“Why do you keep telling me that?” I said, annoyed. “Papa’s had so much on his mind, he just hasn’t been able to give it much thought.”
“You’re going to be twenty-one in a few days. How could he not have given it any thought? Most girls in your situation have fathers eager to make marital introductions for them.” She took a deep breath and reached for another pear. “Your father has done nothing except instruct you on what he wants for dinner each night.”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t want me married,” I protested. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does,” she said. “It makes perfect sense. Don’t you see how he treats my mother? From what my grandmother told me, when Mother was younger, she used to wait on him hand and foot. She cooked for him when he would come home late from the salons of his artist friends. She swept his floors. She did his laundry. Now that she’s older, he doesn’t want my mother to have to lift a finger. And I’m sure you’ve noticed, he feels awkward asking anything of me. You, Marguerite, are a far cheaper servant than anyone else he might employ.”
“Servant?” I furrowed my brow. “He doesn’t think of me like that….”
Then, from a few meters beyond the kitchen, I heard Papa calling.
“Marguerite, where’s my coffee?” he hollered. His timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
Louise-Josephine lowered her eyes. We both realized there was no need to state the obvious. Once again, she was exactly right.
TWENTY-FOUR
Plume of Gray
THE following morning, I awoke full of energy. I had slept well, and in my slumber, I had forgotten Louise-Josephine’s cautionary words, and dreamed only of Vincent. It was a wonderful feeling to be a young woman, my entire being filled with the heady sensation of falling in love. I felt like a crocus bursting through the cold winter soil, my leaves thirsty for some sun.
I walked over to my window and opened the shutters. A few meters beyond, the meadows were alight with rows of poppies. All I could see was crimson, miles of red flowers intensified by threads of tall, green grass.
It was Sunday, and the church bells were beginning to sound. I quickly splashed some cold water on my face and rebraided my hair in a tight chignon.
I couldn’t expect Louise-Josephine to make another breakfast in my absence, so I quickly put on a simple gray dress and ran down the stairwell to prepare Papa’s meal.
“YOU’RE going to church this morning?” Papa asked, as I brought him a tray of croissants and coffee in the garden.
“Yes. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” I said, knowing all too well what his response would be.
He let out a small laugh. “You can stop asking me that, Marguerite. I will go when I’m dead.”
I shook my head. Father hadn’t been to church for years. Once, over dinner, he blurted out: “Medical school taught me that the only God is science.” He was vehemently opposed to organized religion and favored the teachings of Darwin as his personal philosophy. His attitude had obviously worn off on Paul, who had stopped attending church several years before.
That morning, Paul sat a few meters away from Papa, with a sketch pad on his lap. Both of them were busy trying to copy one of Cézanne’s still lifes, a small painting with flowers and fruit.
“You’re not going either?” I asked playfully.
Paul nodded. “Father and I prefer to spend our Sundays painting,” he mumbled as he continued to sketch. His head was bent over the drawing, but I could see the scratches from his pencil and the faint smudges from where his hand dragged across the page. “But perhaps you should pray that I pass my last history exam this Wednesday!” He tapped at his textbook on the little stool and laughed.
“I’ll put in a good word for you,” I said in jest. Papa looked up and smiled.
I waved good-bye to them and hurried down the stairs, knocking over the garden shoes that I had slipped on the night before last.
I RELISHED going to mass not because I was a particularly spiritual person, but because it gave me the opportunity to spend a few hours away from our house and my chores. Underneath the weighty ribs of the vaulted ceiling of the church, it was easy to let my mind wander freely.
I had done this since I was a child. Dressed in ribbons and lace, sitting next to a mother who used Sunday services as an excuse to wear all her finery, I learned to pass the hours by creating stories with the multicolored figures of saints and bishops that were frozen in stained glass. We must have looked so out of place then, ridiculous in our dresses compared to the villagers in their simple cotton clothes. Now when I went to church I always dressed in muted colors so as to blend in with the others in the congregation, though still the community never embraced me as one of their own.
I was shy and my family was different. This combination would always keep me at a distance. Just as the villagers preferred the local Dr. Mazery to my father (he could be seen in the front pew with his lovely wife and angelic daughter sitting next to him), they left me to sit alone in the church with no one making any attempt to have simple conversation with me. No one except Edmund Clavel.
Short, with a round, pasty face that reminded me of a brioche, Edmund was the owner of a small trading store in town. He only exchanged pleasantries with me once, an awkward stumbling of words that I made out to be a comment about the weather. For the most part, he preferred to sneak glances in my direction. The first time I found him staring at me, I thought it was my imagination. This was several months before Vincent arrived. Edmund was sitting three pews ahead of me, the slope of his gray jacket facing the altar. Slowly, however, as the sermon progressed, I could see his chin turn over his shoulder.
It was not a face that anyone would find handsome. His skin was the color of custard and his eyes were a dull pewter. Even his smile—which he revealed to me like a winning hand of cards—was crooked.
Had he shown some sort of magnetism or originality, I’m sure I would not have found his physical flaws so bothersome. But he appeared expressionless, as if he were a marionette whose painter had forgotten to draw in his eyes.
And although his interest in me was obvious, I never once imagined myself as his wife, as I had already begun to do with Vincent. Vincent was infinitely more attractive to me. His eccentricities, his unlikely dress, his abandonment of social conventions for the pursuit of art and beauty were things that intrigued me. I closed my eyes and imagined him at his easel again—his smock unbuttoned, a smear of pigment on the edge of his sleeves—and could not help but feel enchanted by the vision. If I was considered an oddity, a curiosity for gossip in the village, then the two of us were destined to be kindred spirits.
I dreamed about my rendezvous with Vincent while the organ sounded high into the rafters and the stained-glass windows pulled long fingers of blue and red onto the stone floor.
I thought of Vincent’s painting with the midnight blue palette and the ribs of the church. He had painted it as dark and foreboding as an impenetrable fortress, gloomy and alone. Now I was sitting within the walls of what he had painted so opaquely. And I was seeing in my mind’s eye the church as he had seen it. The windows that had no reflection. A clock tower that had neither numbers nor hands.
The choir sang, the organ sounded, and our village priest droned on about Christ’s sacrifices and our shortcomings in a sinful world.
I debated whether I should make confession and ask for forgiveness for my sins of the night I snuck out. Surely a kiss as passionate as the one I shared with Vincent was a sin! I thought to myself. Shouldn’t I ask for forgiveness?
But I did not want to go into that rosewood closet and seek forgiveness for something that made me feel more alive than I ever had before. I did not want to hear that it was wrong, or ask for penance, and I certainly didn’t want the memory of it to be washed away. To ask for it to be cleansed was the cruelest thing I could imagine.
So after the service, and after taking communion, I forwent confession. I walked out to th
e front of the church, where Vincent had painted that night, and remembered how we two stood there heading toward our first embrace. If I could have replayed it in my mind a thousand times, I would have. But the bell tower was sounding the end of the service, and Papa and Paul would be waiting for their lunch.
I gathered the folds of my skirt and began to make my way around the circular path that Vincent had painted so symbolically. I took one last look at the church’s spire, the peaked roof that he had depicted partially aflame. It now looked charcoal against the noon sky.
I walked to the left side, the direction his little Dutch figure had taken as she hurried away. With the billow of my gray skirt whipping behind me, it amused me to think how much I now resembled her.
TWENTY-FIVE
Gifts and Warnings
OVER the next few days, he painted in our garden as well as in the neighboring fields. Every morning when I woke up and began my way toward the village, I looked for him. Sometimes there would be traces of him. A paint-spotted oil rag left behind, or a canvas stretcher that had fallen out of his rucksack. Each time I spotted a sign that he had been in a certain place, I stood there for a moment and looked out into the landscape and inhaled what he had thought beautiful enough to paint.
I had begun to take Louise-Josephine’s words to heart. If she were right, as I now began to suspect, Papa had little expectation for me other than to maintain his household. I would not let myself end up unhappy and disillusioned, as Mother had been in her last months. I wanted to love.
I REJOICED when, earlier in the week, Father mentioned that he had invited Vincent’s family for lunch.
“Perhaps the Van Goghs can help us lift Vincent’s spirits a bit,” he told Madame Chevalier over dinner.
I bit my lip to hide my excitement, not wanting to give myself away and let Papa know how happy I was. I was anxious, after all, to meet Vincent’s family.
“I sent Theo an invitation in Paris,” Papa told Madame Chevalier. “His wife can bring the baby, and Marguerite can prepare lunch. I’ll entertain them all in the garden.”
“You’re so thoughtful, Paul-Ferdinand,” she said. I thought her comment ironic, as I knew she would not be invited to this luncheon. She turned her face toward Papa and smiled at him. She was wearing makeup. Her face, dotted with circles of rouge, stood out against the black collar of her dress. I could see a dusting of powder caught in the tendrils near her ears.
“I’ll help with the cooking,” Louise-Josephine piped in suddenly. Her voice startled me, as I was not used to hearing her speak at the dining table. It was clear and strong. She was obviously determined to make a lovely gesture for me in honor of the occasion.
“Oh, no…don’t be silly,” Papa said. “Marguerite will have no difficulty preparing something for the afternoon. She can easily handle it by herself.”
“Yes, I know she can do it,” Louise-Josephine answered. She was looking Papa straight in the eyes. “But two sets of hands are better than one. And after all, I need to get better in the kitchen.”
Papa raised an eyebrow and looked at me. He was suspicious of Louise-Josephine’s gesture. He knew we had never been close in the past, barely exchanging words in his presence.
“Well, the two of you can work out the details by yourselves. In the meantime, I’ll send an invitation to Vincent.”
ALL week I waited for his visit. I had so much energy, but my only outlet was throwing myself into my chores. I took out my metal pail and scrub brush and scoured the floors. I washed the curtains even though I had washed them the first week in April. I weeded my garden with extra tenacity, pulling out the tall green stalks—sometimes three at a time. I dusted Father’s bookshelves and took out one of the de Goncourt novels that Vincent had painted, lightly touching the leather binding with my fingers.
I thrust open all the windows to force the light into the parlor. I filled several of Mother’s Dresden vases with fistfuls of gardenias and peonies so the house had pockets of pink and white blooms. The air, no longer stale from the faint medicinal smells of Father’s tinctures, was now filled with the light fragrance of flowers.
Papa also seemed to take extra measures to prepare for the arrival of Vincent’s family. He brought extra canvases down from the attic and hung them along the hallway of the house, making the entire first floor more crowded than ever. He filled the cave behind the picnic table with a case of wine he’d ordered from Paris, and brought home a basket of fresh cheeses and cured meats from his favorite stores. On Friday, when I returned home from my errands, I found Papa sitting in the garden with Madame Chevalier behind him. She was busy massaging a henna shampoo into his hair. She had tied a thin strip of cotton around his scalpline so the orange color wouldn’t tint his skin.
“Marguerite,” he said as I walked closer. The olive green mixture had a strong smell and it looked as though his entire head was caked in mud. Madame Chevalier hadn’t applied the shampoo in months, and I knew Papa had been anxious to hide the white in his hair.
“Did you decide on the menu for Sunday?”
“Yes, Papa,” I replied. Madame Chevalier did not look up. She was busy scraping some of the dried mixture at the nape of Papa’s neck.
“Good.” He cleared his throat. “We have everything in order then.”
I nodded my head. “The sun is quite strong today, Papa. Don’t stay out too long or your hair will look like a tube of crimson madder.”
He chuckled. “Well, I just might. After all, Vincent might want to do a second portrait of me then. We know how he likes vibrant colors!”
THE next day he arrived just before noon with Theo and Jo and their little son. Louise-Josephine had spent much of the morning helping me, and I felt awful when the bell sounded and she was forced to scurry back to her room.
Her assistance had been invaluable. Not only had she helped me with all the baking and preparations, she had also given me more advice on what dress to wear and how I should plait my hair.
“Wear blue,” she told me that morning. “It will offset your eyes. And let’s weave a ribbon through your braids before we twist and pin them back.” She picked a lovely cornflower blue one from my dresser and started braiding it right away.
She was right as usual. The color did make my eyes seem bigger. She took a step backward and pinched my cheeks. “And the final touch,” she said with a flourish. She reached into her apron and handed me some lipstick that she had stolen from her mother’s drawer.
“Thank you,” I gushed.
It was so refreshing to have Louise-Josephine close by and I felt an outpouring of love toward her, as if I suddenly understood the blessing of having a sister. It was her sophistication and her reassuring nature that gave me a rush of confidence before seeing Vincent.
Papa greeted Vincent and his family as soon as they arrived, showing them directly into the garden where the red picnic table was crowded with food. The baby, who had been named for his uncle Vincent, was resting in Jo’s arms, and was immediately amused by all of Father’s animals.
Later on, just before we all settled down to eat, Jo came over to me and thanked me for making such a lovely luncheon.
“Theo and I wanted to give you and your brother a little something for being so kind to Vincent,” she said. She reached into her basket and handed me a small flat package neatly wrapped in festive paper. “I’m afraid Theo’s already given your brother his….”
I looked over and saw Paul laughing heartily with Theo. He was holding a book in one hand and the wrapping paper in another. Paul had finished his last exam just the day before, and had arrived home in Auvers only one train earlier than Vincent’s family.
“Thank you,” I said appreciatively. “It wasn’t necessary at all. Vincent is more like a friend of the family now than a patient…and I know how happy Papa is—all of us are—to have him here in Auvers.”
Jo smiled at me and urged me to open the present.
I carefully fingered the edges of wrapping paper so I wo
uldn’t tear it. Inside I found a book on the art of Japanese woodblock prints.
“Vincent is a tremendous admirer of these plates,” she said softly, “and we thought you and your brother might enjoy them too. We bought the books at an exhibition on Japanese art in Paris a few weeks ago. We actually went there with Vincent just before he left for Auvers.”
“Oh, they’re lovely,” I said, as I turned the pages and saw the beautiful scenes of women in kimonos, bridges at sunset, and branches of plum blossoms.
“It makes Theo and me so happy to see how well Vincent is doing here,” she said to me, again touching my arm. “We were terribly afraid before he came north, but it seems your father’s been a positive influence on him.”
I tried to muster a smile but it was difficult. Obviously, Vincent had not written to Theo about Father forcing him to take his homeopathic tonics.
“Well, the good thing is,” I said, trying to sound positive, “that he’s painting a great deal. It seems he does at least one painting a day…sometimes more.”
Jo smiled at me. “He is prolific,” she said with a warm smile. “And Theo’s certain of his genius. It’s a shame he wasted his early years at Goupil’s.” She let out an exhaustive sigh. “Then there were those years as an evangelist…” She shook her head. “He’s spent most of his adulthood searching for himself, searching for something greater. Theo is just so happy that Vincent has finally found something that gives him some peace.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know Papa said it is imperative that Vincent continue to paint.”
Jo sighed again. “It’s been trying,” she said, shaking her head once more. “We have been through a lot with him. The attacks, the bills…It has been a difficult road getting him on his feet.” She looked at me and smiled, and gently reached toward my wrist in a gesture of affection. “My husband and I are obviously most concerned about his health, of course. I don’t know what Theo would do without Vincent…they’re like twins…the two of them so close.”
The Last Van Gogh Page 13