The Last Van Gogh (2 page)

“Papa, I’m going out,” I said.

He looked up at me, acknowledging my departure with an absentminded nod. I saw him turn to his bookshelf and withdraw a ceramic brush jar and a small Asian vase that Cézanne had given him a few years before. He held one in each hand, turning them around in the light and examining their patterns, seeing his own reflection in their glaze.

I knew that my father would place those two porcelains within arm’s length. It was part of his act when meeting people he wanted to impress, and I was certain he’d incorporate them into his first conversation with Monsieur Van Gogh.

I
T
had been a weary winter, and I was deriving enormous satisfaction from seeing my garden in bloom. I was one month shy of my twenty-first birthday and I had recently spent all my energy with my knees pressed to the ground and my fingers plunged into the soil. My labors, however, had not been in vain. For now the rosebushes were flourishing, the bulbs were sprouting into tall sturdy irises, and, just beyond our house, the fields were alight with red poppies, anemones, and white daisies.

Vincent’s arrival signaled not only a new addition to our village, but also a guest that Father felt was worthy enough to welcome into our home. We had few visitors, except for a handful of select painters. Camille Pissarro, Paul Cézanne, and Emile Bernard had all come to visit our home, but I never remember him inviting a single person from our village. The cobblers, the bakers—they were of no interest to Papa. But by opening our home to his various artist friends, Father was able to perpetuate the life he had enjoyed in Paris.

He often spoke of his time in the capital. After graduating from medical school, Papa joined his childhood friend Gautier—an aspiring painter—where they lived
la vie bohéme
among the burgeoning stars of the art world. And Father, who considered himself a dabbler at painting, was able to establish a thriving clientele of artists, writers, and musicians eager to exchange their work for his medical services.

Papa had written his dissertation on melancholia, taking the position that, historically, all great men—the great philosophers, poets, and artists of the world—suffered from that illness. Thus, he always had a sympathetic ear for those artists who considered themselves depressed or affected by a malady, and was quite eager to experiment with his medical obsession—the practice of Hahnemann’s homeopathy—in order to cure them. With the money Papa inherited from his father’s estate and the substantial income brought by Mother’s dowry, Father was free to pursue the unconventional methods of medicine that fascinated him most.

It had actually been Pissarro’s suggestion, to Theo van Gogh, that Vincent come to Auvers so that Papa could look after him. “With your background in painting and psychiatry, you’d be the perfect doctor for him!” Pissarro had told Papa one afternoon in our garden. I remember they were all in agreement that the fresh air and rural surroundings would both soothe his spirit and inspire Vincent’s painting.

But despite the bucolic surroundings of the village, ours was not the particularly light and airy home one might envision a country house to be. I remember wondering what this delicate painter would think of our narrow, cluttered living quarters. Would all the black furniture and bric-a-brac offend him in some way? And what would he think of Father and his homeopathic remedies? I wondered if he would come to our house frequently, the way the other artists had years before, and whether our home would come alive again.

He arrived at our door around teatime, bounding up the long narrow stairs with such energy that I heard his footsteps from inside my bedroom window. Father greeted Vincent and brought him into the family room. I had seen him take out one painting by Pissarro and three by Cézanne that afternoon and I knew he would be showing them to Vincent upon his arrival.

“Ah, yes, that is one of my favorites, too,” I heard Father agree with Vincent. I suspected Vincent was talking about the Pissarro, a lonely painting: a red house in the distance, a mother and child shivering in the foreground, and three chestnut trees covered in frost. “Most of my collection is upstairs,” Father continued. “And I have a print-making machine that I would be happy to lend to you. Cézanne used it often when he lived in Auvers.” Father paused and then switched to a more reverent tone. “You see, Cézanne gave me this small vase and ceramic brush jar as a token of his appreciation. I was of great assistance to him and his painting!”

I shook my head, overhearing all this. With each passing year, Father was becoming increasingly more inventive with his tales. His desire to be a painter himself seemed to overshadow his efforts as a doctor. The two men spent a few more minutes discussing various artists before I heard my name called.

“Marguerite!” Father summoned me. “Monsieur Van Gogh has arrived. Could you please bring us some tea?”

Madame Chevalier, the woman who had arrived in our home after Mother died and become the governess for my brother Paul and me, was reading in her bedroom. She spent most of her time now either sewing or fussing over Papa. I was the one who was responsible for the majority of the household chores.

I was wearing a new dress that afternoon. It was pale blue with small white flowers embroidered into the hem and neckline. I remember that at the last minute, just before I was about to descend the stairs, I turned back to fetch a white ribbon for my hair. It wasn’t something I normally did, as I usually wore my hair quite plainly around the house and kept it covered. But today I took the thin strip of ivory silk and tied it purposefully. I arranged one of the ends to rest against my collarbone, the other trailing against my shoulder. Against the backdrop of my father’s art collection and the shadows cast by our black furniture, I yearned to be seen.

By the time I brewed the tea and arranged the small yellow cakes I had made earlier, Father and Vincent had retreated to the garden. Vincent was seated next to Father, the large red picnic table stretched before them. The bending branches of our two lime trees framed their faces. Father’s body relaxed as he sat there in the garden talking about art, the joy his printing machine gave him, and his own dabbling in oils and pastels. And Vincent, too, seemed at ease with Papa. How I wished that day that I had been invited to partake in their conversation. But they sequestered themselves among the flowers and the shadows of the trees as I remained shuttling between the garden gate and the kitchen.

I was not misinformed. Father had spoken of Vincent’s talent and unique use of paints even before his arrival. I knew Vincent had come to Auvers to be Papa’s patient, but that fact did not deter my interest in him. He did not appear sick. He was fair, but not ghostly. He was perhaps a bit rough around the edges, but that only increased his magnetism. I can tell you now that he possessed something I have never experienced since: a rare blend of vulnerability and bravado. How I envied the bees on my rosebushes, overhearing everything Father and Vincent were saying. I wanted to study his face more closely and see which of my flowers his eyes fell upon. Did he think my violet anemones were beautiful and worthy of painting? Was he intrigued by the medicinal plants that Father kept near the front door? Did he notice the wall of ivy that cloaked one of the two caves on our property? The one where Papa stored all his wine and cheese? Later on, during the war, it would house the most precious paintings in his collection: the ones by Vincent.

I could hear Father’s voice booming over the sound of the chickens in the yard. He was leaning close to Vincent, who seemed to nod in agreement as Papa lectured about his views on painting and the healing of the mind.

“Artistry and homeopathy are both sciences. Both are passions, Vincent!” Papa’s face was radiant as he spoke to his enraptured audience of one.

Having watched him closely, I could see why Papa was drawn to both medicine and painting. He mixed his elixirs as though they were rare pigments; a drop of hyssop was as precious to him as a thimble of cobalt. He relished the tinkering and the measuring. He enjoyed the satisfaction of creating and using his hands.

Although I shared little of Father’s penchant for herbs and tinctures, I did resemble him in one way. I, too, was intrinsically interested in artists. I wanted to understand what they saw, what they deemed worthy of their canvas and paints. I wanted to learn why they chose carmine and crimson madder to paint the red flesh of strawberries, how they managed to paint both eggshells and the fluff of clouds against a nude, white canvas.

Unfortunately over the years I had little opportunity to ask such questions. Even when Pissarro and Cézanne visited I seldom saw them unless it was over an informal lunch. Even then, I was cooking or clearing the plates, not free to engage in conversation or observe them as they set up their easels and paints.

But Father’s assistance would be keeping Vincent in our village indefinitely and I was hopeful that we’d have an opportunity to become friends. I knew he would be visiting our house almost daily. And although it was evident from his arrival at the station that he was far less polished than the other men Papa had entertained in our house, he intrigued me endlessly more.

“Marguerite, the tea!” Again, I heard Father summon me. I hurried into the garden carrying their refreshments. As I put the tea set down, my hands trembled from the weight of the silver pot, causing the porcelain cups and saucers to rattle on the table. Neither of them appeared to notice. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they hardly realized I had placed the tea before them.

“You must paint as much as possible here,” Father was insisting. He was using his hands to demonstrate his enthusiasm, and speaking to Vincent as if they were old friends. “That is the cure to your illness…when you paint your symptoms will disappear.”

“But I painted in Arles—at the sanitarium—and my symptoms returned. Dr. Péyron sometimes forbade me from painting because he felt it contributed to my relapses.”

“Nonsense,” Father said, shaking his head furiously. “You simply did not have the peace and quiet that you needed. In Arles, you were surrounded by sick patients who distracted you from your work. You were not in a village like Auvers. Did you have access to air as fresh as this?” Father made another sweeping movement with his hand. “Did you have such a peaceful, unadulterated view of thatched cottages and sugar beet fields? Could you perch your easel next to endless rows of apple blossoms or on the shores of a rambling river like the Oise?”

Vincent shook his head no.

“And, lest we forget,” Father said, touching the table to reaffirm his conviction, “there you didn’t have me!”

Vincent managed to smile.

“Auvers-sur-Oise is where artists come to retreat from their hectic and troubled city lives. These men are my friends and I have treated them successfully with my herbs.” Father’s voice was exuberant. “Did you know that Pissarro himself is such an enthusiast for my homeopathic remedies that I have treated almost every member of his family? I should show you all the paintings he’s given me over the years in payment for my services! Nearly thirteen works of his are in my collection!”

I cannot forget Vincent’s eyes at that moment. He looked at Father with such hope, such adoration. It was as if he truly believed my father had the capacity to cure everything that had ever hurt or troubled him for his past thirty-seven years.

And so I thought that it didn’t matter that Vincent had never seemed to see me that afternoon—either at the station or in our garden. I had seen him.

As I retreated back to the kitchen, I stopped by a patch of poppies growing by the gateway. I paused for a second, fingering their petals lightly. They were tall and vibrant, their red skins opening like the horn of a trumpet.

I suppose I was so caught up in their beauty, I did not realize that, evidently, Vincent had, indeed, noticed me that day. For, as he came to bid me farewell that afternoon, Vincent opened up his palm and revealed a small poppy flower he had folded in half. He extended his hand toward me and with his eyes firmly planted on mine, he said: “For you, Mademoiselle Gachet, a tiny red fan.”

TWO

Two Altogether Different Shoes

I
WAS
barely three years old when we moved from our apartment in Paris on the rue du Faubourg Saint Denis to the village of Auvers-sur-Oise. By that time, Mother had already been diagnosed with tuberculosis; my brother was not yet born.

Paul arrived the following year, on the morning of my fourth birthday. The strain of a second birth clearly hindered Mother’s recuperation, and she did not remain long in the house after Paul’s arrival. A few months later she traveled to the south of France to seek a more curative climate. She returned a year later, still sick and very displeased that she was no longer surrounded by the comforts and social distractions of a bourgeois life in Paris.

I knew, in the way a child intuitively senses the moods of each parent, that my mother was unhappy. I don’t remember there being laughter in our house, and I certainly have few memories of my mother playing with Paul or me.

Still, I did my best to please her, and so as a young child, I cultivated a willingness to please and an aversion to asking unnecessary questions. I never doubted my father when he told me we were moving to Auvers-sur-Oise because of Mother’s health.

“Fresh air and clean water will be good for your mother,” he said, as our housekeeper packed up my clothing and toys.

H
E
had bought the house only a month before from Monsieur and Madame Lemoine, he a retired housepainter and she, a schoolmistress. The house had been both a boardinghouse and a school for years.

The morning we were to move, we loaded our trunks and valises from our apartment in Paris onto our carriage and started out for Auvers. The crates of carefully wrapped porcelain and silver, the dark ebony furniture—her rosewood bed, her intricately carved Louis XIII commode—all the things that Mother loved and which came from her dowry, were loaded in a separate wagon and followed behind.