“We must wait to make absolutely sure everyone’s asleep before you sneak out,” she warned.
We waited, speaking in hushed voices and keeping our ears attuned to every sound that echoed through the house.
Finally, when nearly a full hour of complete silence had passed, Louise-Josephine whispered to me her secret for scaling down the trellis.
“You mustn’t wear shoes,” she said solemnly, holding one finger to her mouth. “They will only increase the noise and inhibit your flexibility.” She looked down at my feet, which were in tightly fitted ankle boots.
“Go barefoot and then slip into your garden shoes by the gate.”
I knelt down to untie my boots as she continued on with more important details of my imminent escape. Over the past few months she had become masterful at sneaking out of our house. She knew which rail squeaked and which stone made a sound when you walked on it. She even knew how to turn the latch of our gate without making a noise.
“There is an extra key in the flowerpot by the door,” she told me carefully, drawing a diagram of our front lawn with her finger. “Use that to get in when you return and drop it back in the morning after breakfast.”
I nodded my head, but felt that my head might explode from all the information she wanted me to command to memory. I could feel myself starting to panic, and when I pushed the hair away from my face, I’m sure Louise could see I was terrified.
“I’m not sure I’m capable of doing this,” I muttered. “What if Papa discovers me?”
“He won’t,” she said reassuringly. “He and Mother sleep soundly. You must trust me, I’ve done this at least a dozen times….”
I nodded my head in assent. My shoulders were trembling underneath my gown and my heart was racing.
“Don’t worry so much, Marguerite,” she said, placing her hand over mine. “The first time it’s petrifying, but you’ll soon find it’s not so hard!”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I wish I had your courage,” I whispered.
She tossed back her long black hair and smiled. “Marguerite, you’ve already proven that you do.”
TWENTY-TWO
Rendezvous
IT was eleven o’clock when I began my descent from Louise-Josephine’s window. I wore a simple blue cotton dress and my hair swept loose.
I stood there barefoot, waiting as she quietly undid the latch and opened the window.
“Hold on to the ledge when you first secure your footing,” she warned as she helped lower me down. I held on to the stone lip with one hand and to her tiny fingers with the other, watching her face without blinking as I lowered myself to the garden below.
She was right about the added agility from going barefoot. I was able to lock my toes around the wooden slats and claw my way down. Louise-Josephine continued to watch me as I made my way through the garden, and did not close the window until I slipped safely through the front gate.
With my garden shoes inelegantly cloaking my feet, I lumbered down the rue Vessenots. I had never been outside our house at such a late hour, and I reveled in the silence of our village. The moon illuminated the limestone farmhouses, and the daylilies that grew by the cobblestone streets were as tight as fists.
The warm balmy breeze penetrated the cotton weave of my dress, and my breasts revealed my excitement. There was something so liberating about having my hair loose and my bare feet slipping against the soles of my woven garden sandals. The air was heavy with the perfume of jasmine and roses as I headed down the street. I could see the stone bell tower of the church and wondered if he would still be there working under the white globe of moonlight, his canvas already heavy with paint.
It took me nearly twenty minutes to reach the center of town, and I tried to catch my breath before making the final ascent to the church. I smoothed down my hair with my palms and patted my neck with my handkerchief. I could see the faint outline of his body as I began walking up the hill to the church’s entrance. He was hunched over his easel, the cuffs of his smock cloaking his hands.
I dared not approach him as he labored furiously over the stretchers. I took a step backward and camouflaged myself among the poplar trees.
It was such a joy to watch him work. He mixed his pigments expertly, squeezing his bladders of paint onto his palette with deliberation and care. He took not only brushes to his canvas, but also alternated between sweeping the canvas with a thin piece of willow and at other times cutting through the paint with a blade.
I waited, watching him for nearly an hour as he painted the ominous spire of the church, its dark, hollow windows, and the crouching gargoyles from above. Only when he had stepped back from the canvas and begun packing up his satchel did I finally approach him. And even then, I trembled with fear.
“Vincent,” I said with a hushed voice.
He looked up from his canvas, alarmed that someone was whispering his name.
“I hope you’re not angry that I came.” I stepped out from behind the trees.
To say he was surprised was an understatement. He could barely speak when he saw me there, standing in front of him like an unkempt mermaid with my downswept hair.
“I nearly did not recognize you,” he said, stuttering to overcome his shock. “I was not expecting visitors this time of night.” He wiped his palette knife with a rag and placed it on the lip of his easel and smiled.
I took one step closer and stood there looking first at him, then at his painting.
It was darker than I expected. Most of his other paintings had been full of high tones of bright yellow, green, and white. But this one, with an opaque whale-blue sky and violet stones, sent chills down my spine.
I stepped another foot closer to him; the edge of my arm grazed his as I moved closer to see the painting. There was something skeletal about the bones of the church, the sharp jagged outlines, and the tower that nearly pierced the cobalt sky. He seemed to capture the church as if it were frozen. Blue-white, dove-gray—it was completely devoid of light except for the patch of flame that rose from the roofline.
There was a curious forked path in the front that was accented by quick staccatos of brown and yellow. To the left, he had drawn the figure of a Dutchwoman with a pointed white hat, gathering her skirts and hurrying past darkened windows.
“Who is she?” I asked, pointing to the figure. “I’ve lived here all my life and have never seen a Dutchwoman scampering around our church in the middle of the night.”
He seemed to be taken aback by my question, as if it made him uncomfortable.
“There’s no need to tell me, “I said softly. I was sure he now thought me rude.
“No, that isn’t it,” he answered. “I suppose I’m just pleasantly surprised that such insight could come from a girl who, as you say, has lived in Auvers her whole life.”
He looked at me and smiled.
“You are right to suspect the figure is a symbol,” he said. “I once considered a life in the clergy but was rejected by the Church.”
He said no more but it was obvious whom it really was passing to one side of the road, the one that led away from the church’s entrance.
“I read the Aurier article, and they’re saying in Paris you’re one of the great symbolists.”
“You read that article?” He seemed surprised yet visibly pleased. “Well, then, you already know I often place symbols in my paintings.”
“Like literature!” I said enthusiastically.
“Yes, just like literature, Marguerite.” He paused.
“Then there was a specific reason you placed the foxgloves and those two books in Father’s portrait….”
“Yes. There was,” he answered but he did not elaborate any further, as I hoped he would.
There was silence between us. I became concerned that I had begun a conversation I was not intellectually prepared for. I understood the notion of symbols and metaphor but anything beyond that was treading foreign ground for me.
I stood there shivering as the n
ight grew colder. Staring at the dark, swirling canvas before me, I clasped my fingers around my arms and pulled them close to my chest.
“Does your father know you are out this late?” Vincent asked as he unbuttoned his smock and handed it to me. He was looking at me intensely, his eyes steadfast on mine.
I slipped my shoulders into his smock and inhaled the heady smell of turpentine and perspiration.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I snuck down the trellis to come see you.”
“To see me?” He chuckled. I could see he was delighted with my response.
“Yes,” I replied. “I wanted to see you paint.”
“You placed yourself in such great risk just to see me paint, Marguerite?” he raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite brave of you.”
“Well…I…,” I stammered. “I also wanted to see…”
“Yes?” he asked, stepping closer to me. I could smell the scent of his skin. It reminded me of the forest, high and green. Pine and juniper wood combined.
Suddenly I felt dizzy. He was no more than five inches away from me, and the air that separated us seemed laced with tiny magnets that forced us closer.
“You’ve got your hair undone,” he said. His soft breath seemed to caress my cheeks.
I looked up and smiled at him. He took his finger and rested it beneath my chin, lifting up my head to meet his.
His hand rested underneath my chin for several seconds, and the soft fingertips of his other one stretched toward my neck.
My eyes must have been closed when he kissed me because I have no memory of his eyes, only his lips placed on mine. It was soft and gentle at first, a peck that one might give a small, fragile child. But soon his mouth enveloped mine more passionately and I found myself echoing his movement, my own fingers reaching into his back and clawing up the sides until I reached the top of his shoulders. He returned my kiss more powerfully. His hands, no longer cradling my chin and ears, now slipped over my shoulders. He unbuttoned the top of the cloak, kissing the top of my breasts with a gentle press of his lips.
His hands began to search through the fabric of my skirt, rustling through my petticoat. I felt the warm sensation of his hand on my leg, the grasping of the flesh between his calloused fingers. I could barely stand when he touched me there. I could feel myself collapsing into him. But a voice in my head warned me to stop.
“Vincent,” I said, leaning slightly away from him. His hands immediately dropped from where they were, and cool air suddenly seemed to billow up my skirts where his palms had been moments before.
He pulled away from me and pushed his hands through his red hair, which was now standing in all directions from where my fingers had just run through it.
“I—I’m sorry,” he said.
I was once again shivering from the cold air snaking across my skin. “There is no need to apologize,” I said. “It’s only I have so little experience in these sorts of things.” I paused. “Well, none, actually.”
I had been raised not only to be chaste but to be completely unavailable to the opposite sex. Now I had betrayed not only Father’s wishes but also what I thought was expected of girls of my social background. Yet, if I were to be honest, I was secretly thrilled that I had the capacity for such adventure.
“It was wrong of me. You’re so much younger than I, and I should know better than to jeopardize things with your father, when he’s been so kind to me.”
I nodded my head.
I could feel my embarrassment creeping up my neck in long, red strokes. My face, too, reddened from the uncertainty I felt in my actions.
“I see,” I said, smoothing out my skirt. “Perhaps it was a mistake then.”
“No. I wouldn’t call it a mistake, Marguerite.”
Again I looked at him for clarity.
“It’s just there is truth to what you said. We should take this more slowly. In light of my…past…I will need to gain your father’s confidence if there’s to be a more permanent relationship between us.”
I smiled again in understanding.
“Look here,” he said, suddenly taking out his sketchbook from his rucksack. He shuffled through the pages until he found a sketch of me, one where he imagined me sitting at my piano.
“I want to paint you seated at your piano. Then perhaps a third portrait of you…maybe illuminated as Saint Cecilia, at the organ with stephanotis in your hair. You are so much like her—so musical, so pure.” He brushed his finger again against my cheek. “Maybe I will do a whole series, like I did of my friend the postman back in Arles.”
My heart was thumping hard in my chest. He had sketched me from memory. Surely that meant he had been thinking of me when he was alone in his rented room in the Ravoux Inn.
“Of course you’re much prettier than he is, and I don’t recall ever kissing him like that.” Vincent smiled playfully. “He was a married man, after all.”
I giggled.
“I only need your father’s permission,” he continued. “Let’s not risk getting him cross.” He stroked my cheek with his hand. “Hurry home,” he whispered. “It’s far too late for you to be out.”
And so I did. I rushed through the streets with my heart nearly bursting through my chest. My clothes felt weightless, my feet hardly felt the bulk of the cobblestones.
Only when I had managed to creep up the stairs and enter my room did I notice a smudge of yellow paint streaked like fireworks across my cheek. How I wished I could keep it there and never wash it off! But that would be foolhardy. Rather than risk being discovered, I dipped my washcloth in the water basin. And slowly, mournfully, I erased the evidence of our kiss.
TWENTY-THREE
The Yellow Finger print
MY encounter with Vincent had left me breathless, and I was thankful that Father did not catch me stealthily tiptoeing back to my room. Had he seen me there in the stairwell, in my bare feet and smiling from ear to ear, Papa would have known I had just returned from something scandalous.
The first person I wanted to see was Louise-Josephine. Though I did not find her asleep in my bed as I had anticipated, there was a note on my pillowcase.
We’ll speak tomorrow. I don’t want Mother to awaken to our whispering…
Always,
L-Josephine
I folded her letter and placed it in my desk drawer. I stood by my mirror and looked at myself. The streak of yellow was still wet on my cheek, a faint fingerprint swirled into the pigment. When I cupped my hands to my face, I could still detect the scent of turpentine on my skin. It had permeated the places where Vincent’s palms had pressed against me, and I greedily inhaled these last traces of our encounter.
I WAS late to the kitchen that next morning, but fortunately, Louise-Josephine had risen early. When I came down the stairway, I noticed she had already set the breakfast table.
I walked into the kitchen and greeted her. She held a blue glass pitcher in her hand and a lock of her chestnut hair fell over the left side of her face. She reminded me of a kitten, incapable of hiding the mischief in her eyes.
“So…,” she said, smiling, “what happened? I’ve been counting the minutes until I saw you!”
I closed the curtain and ran up to her. “He kissed me!” I blurted out. I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle my giggle. Still, it was difficult to contain myself.
I had practiced how I was going to tell Louise-Josephine what had happened. How Vincent and I had started talking about his paintings and his ideas, and how he had mentioned that he wished to paint me again. But now as I stood there within the cloistered walls of my kitchen, I could not be bothered with those details. The only thing I could concentrate on was that one fantastic moment when his lips touched mine.
Louise-Josephine beamed. “I knew he would! I just knew it!” she said as she clapped her hands together. “And how was it?” She cocked her head a little and raised an eyebrow.
I giggled again.
“Tell me!” she pressed.
“I
t was wonderful…. I met him just as he was finishing his painting. It was beautiful, a haunting one of the village church—”
Louise-Josephine cut me short. “I don’t care about the painting! What did he say when he first saw you there?”
“He was surprised, of course,” I said, tripping slightly over my words. “But very pleasantly so, it would seem.”
“And did you arrange for a next meeting?”
She was already quite ahead of me, as I hadn’t even thought that far in advance. I was still relishing my triumph of sneaking successfully out of the house and meeting Vincent in the middle of the night.
“No, I haven’t.”
She shook her head. “Did he give any clue when he intended to see you next?”
“He only said he doesn’t want to upset Papa,” I said, reaching for a few of the pears that needed to be peeled. I set one in front of me and held the other with my hand.
“Eventually your father will find out and he will become upset.” She took the pear from me. “You realize that, don’t you?”
Louise-Josephine’s voice was confident, as if she recognized what a naïf I was.
“If Vincent’s intentions are serious and he shows Papa the respect and attention he requires, I don’t see how Papa could object,” I insisted.
Louise-Josephine shook her head again. “You remember what I said about my grandmother? How I stopped fearing her when I realized that even if she did punish me, my life couldn’t change for the worse. You need to realize that your father will never be your ally in finding you a husband.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“I don’t think your father wants to see you married.”
I looked up at her, and my eyes must have revealed my disbelief.
The Last Van Gogh Page 12