The Last Van Gogh

by Alyson Richman

  I nodded my head. It pained me to think of Vincent so unhappy in the past.

  “I love his paintings so much,” I said softly.

  Jo chuckled. “Yes, they’re lovely. But now we must all wait for the collectors to come and buy.” She emphasized the last word ever so slightly and then smiled at me again.

  I nodded back and the two of us looked over to Vincent, who was now deeply engaged in making faces at his young nephew.

  “He’s certainly good with children,” I said, more to myself than to Jo, but she obviously heard.

  “In short spurts, I suppose,” she said as she crossed her arms. “But he certainly wouldn’t make a very fine husband. His last love affair proved that much.” She turned to me and smiled. Perhaps it was a warning for me. For she clearly knew what was on my mind.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Bridges in the Garden

  THEY left our house a little after three o’clock. Vincent wanted to take Theo to the Ravoux Inn to show him some paintings before they returned to Paris. It had been a festive afternoon, and the picnic table showed how heartily we had all eaten. Only the bones from the chicken remained on our plates, and a pile of olive pits was left in a small ceramic bowl. In the middle of the table, the cake stand held but a single slice of butter cake, with a few strawberries submerged in a melted puddle of whipped cream.

  Papa was lying down in one of the lawn chairs, his waistcoat half unbuttoned and his swelling belly eager to find release from his leather belt. His shirtsleeves were rolled high above his elbows, exposing a smattering of pale freckles, like tiny constellations, on his long, wiry arms.

  As I collected the plates for washing, I could hear the sound of the birds chirping and Papa snoring in the garden. The animals were nestled on the grass, and Paul was hosing down some of the furniture so the bugs wouldn’t feast on any of the leftover food.

  Jo’s cautionary words were still echoing in my head. I had never thought of Vincent with another woman, though now I realized that it was naïve of me. Perhaps she had been one of his models; the idea crept into my mind like ants feasting on crumbs. I imagined her dark and experienced, with the black eyes of an Arlésienne, her brightly colored dress and apron discarded carelessly over one of the chairs in his studio. I could never imagine myself casting off my clothes so effortlessly. I had cultivated my modesty to a high art over the years. Madame Chevalier’s penchant for rouge and lipstick, her garish boudoir, and her midnight tiptoeing to Papa had inspired me to be the opposite of her. But now all I could do was think of ways to capture Vincent’s attention. My skin—which knew no other hand than my own—my body—which had never been caressed by anything but a washcloth and a bar of soap—now yearned for that hand that I had pushed away that night in front of the church.

  I scraped the last of the plates furiously. I wanted to rush to Louise-Josephine’s room as quickly as possible and tell her about the conversation with Jo, admit to her that the news of Vincent’s past experience with love made me even more insecure about my lack of it.

  But, just as I was finishing, Paul came shuffling up to the table. For the first time in months he was smiling. School was over for him and the party had been a success. It was such a rare and refreshing sight for me that I momentarily forgot about my plight with Vincent and welcomed Paul’s conversation.

  “I think today’s party went well, don’t you?” he asked.

  He came closer. I noticed he was no longer wearing his foulard, but had instead tucked it in his breast pocket. His naked throat revealed a patch of pale, pink skin. It made him look younger and sweeter to me. The way I remembered him as a little boy.

  “It was so nice of them to give us a present,” he said. I could tell he had been as touched as I had by the gesture.

  “Yes,” I said. “The prints look quite interesting.” I had already placed my copy of the book in my bedroom for safekeeping, but Paul had his in a satchel by the table. He knelt down and retrieved it.

  “They’re wonderful,” he said as he flipped through the pages. “The bridges by Hiroshige are so calming. I wish we could construct one in our garden…we could put a small pond with carp underneath!”

  I laughed. “I think that would be a bit ambitious, Paul.”

  “I’m going to do some sketches and show Papa,” he said. My skepticism obviously made him more determined. “I’m sure he’ll love the idea!”

  It was true that Father was fascinated by the Far East. He had painted those Chinese characters on one of the doors upstairs by copying them out of a book. He had several catalogs of Japanese and Chinese paintings in his library. He also had a few blue and white ceramics from the Orient as well, the one from Cézanne being the obvious favorite in his collection.

  When I was just a little girl, shortly after my mother died, I remember Papa coming home with a suitcase full of Japanese woodblock prints. There were so many to look at: ones of crooked plum trees, others with kimono-clad women preparing for their bath, and ones with footpaths and spindly wooden bridges.

  So, like Paul, I was eager to look through the book that Theo and Jo had brought for me. Not only did their strong, black outlines and delicate washings of color intrigue me, but, according to Jo, they fascinated Vincent as well.

  After Paul retreated back to the garden to work on some sketches, I rushed inside the house and bounded up the stairs to show Louise-Josephine the gift. Though perhaps I was more eager to tell her what Jo had said.

  I found her lying in bed, the Prussian blue coverlet offsetting the waves of her chestnut hair. With the afternoon sun streaming through the glass, Louise-Josephine looked majestic. Like a peacock painted in Chinese blue and white. Even when she was wearing an unembellished cotton dress, she had an uncannily regal appearance. I stood there in the doorway staring at her, wondering, if Vincent stood where I was now, would he fall in love with her?

  Her face was turned toward the window. The long stretch of her neck reached across her pillow; the high blades of her collarbone protruded through her almond-colored skin.

  She was looking past the glass, toward the distant rooftops of Auvers just ahead. I didn’t want to speak as I stood there watching her. I wondered if she was thinking the same thoughts I had when I was alone in my room, looking past the garden toward the horizon streaked in blue and gold.

  There was a world outside of this small village that I hardly knew. I was not only inexperienced in love, I was also severely deficient in the ways of the world. My twenty-one years had been spent wrapped up like a gumdrop in a glass bowl and now I desperately wanted to discard the packaging and have all that had remained dormant finally come alive.

  At least Louise-Josephine had experienced life in Paris. She had told me of the smell of dark, gritty alleys, the carved splendor of the Louvre. She could describe the way the windows of Notre-Dame were illuminated at sunset, the sparkle of boats riding the Seine at dusk. I had visited Paris only on a few brief occasions. Papa had taken Paul and me to his office on a few rare trips. But I had seen the capital only through the glimpse of a carriage window.

  I wondered if it was worse to have known the freedom of life in the city, only to then be forced to spend one’s days in a crowded, narrow house in the country. I couldn’t believe Louise-Josephine had spent nearly a decade with us and not had her own nocturnal adventures sooner. Perhaps she had disobeyed Papa’s orders for years, leaping from the window while we all slept, secretly roaming the streets with the moonlight bathing her long, amber limbs.

  I continued to stare at her unnoticed. “Marguerite?” she eventually whispered as she roused herself from her daydream. “I didn’t see you standing there.” She sat up on the bed. “Come here,” she said, patting the bed.

  I walked toward her and sat down. I placed the book of Japanese prints between us.

  “How did the luncheon go?”

  “It went well. They all enjoyed the food, and Vincent’s nephew was adorable.” I paused. “I met Vincent’s sister-in-law, too.”


  Louise-Josephine raised one of her eyebrows. “And how was she?”

  “She was nice, very intelligent.” I fumbled with my fingers. “She told me Vincent had had a failed love affair. I felt as though she were warning me not to get too attached.”

  Louise-Josephine listened carefully then nodded her head. “This is no surprise, Marguerite. After all, he is a grown man.” She laughed to herself. “He’s an artist. He’s probably had several love affairs. This shouldn’t affect your attitude toward him. When I lived in the Cote d’Azur with the Lenoirs, Madame would always say with a wink: ‘Every heart has its secrets.’”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Louise-Josephine came closer. “Is anything else the matter?”

  “Well, perhaps I’m just being foolish with this fantasy that I have the talents and the beauty to sustain Vincent’s interest.”

  Louise-Josephine touched my wrist. “It’s not a fantasy, Marguerite. You are beautiful.” She said it softly and with such reassurance I almost believed her. “Had your mother lived, I’m sure she would have stood behind you and gazed at both your reflections in the mirror and told you just how lovely you are.” She shook her head and straightened her back, as if determined to banish my insecurities. “And what about your talent at the piano! You’ve already impressed Vincent with that—he’s already mentioned wanting to paint you with your elegant fingers at the keys!”

  Her confidence in me was flattering and it temporarily abated my fears.

  I smiled up at her and told her how her words comforted me. I opened up the book of Hiroshige prints. It was a rare thing, being able to share something foreign with Louise-Josephine, and I relished the chance to show her something new.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Impatience

  HE arrived at our house unannounced the next morning, clutching his hat to his breast. He looked handsome in his white smock; a red patch of skin revealed itself just beneath his neckline. He had forgotten to wear his scarf.

  “I wanted to thank you for such a lovely afternoon yesterday,” he said sweetly. “I was distracted by seeing my nephew and I fear I haven’t shown you the appreciation you deserve, for all the trouble you took in having us all feel so welcome.”

  He appeared so relaxed, so sure of himself, and it helped give me confidence. Perhaps he really didn’t resent my ineptitude back at the church, I thought to myself. I tried to remember all the nice things that Louise-Josephine had said the night before, so I wouldn’t reveal just how insecure I was in his company.

  “I suppose you’ve come to see Papa,” I said and ushered him into the hallway. “He’s resting in the garden. Would you like me to tell him you’re here?”

  “Eventually,” he said deliberately. “There’s no rush.”

  He had no idea how my pulse began to quicken when I was alone with him. All sense of control vanished and my head felt light from just the mere proximity of him.

  I stood motionless in the hallway for several seconds.

  “I am glad your father is in the garden.” He bit his lip nervously and for the first time his French seemed to falter. “I wanted to say that I am glad to have a moment alone with you. Your father keeps a very close eye on you, non? I suspect you’re the prized piece in his collection.”

  “Oh, no,” I blurted out. “That would be his Renoir!”

  Vincent shook his head and smiled. “Then he’s not the collector I suspected he was. Only a fool would choose a Renoir over you.”

  What color was my face at that point? Carnelian red? Mallow pink with a touch of Indian yellow? How must I have seemed, blushing there in front of him?

  He was undeterred. His face came closer to me and he tilted his head as if studying me. “You’re like a piece of sculpture in the different hours of light.” His fingers were now pulling me toward him. “One moment, you’re behind a shadow. The next, you’re illuminating an entire room.”

  There was a part of me that wanted to release his hand from the fabric of my sleeve and thread it through my own. I wanted to feel the sensation of his skin against mine. I wanted to trace the lines of his palm, touch the tiny pads of his calluses. I wanted to feel like the stem of his brush, my fingers held firmly against his own. I stood there trembling against him, my body teetering to stay erect.

  He did not move his hand. And with his body so close to mine, I felt his heat so intensely that it was as if I had been standing too close to a fire.

  I was trembling. My hands, my shoulders, even my jaw was shaking.

  I stepped away from him. “It’s just someone might see us…. There are more eyes in this house than you know. I wouldn’t want someone to stumble upon us.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need to explain. But there are places one can go to be alone, Marguerite…”

  “But my father…”

  “Shhhh…,” he said as he placed a finger on my lips. “This village is full of little hiding places, caves covered in leaves…a cushion to lay your head on.”

  I smiled. It was not difficult to imagine. The grotto that Paul and I had played king and queen in so many years ago came to mind.

  “One night you’ll come to me as you did that night when I painted the church. Then we will speak freely between ourselves.”

  I smiled, as though listening to a dream. His words were like honey in my ears. I could not have scripted it better myself.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Downpour

  ON Wednesday he painted a view of the vineyards, looking east toward the hills of Montmorency. Papa said he saw Vincent standing knee-deep in the grass, as he walked down one of the winding roads near our house with Henrietta.

  “It was such a beautiful canvas,” Papa told us over lunch. “Every day his paintings become stronger, more ambitious. Today he painted one of the vineyards, and he executed the slope of the hill, the low angled walls merging with rambling fences, as if the entire meadow was adrift at sea.” Papa took a sip of wine and leaned in toward the table. “If only you two could have seen those brushstrokes! He painted the vines as if they were bunches of mermaid’s hair—cornflower blue and bottle green bordered by roundels of red poppies. I felt as though I could reach in and grab them by the fistful.”

  Even then, Paul was curious—if not bordering on obsessive—about every painting Vincent was working on. Once he learned a new canvas was in the making, he would ask Father numerous questions about the palette Vincent chose and the way he constructed the painting’s composition. I was far more intrigued by the fact that Vincent seemed to be choosing his landscapes closer and closer to our house. As I knew he placed symbols in his paintings, I hoped he was trying to say something to me through his proximity.

  The next afternoon I saw him standing in another field near the rue Vessenots. It had begun to rain, and I pulled my scarf over my head and trudged closer to where he was painting.

  By the time I reached where he stood, my hem was covered in mud and the cotton of my dress clung to my chest.

  He didn’t seem to notice me as I came closer to him, his eyes planted on his painting. He looked the same way he did that evening I saw him painting the church: his back bent over his canvas, the handle of one brush between his teeth, the other clasped tightly in his hand.

  I was now only steps away from him, and my breast was heaving from walking through the thicket of plantings and dragging my skirt.

  “Vincent,” I said, somehow finding the courage to interrupt him in his work. “I saw you painting here from the road!”

  He looked up and his skin was moist from the onset of rain.

  “Marguerite,” he said before taking the brush from his mouth. “You should get home before the rain gets any heavier. You’ll catch your death out here!”

  “I wanted to see you paint again,” I said. My breathing was short. I knew I sounded flustered. “I know this isn’t a cave or the most clandestine of places, but…” I was nearly yelling over the wind, which was whipping my h
air over my face.

  “The storm is growing heavier, Marguerite. I’ll need to wrap this up in a tarp or it’ll be ruined.” He extended his hand and I saw pellets of rain hit his palm.

  The canvas rested on the lip of his easel—a field of blossoming pea sprouts set against rows of pink alfalfa. His brushstrokes were like tiny stitches in some places and long, lacy ribbons in others. Long blue-white plumes of smoke billowed from a locomotive set against a robin’s-egg sky. A slash of white road sliced the canvas in two, and a tiny black carriage trotted through a drizzle of blue and gray lines.

  “Let me help you,” I said as I knelt down beside his rucksack and unrolled the tarp.

  “I’ve been here for several hours, but the painting is still damp in places. We’ll need to wrap it loosely to prevent it from smudging.”

  I nodded my head and helped him swaddle his canvas.

  “You’ve been doing nearly a painting a day,” I said, awestruck.

  He smiled as he loaded his rucksack on his back. “I still need to paint you a couple more times before I even near a sense of accomplishment.”

  “You have my permission to do that,” I teased.

  “I fear I’ll need more than that.”

  With his rucksack strapped to his back, he knelt down on the ground and began to work with the tarp.

  I tried to assist him. “No,” he said, correcting me. “We cannot put the tarp directly on the painting. It’s still wet. It will smudge.”

  I watched as he created a protective bridge with some extra canvas stretchers.

  It was a marvel to watch him, so calm and in control, and I found myself admiring him even more. With his damp hair pushed back one could see every angle of his face; his skin glistening from the rain looked like wet stone.