“Paul will play first,” he said.
I cleared the table as the three men went into the parlor. I could hear Paul saying he was going to play a piece by Bach. It was an ambitious choice on my brother’s part, and I knew he had chosen it because he wished to impress not only Vincent, but Papa as well. He was starving for Papa to notice him (something I had long given up on) and hoped that though Papa failed to notice his paintings, perhaps he would take notice of his piano playing.
But the piece was far too difficult for him. He hadn’t been able to practice when he was away at school and the selection he made required tremendous precision. I wished that I could have taken him aside and gently suggested that he choose something a little easier for such a spontaneous recital. But I had been so busy and preoccupied over the week with the cooking and cleaning of the house that I hadn’t had the chance. Later on, I would feel guilty that I hadn’t been more inquisitive, that I had not asked him what music he was planning to perform. Certainly, had I known it was Bach, I would have tried to encourage him to perform something less complicated.
But it was too late. By the time I walked into our living room he had already taken his seat at the keyboard. His nervousness must have gotten the best of him, for as he played his fingers shook like fluttering pine needles and he was incapable of striking all the correct notes.
It was painful to watch. It was equally painful to listen to. Knowing that he was failing publicly—in the eyes of my father and his esteemed artist guest—Paul’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. His ears turned scarlet as well, and it looked as though he might faint from the sound of his own blundering at the keys. When he finally finished, I tried to clap as hard as I could. But it was little consolation. He sat sulking as I stepped up to the piano to play Chopin’s Impromptu, which I had practiced each day since Vincent first arrived in Auvers.
I settled myself at the piano. If I looked to my left, I could see both Vincent and Papa reflected in the gilded mirror on the wall so I looked straight ahead toward my sheet music and the point of the metronome just beyond.
Papa let out a small cough and I knew he was signaling for me to begin.
I smoothed out my dress and placed my fingers at the keys. I placed my foot on the pedal and took one last, deep breath.
I began tentatively, cautiously approaching the first few notes, but soon I forgot that I was playing for an audience and the melody took over.
No longer did I need to read the music; I knew each stanza by heart. My body swayed as I connected each note. My diaphragm rose—my breasts lifted—as I breathed and exhaled into the melody. I felt as though I were a fir tree shaking off a winter’s worth of snow.
The crescendo approached and as I struck the final notes, I felt a few stray locks of hair come loose from my chignon. They fell over my eyes and I fought hard not to push them back.
My fingers now felt as though they were being pulled by a spirit not their own. With lightning speed they danced over the keys.
Vincent was already on his feet clapping as I lifted my foot off the pedal.
“Such artistic passion,” I heard him gush. He was clapping so feverishly that even Papa seemed embarrassed by his guest’s enthusiasm and his sheer inability to mask his delight.
When I sat down, I could feel Paul’s eyes glaring at me. He wouldn’t be showing Vincent his paintings, and I felt sorry for my little brother. He had wanted so desperately to impress our guest.
“I NEED to get a tincture for Vincent,” Papa whispered to me after the recital. “Your brother is clearly upset about his performance. Why don’t you take Vincent to the parlor and entertain him for a few minutes…. I’ll only be a moment.”
Papa’s suggestion took me by surprise but I could not protest. After all, wasn’t this what I had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with him?
I motioned for Vincent to follow me into the salon. Inside I was shaking. I knew I was ill prepared to engage in small talk, let alone flirtation. For several days now my mind had been bursting with questions for him. I wanted to ask him how he chose his palette, how he learned his craft. Had he ever envisioned himself as something other than a painter?
But now conversation eluded me and my tongue failed to utter a single word.
“You play Chopin beautifully,” he finally said as we entered the room.
“Thank you,” I said with a small laugh.
Outside I could hear Henrietta making sounds at the chickens. It was strangely comforting to me, especially when Vincent smiled when one of the roosters cackled.
“When I hear you play, something about you transforms. I have been trying to place it exactly…. It’s not that your hair becomes more golden…or the fact that your hands flutter like two white doves…. It’s—it’s just—” He stopped himself. “I am sorry, the right words are difficult to find. I only want to say that I was so moved by your performance.”
“Oh, you are most kind…. But really, I lack the talent that my mother had. She was the most magnificent pianist.”
Vincent’s brow furrowed when I said this, as if he was troubled that I was selling myself short.
“That is rather inconsequential. Your talents are real—as real as the blood in my own blue veins!” He tapped on his forearm to reinforce the dramatic tone in his voice. “When I saw you in the garden that first afternoon, I noticed there was something special about you. Underneath that milk-white skin of yours, there is great passion for life. I can see it.”
“Monsiuer Van Gogh, hush! If my father hears you going on like this I will never be allowed at the piano again!” Again, I giggled nervously, as I had never had anyone flatter me before.
“Ah, so you are not used to this attention,” he said, and a small smile crept over his face. He was still sitting a comfortable distance from me but I could feel his gaze begin to intensify. Now he was staring.
I felt my face growing hot from his stare. “What you say is true. It is strange for me.” My blush now spread: a stroke of pink on a wet page.
Vincent stood up from his chair. He was suddenly more confident and his voice was stronger. “I look around your father’s house and I see all this bric-a-brac.” He pointed to the ebony pedestal in the corner, the shelves lined with porcelains. “There is too much distraction. But, you, mademoiselle, stand out among all this dark furniture and gilded ormolu.”
“You are much too kind,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.
“No, I am not,” he insisted. “A painter yearns to paint that which others fail to see. If someone tells me the sky is full of clouds, I am the artist that rushes outside to find what is hidden behind. “He now came closer to me so that he was standing only inches from where I sat. And even though I tried to force my pupils to burrow into my lap, his eyes were still planted firmly in my direction. His gaze began to fixate on my features and I began to suspect he was studying my face, imagining how he might build the flesh from layers of thin, blended pigment.
When I finally did raise my head, I could now make out each of his lashes, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the follicles of his whiskers.
His mouth remained perfectly still. The feather-soft lines in his lips looked like the tiny veins of an autumn leaf, and the sweep of skin below his eyes was so pale it appeared almost blue.
“I would not be so distracted if I could paint you, mademoiselle.”
I looked up at him. The irises of his eyes were not solid aquamarine as I had believed, but speckled with gold and apricot.
“Monsieur Van Gogh,” I stammered. My skin felt as if it was burning right through the silk of my dress. I had never been so close to a man before and I was trembling.
“You will need to ask my father,” I finally blurted out. “He will be here any moment!”
He let out a small laugh, obviously charmed by my awkwardness.
“Don’t worry, Mademoiselle Gachet, I intend to ask permission from your father. I would not do it any other way.”
He was now pacing while I sat there with my limbs frozen. And although I could hear Father opening and closing the drawers in his study upstairs and I could smell the yeasty perfume of my dough browning in the oven, I still sat there motionless, staring at Vincent as he moved in slow steps around our parlor.
It was he, again, who broke the silence.
“You should know that I do not take my portraits lightly. I choose my subjects carefully. Deliberately.” He remained by the window with his face turned away from me.
“I want the people who see my portraits in a hundred years’ time to see them as I did when I first painted them—as apparitions—as selected slivers of the divine.”
I desperately wanted to tell him how honored I was that he wished to paint me, but before I could manage the words, I heard Father’s footsteps bounding down the hall. He entered with a great flurry, his hands stretched outward as if he were making an elaborate delivery.
“Here, Vincent. Take three doses of this daily. It should help calm your nerves.”
Vincent turned directly to my father and took the glass flask from his hand.
“I don’t have the passionflower prepared, but take this; it’s mugwort,” Papa said. The vial contained a moss-colored liquid which was almost translucent when Vincent held it up to the sunlight. “The Saxons believed it was one of the nine sacred herbs. Even I take it every now and then when I’m feeling depressed.”
“I told you,” he stammered nervously, “I’ve been trying to wean myself from the green-eyed devil for several months now….” Vincent returned the vial back to Father. “I don’t think I should take it.”
Papa shook his head and pressed the tincture back into Vincent’s palm. “No, this isn’t absinthe, Vincent.” He let out a small laugh. “It’s medicinal. I’ve been prescribing homeopathic remedies to my patients in Paris for years.”
Vincent looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know….” He appeared agitated and there seemed to be genuine fear in his eyes. “I don’t want to get addicted to anything again, and if there are side effects…I couldn’t bear that.”
“These tinctures will only help you get better, Vincent.”
Still, Vincent hesitated.
“No, I am going to insist you take it, Vincent.” Father’s voice now sounded stern. “I doubt Theo would be pleased to learn you’re not taking instruction from me. After all, I’m your doctor.”
I was sure Vincent then cast his eyes in my direction, as if he thought an approving nod from me might assuage his doubts.
I did not, however, acknowledge him in any way.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I desperately wanted to meet his gaze and interpret his expressions more clearly. But I was afraid that Papa might see me and suspect I was trying to undermine his authority. I wasn’t a doctor. I knew little about the curative powers of plants and flowers. And I was fearful of igniting Father’s wrath after Vincent left.
“Take it….” Papa’s voice was more persistent now. There was an urgency to it that made it sound like an order.
I saw Vincent take the flask from Father, place it in his side pocket, and reluctantly acknowledge his instructions with a nod.
EIGHT
A Female Model
IHAD difficulty sleeping that evening. All I could think about was Vincent’s eyes heavy on me. I had been right that the first afternoon, when he had handed me the red poppy, he had seen something in me. Now, he had articulated his desire to have me sit for him and I was dizzy from the anticipation.
The following morning, Father mentioned in passing that Vincent was eager to have a female model and had asked if I could pose for him.
“Modeling is not an easy task, Marguerite,” Papa warned me. “You will need to act like a professional.”
“Yes, Papa,” I said in my most serious voice. I had to fight hard not to show just how elated I was.
“Some people would frown on my decision to let you sit for him, but I promised his brother I would do all that I could to help Vincent continue his painting. And anyway, this will not be as though you are modeling for an art class.” Papa laughed to himself. “No, I would never allow my daughter to do that sort of modeling!”
I blushed when Papa made this off-color remark. “No, of course not, Papa. Of course not.”
I, on the other hand, could not have been more pleased that Vincent had made good on his promise. As a child I had posed for Armand Gautier, another painter friend of Papa’s, but that was a long time ago.
I wanted to tell someone that I—Marguerite Gachet—had inspired a brilliant painter. That he had chosen to immortalize me in canvas and his luminous paint. My head was now filled with questions. Would Vincent use vibrant colors or choose the muted ones I feared my plain countenance deserved? Would Papa let him paint me unchaperoned or would I be allowed to sit with him alone?
But I had no one to discuss this with but my diary and myself. Paul had chosen to postpone going to Paris until Tuesday as the school was engaged in a reading period before exams. And although he remained in the house, he still had not spoken to me since his piano debacle. By that evening, he still had made no effort to speak to me, or even acknowledge me when I went into the parlor to do my needlepoint. He sat on one of Papa’s armchairs with his head buried in one of his schoolbooks, his legs extended like two strips of timber, never looking up at me once.
I was used to his bouts of moodiness. He had been petulant even as a child whenever he didn’t get his way, but it bothered me that he was angry with me because I had performed my piano piece without error and he had heard that Vincent wanted to paint me and not him.
“How’s your painting going?” I finally got the courage to ask him. “Perhaps you can ask Monsieur Van Gogh for some instruction; I’m sure he could offer you some sound advice.”
“He has little interest in me, Marguerite. You know that.” His lip was curled up in a nasty little scowl.
I spent several minutes trying to reassure him. “If Vincent can’t assist you, I’m sure Papa’s other artist friends might be able to offer you some guidance on their next visit.”
He shook his head. “Papa will monopolize them so, I will have little opportunity.”
“We must remember, Paul,” I said as I sat next to him and gently took his hand, “Vincent is one of Papa’s patients, and we cannot push too hard with him. He is here to recuperate and to get himself back to his painting.”
Paul nodded.
“I too am anxious to get to know him,” I said, lowering my voice. “It will happen over time. Once you’re home for the summer in a few weeks I’m sure you’ll have ample opportunity.”
Paul smiled. “Yes, perhaps after my exams are over and I’m here full time, he’ll give me some pointers.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will.”
I touched Paul gingerly on the knee and made my way to the kitchen. I had left a pile of potatoes in the sink. When I slid open the Algerian striped curtain, I found Louise-Josephine standing over the potatoes with a bowl of water in front of her and a peeler in one hand.
“Oh, thank you,” I said. I was surprised to find her there. I quickly reached for a knife and began helping her. We stood next to each other, aprons tied, the ribbons of potato skin falling into the sink. She hummed softly as she worked, a smile permanently fixed on her lips. After a moment, she turned to me and said, “Mother tells me you are to be painted by Monsieur Van Gogh.”
My heart stopped as she spoke as if the fact that she knew about Vincent’s request cemented it in stone.
“I’m sorry”—she hesitated—” perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I didn’t answer her at first. I was still holding one of the potatoes in my hand. I expected her to look away from me out of shyness. But Louise-Josephine did not waver. She stood there staring at me, her eyes dark as claret.
“Yes,” I finally said. “It’s true. He’s asked Papa if he can paint me.”
She nodded her head and placed one of
the potatoes in the bowl of cold water. “I suspect there will be some excitement in this house this summer.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “It will be a pleasant change, don’t you think?”
I looked at her as if I didn’t know what she meant by such a comment.
She turned away from the table and brushed her hands on her apron. Looking directly in my eyes, she said rather matter-of-factly, “Of all the treasures in this crowded house, you’re the thing that has caught his eye.”
I wanted to embrace her when she said that. It was probably the kindest thing that anyone had ever said to me in my twenty-one years.
“You really think so?” I said to her as I inched closer. I was like a starved child desperate for any other morsel of flattery she could give to me.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “He would never ask to paint something that didn’t inspire him. It must be a wonderful feeling to know that someone finds you so beautiful.”
NINE
Secrets
FOR years now I had tried to convince myself that Madame Chevalier and Louise-Josephine were just visitors in passing, that one day “Chouchette,” as my Father affectionately called her, would pack up her one suitcase and take her daughter and leave.
I imagined her leaving as she had arrived. Wearing that memorable black dress, the silver buttons still shiny, her figure still poking through the cloth. It was a ridiculous fantasy, now that I look back on it. For I knew early on, though I didn’t want to accept it, that Father never had any plans for her to be a real governess to us.
I am not sure if it was because I was looking for someone to reaffirm my suspicion that Vincent might be attracted to me or because she seemed to be taking notice of my feelings for him, but I suddenly welcomed Louise-Josephine’s overtures of friendship toward me.
She was twenty-three now. Although she had lived nine years under our roof, I had never formed a close relationship with her. Over the years we had been polite to each other, and we had worked occasionally in the kitchen together when I needed assistance. She had helped me with the spring cleaning, even when her mother remained in her room doing needlepoint. She tried perhaps on more than one occasion to speak kindly to me but our exchanges rarely went beyond common pleasantries.
The Last Van Gogh Page 6