The Last Van Gogh

by Alyson Richman

  “We ate a wonderful lunch at La Coupole,” Father continued. “I told him how I was not unfamiliar with the artistic world. He already knew about my collecting but he had no idea about my ‘Wednesdays at the boulevard Voltaire.’” Papa chuckled. He was referring to the address of the pastry chef Eugène Murer, who hosted a weekly salon at his apartment that was frequented by the painters Pissarro, Sisley, Monet, and Renoir. Somehow, Papa had always managed to get himself invited.

  “I told him I’d pay him a visit at Goupil’s and take a look at the other artists he’s representing.”

  “You might want to invite Theo and his family here to visit Vincent,” Madame Chevalier suggested quietly. “It might make him feel less isolated in Auvers.”

  “I will—it’s an excellent idea.” I could hear his footsteps treading over the floorboards. “And that reminds me,” he continued. “There was a note from Vincent saying that he would accept my invitation to lunch this Sunday. Make sure Marguerite prepares something appropriate.”

  I could not believe my ears. Did Father think I wouldn’t make something appropriate? I wouldn’t have that much time to prepare my menu, but I would certainly never make something that would embarrass Papa or insult our guest.

  I felt my entire body stiffen with annoyance. I was more than capable of making a meal that Father wouldn’t be ashamed of!

  Irritated by his words, I tried to distract myself. I walked over to my window and opened the shutters. Outside, the sky began to fill with stars, and I could hear the grasshoppers down below chirping at the moon.

  I opened my journal and found the folded red poppy that Vincent had given to me a few days before. It was still damp between the pages.

  I picked it up carefully and studied its scalloped edges and crimson petals.

  When folded, it was like a fan. I imagined it as a miniature opera fan that, had it been larger, might have accompanied a woman who wore black gossamer silk and an enormous bustle attached to her skirt. One who was chic and elegant. One who alighted from her carriage with creamy white skin peeking from her collar and fingertips gloved in black satin.

  That night, I fell asleep with the pages of my journal open, imagining my mother as I had last seen her, though in my dream she wore two matching velvet shoes and held a magnificent scarlet fan.

  SEVEN

  Like Two Eagles

  SUNDAY morning, I awakened early and began my preparations for the luncheon. I didn’t ask Louise-Josephine to assist me because I thought that might appear a bit cruel, considering that neither she nor her mother would be invited to eat with us. It was at times like these that I didn’t know how to treat her or Madame Chevalier. In name, they were servants and, truth be told, the ones that should be making the lunch. Yet Father treated Madame Chevalier more tenderly than he did my late mother, and he certainly appeared to shower Louise-Josephine with affection. He never asked either of them to do the errands or the cooking. The only housework she or her daughter really did was a little dusting or light sweeping. They didn’t even do the laundering, as Papa insisted that it be sent out.

  I would be lying if I said that I did not suspect that Louise-Josephine was his daughter, born out of one of his long visits to Paris when my mother was alive. She had a sense of entitlement that I would otherwise think peculiar in a typical servant’s child. However, I never questioned it out loud. Just as I never mentioned my suspicion to Paul—though I’m sure he, too, heard Madame Chevalier’s footsteps, the tiny patter that echoed through the house as she routinely walked down the stairs at night to visit Papa in his room.

  As I trimmed the tough ends of the asparagus stalks, I found myself wishing that I had secrets of my own so that I could distract myself from the ennui of my everyday life. I thought about how my mother must have felt quarantined in this house, distanced from her beloved Paris. No place to dress up in the silk gowns that lined her closet. No boulevards to promenade down or damaskupholstered salons to visit, where one could gossip for hours and sip tea. It would have been a painfully lonely life for her—remaining indoors all day with few or no distractions. But now I realized that my late mother was not the only one who led that life. So, clearly, did I.

  SHORTLY before Vincent was scheduled to arrive, Paul came into the kitchen. “Do you think Father would mind if I showed Vincent some of my paintings?”

  I was stirring some poached pears, trying to ensure that I didn’t get any red wine on myself. “I don’t know, Paul,” I replied. “Perhaps you should ask Papa.”

  He looked crestfallen. “He’s been in the studio all morning, and I think he’s preparing to show Vincent some of his paintings.”

  “Well, lunch is supposed to be for Vincent and Papa, not really for us,” I reminded him. “We should be happy that he’s including us at all.”

  It would never have occurred to me to be so brazen as to show Vincent my watercolors. I would have been embarrassed to show him something that I knew he would consider amateurish.

  “Do you think he might like them, Marguerite?” Paul asked. For several moments I ignored him. I was trying to focus on the food preparations and making sure that the table was set with great sensitivity—silently hoping that Vincent would notice my efforts to create some semblance of beauty in our otherwise crowded, dark house. Paul, however, was too absorbed in his own dilemma to notice my concentration on matters besides him.

  He clanked one of my pot lids down and the noise startled me. “Paul!” I cried. I poked him with the wooden spoon I had been using. “Vincent will be arriving in a few minutes and nothing is done yet!”

  “But what about showing him my paintings? I am going back to Paris this evening and I won’t have a chance to see him all week!”

  I let out a loud sigh, unable to conceal my growing impatience with him. “I don’t know, Paul…. Papa wants us each to play him something on the piano. See how much he enjoys that. If he likes that and shows enthusiasm, then you might ask him if he’d also like to see your paintings.”

  Paul straightened his back and beamed.

  VINCENT arrived twenty minutes late, huffing and puffing like a laborer who had been in the fields all day. He had changed his clothes and wore a jacket and hat, but the cloth seemed worn and his shoes were scuffed and tracking mud. “Mademoiselle Gachet,” he said when I opened the door, “your father has been most kind to invite me for lunch.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We’ll be eating in the dining room this afternoon.” I motioned for him to come in. “It’s unfortunate about the rain,” I murmured apologetically. “The garden would have been nicer.”

  “One appreciates the sun so much more after a bit of rain,” he said as he took a peek out the window.

  For a second, I thought I caught him staring at me, his eyes traveling from the lace on my collar down the front placket of my dress.

  “How true,” I said and I was unable to prevent a small smile from appearing across my lips. I was happy that he seemed to be taking notice of me. Then, as if suddenly freed from the insecurity that plagued me, I uttered, “An artist sees the beauty in the world, but I suppose a woman often only sees its limitations.”

  He looked at me quizzically as if surprised that I had the capacity to speak.

  “What a curious thing to say, mademoiselle.” He reached into his pockets. “I suppose the same thing can be said about the impoverished. A day for the poor is full of hardship and limitations, but the rich man and the artist only see its possibilities.”

  I smiled. “That is probably the only place they overlap.”

  He seemed amused by my answer, and I noticed that he continued to stare as he took off his hat and coat and handed them to me. They were damp from the rain, but they felt nearly weightless in my arms. I thought about Papa’s cloth coat and Paul’s as well—they were both so heavy in comparison, with silk lining and tortoiseshell buttons. Vincent’s, however, seemed like it was made from muslin. As I hung it on one of the wooden pegs near the vestibule, I noticed that I
could see my hands through the threadbare cloth.

  I was just about to take Vincent into the parlor when Father’s voice interrupted me. “Vincent!” he said, his tone revealing his great enthusiasm. He had heard Vincent’s footsteps and was now rising from his chair and rushing toward him.

  “I’m thrilled that you could join us today.” Vincent nodded and thanked him quietly for extending the invitation.

  “How are you feeling today?” Papa asked him, while patting him on the back. “Terrible about the weather…I bet it’s been difficult to paint this morning.”

  “I began a sketch of an old vineyard this morning,” Vincent replied. “But my mind is still not at ease.”

  “You need to paint as much as possible,” Papa reminded him. “It will help keep your head clear.”

  “I am restless.” He spoke softly. “You are right, the painting helps…. But when I don’t have a paintbrush in hand, I am filled with anxiety.”

  Papa chuckled. “I hear similar complaints from other artists. It is not unusual.”

  I could see flashes of Cézanne and Pissarro go through Papa’s mind. A smile crossed his face just to utter those names in passing.

  Vincent nodded and glanced down at his fingers. I noticed the skin spotted in paint, the faded patches of pigment—cobalt blue and thin lines of cadmium red. It looked as though he had tried to scrub them raw but, still, traces of the pigment remained.

  “You know, Vincent, I have a saying written in Chinese letters by my office and outside on one of the walls on our cave. Translated it says: Work and you will be happy. I believe strongly in that saying. It’s good advice for you.”

  “I want to paint—I am painting. It’s just that when I’m in my room at night and my fingers are so tired I can barely lift a comb to my head, I find myself staring at the ceiling and then a flood of fear washes over me…the fear my blackouts might return, the fear of another attack…. There was a time when a glass of absinthe would send my demons away but my doctor in Arles has strictly forbidden it….”

  Papa nodded. “This is all completely understandable. You had a terrible time in Arles. But we will keep you away from absinthe, Vincent, and get you stronger so that you produce what you are meant to. Genius needs to be nurtured with clean air, rest, and healthy exercise. I have promised your brother that I will make sure you are well taken care of out here. And should you need a little something at night, I’ll make you a tincture of passionflower to calm those nasty nerves of yours!”

  Vincent made a face at Papa’s remark about the tincture. “Well, I am happy to hear my brother is asking you to keep an eye on me. I have not heard from Theo in days, have you?”

  “I saw him a few days ago in Paris. We had lunch together.” Papa went over to the server and withdrew a bottle of wine. “You’re lucky to have someone as devoted and dedicated as your brother. He’s convinced that your day of public recognition is not too far off.” Papa turned the corkscrew as he spoke, holding the tall green bottle with his other hand. “We talked about you and some of your colleagues. I think he mentioned a man named Paul Gauguin.”

  Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly. “We lived briefly in Arles together before my headaches returned.” It was obvious he wanted to change the subject. “I’m a bit anxious to have my things shipped to me…. I left a few paintings with Tanguy back in Paris and have some furniture still in Arles.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Did Theo mention anything about this?”

  “No, I’m afraid he didn’t.” Father shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will all get sorted out soon. Your responsibility now is to concentrate on your painting and on regaining your health.”

  “Yes, I know,” he replied softly. “I nearly finished the painting I did in your garden the other day, and I’ve begun three more.”

  “Good!”

  “And you’re right, when I paint things are much better….”

  “Then just continue to paint and I’ll have a look at my various herbs. We’ll make you another tincture so that you can sleep better at night and be refreshed in the morning.” Father cleared his throat. “Remind me after lunch—I will give you another tincture to take home with you.”

  FATHER and Vincent continued to talk in the parlor before I called everyone for lunch.

  I had spent the early part of the morning preparing my favorite dishes. I had gotten up early so I could get the first pick of the market. I filled my basket with chicory and small fingerling potatoes, several heads of garlic, and a generous bunch of carrots. I hand-picked the chicken from Armel, the butcher, insisting that I have the largest, juiciest one from that morning’s slaughter. The herbs in my own garden had been paltry that morning, so I indulged in buying fistfuls of rosemary, marjoram, and thyme. I never tired of the fragrance of fresh-picked herbs and as I walked home, I inhaled their heady perfume, eager to begin my preparations.

  The entire house now smelled of my crisp roasted chicken and creamed, buttered potatoes. I could not help but smile as I emerged from the kitchen with the large platter in my arms. I had placed a few more sprigs of rosemary on the chicken for decoration, and the colorful contrast of the carrots and chicory made it look as though it were made for a king. I believed all eyes were on me. But just as we were about to take our seats at the table, Paul appeared. He was wearing a bright red cravat and black waistcoat, his gold watch dangling from his vest pocket.

  “I’ve been painting today up near Chaponval, Papa,” Paul announced loudly as he sat down. “I’m sorry that I’m late.”

  Papa shook his head, then turned from Paul to Vincent and asked, “Have you been up to Chaponval yet? The trees are over a hundred years old…. Cézanne liked to take his easel there to paint.”

  I stood at the table slicing the chicken before dishing the vegetables and creamed potatoes onto everyone’s plates. I served Vincent first, trying to arrange his plate as artfully as I could. He, however, didn’t seem to notice.

  “No, I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’ve been mainly painting near the Ravoux Inn and near your home.”

  “Well, you are lucky that you are here indefinitely. There will be countless opportunities for you to paint these landscapes. And when the autumn comes you’ll see how it will all change before your eyes!”

  I took my seat, smoothing my dress underneath me as I adjusted myself into the chair.

  “Yes,” I said. “You’ll have a wonderful time painting all the colors of the leaves….”

  I could see both Papa and Paul staring at me from above their perched silverware. Like two eagles, they sat hunched, glowering at me with increasing suspicion.

  “If you want, Monsieur Van Gogh, I can take you to one of my favorite painting spots in Chaponval. You can see over Oise River and to the fields beyond.” Paul was speaking quickly and I could tell how eager he was to impress Vincent.

  I could immediately see Father’s brain latching on to Paul’s idea of accompanying Vincent while he was painting. Just as I suspected he would, Father added: “I could always take you around as well and show you the best vistas in the area. I could bring my easel and we could paint side by side.”

  Paul’s face suddenly fell. He could not conceal his disappointment.

  Vincent shook his head. “It’s so kind of you both to offer your assistance, but I prefer to paint alone. Even when I lived with Gaugin, we rarely painted at the same spot.” He cleared his throat. “My creative work is better suited for solitude.”

  FOR the rest of the meal, my brother remained unusually quiet. I could see that he tried on more than one occasion to look surreptitiously in Vincent’s direction and that his preoccupation was clearly a result of schoolboy curiosity. With a series of unsubtle movements, he shifted in his seat and cocked his head awkwardly to the side. I knew what he was up to—he was trying to confirm whether the information Madame Chevalier had told him about Vincent’s missing left ear was correct.

  Papa, however, seemed oblivious to Paul’s macabre curiosity, and in b
etween his enthusiastic eating, he continued to engage Vincent in conversation.

  “I was thinking, Vincent. We could invite your brother and his family over for an afternoon…to have lunch in the garden…and you could see your young nephew. Paris isn’t that far,” he continued. “They could come out for the day.”

  Vincent smiled. He seemed to brighten immediately at the thought of his brother and his family coming to Auvers.

  “What a kind invitation, Doctor.” Vincent looked genuinely pleased. “I had wanted them to join me here for the entire summer—bring the baby with them and get some fresh air—but Theo has just written me telling me it’s impossible. But a lunch—that would be wonderful.”

  Vincent cut off another piece of chicken, washing it down with a large swallow of wine. He cleared his throat and turned to me. Again his gaze was intense. Those two pale blue eyes framed by the ledge of his forehead. The eternal arching of his copper brows. Then, unabashed by Father’s presence, he turned to me and announced: “As long as it is no trouble to Mademoiselle Gachet.”

  I don’t think I even managed to reply, so overcome was I by my blush. To hide my embarrassment, I turned my head and caught sight of my brother’s face. It took me off guard. He looked as though someone had stolen his only slice of birthday cake.

  WE all waited for Vincent to finish eating. Paul had already eaten two helpings of everything and was still looking wolfishly at the remaining bits of chicken on the decorated Limoges plate.

  “Was the food to your liking, Monsieur Van Gogh?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes…I rarely eat so well…my stomach isn’t used to it.”

  I attempted to smile as I stood up to clear the table for dessert. Still, I worried as I exited toward the kitchen that the menu I had prepared was perhaps too rich for his digestion.

  After I served the poached pears, Papa clasped his hands and announced that both Paul and I would play something on the piano in honor of Vincent’s arrival.