said as he reached to dish himself out some salad. “I wouldn’t want you to be painting—and painting my only daughter, no less—without your latest dosage.”

THIRTY

A Crane and a Plum Blossom

H
E
did paint her. I heard it from Papa, who heard it from Monsieur Ravoux. Vincent created Adeline’s portrait in a symphony of blue, a thousand tiny brushstrokes in cobalt. Like the palette he used for Papa but without the darker accents, and without the putrid green and firebrick eyes tinged with melancholy and regret. Adeline was depicted as an innocent angel. Cast under a blue background composed of countless sapphire stitches. Little lapis lazuli bricks stacked between strokes of indigo and sky.

He carved her out in yellow. The blond of her golden upswept hair in a perfect powder blue ribbon; her cheeks in swirls of peach and saffron; her lemon-colored hands resting delicately in her lap.

I did not want Papa or Paul to know how much it upset me that Vincent had painted Adeline. After all, I didn’t want to appear selfish. He was going to paint me a second time, and he had yet to ask to make even a single portrait of Paul. But I was still jealous. Unlike the image of Adeline, he had not painted my features with any great clarity in my last portrait, and I wondered how he would portray me this second time.

My birthday—which I shared with Paul—arrived that weekend, and Papa surprised us both by arranging a small impromptu party in our honor. We never formally celebrated it so this was wholly out of the ordinary.