The Last Van Gogh

by Alyson Richman

A few days of not eating had left him almost skeletal. The pointy blades of his scapula protruded like skate wings. His rib cage felt like an empty barrel. It was as though I were embracing a rag doll.

  We stood there for several moments in silence before he moved away from me.

  “It was so kind of you to come here. I know it’s always a risk for you to be discovered by your father.”

  “Someday perhaps we will not need to meet on such clandestine terms. That is something I truly wish.”

  His face seemed to change when I said that. “Your father will never approve of me, Marguerite. No father would. I will only end up a burden to you. Just as I have for Theo and Jo.”

  “Oh, don’t even say such nonsense!” I said. My heart was breaking that he would even think something so terrible.

  “It’s true, Marguerite. How could I ever support you? I’ve sold only one painting in my life. How could I keep you in the way you deserve, with fine dresses, a house with a garden, even a piano for your fine hands. Seeing Theo, seeing how hard he struggles to be both a dealer and a good husband and father, was humbling. I have been too selfish my whole life and now I regret it.”

  “You are a great artist!” I interjected. “Even Jo spoke of your genius when she was here. She does not resent you. She and Theo are confident that one day you will succeed.”

  “Things are different there now. My nephew’s ill. They need to care for him and put his needs first. It is only right.”

  “Then let me take care of you. Let Papa! Together we will make sure that you are comfortable and that you always have a place to paint!”

  The desperation in my voice was escalating. The feeling I had in my bedroom earlier that evening of Vincent physically shrinking from me was now becoming a reality. I could see him physically retreating from me, even when we were steps away from each other.

  Vincent’s voice, however, was clear and determined.

  “Your father cannot help me, Marguerite. I just wrote to my brother that when a blind man leads another blind man, don’t they both fall into a ditch?”

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  “Your father’s tinctures cannot help me!” He placed his hands over his eyes. “This is something that will not change within me.”

  After a moment he went on. “I do not have the stamina for both a woman and my art. My passion cannot support it. I have tried before and failed. I once had a relationship with a woman back in the Hague,” he said beneath his breath.

  “I don’t want to hear this now!” I said, choking back tears.

  “No, you must listen. Marguerite, in the end, I had to leave her. Not only because my brother could not support us both, but more because my art suffered.” Vincent took another breath before continuing. “This woman…although my feelings for her could not compare to the ones I have for you…I did care for her…at least as much as I could at the time. But when I finally did leave, she tried to poison herself. I cannot do that again to another woman, especially you. Just the thought of the despair I caused her terrifies me…. I’m afraid I will only hurt you in the end.”

  Tears began to roll down my cheeks.

  “I have often thought of how it might be to be your wife,” I said. I hadn’t thought I had the courage to say it but somehow the words flew out of my mouth. “I have spent nights imagining what it would be like to help you with your paints, to care for you when you are sick, to make sure that you have good meals and a tidy roof over your head.”

  “Marguerite.” He pulled me closer so that now my face was in the crook of his neck. I felt the hard nob of his collarbone against my cheek and again, the pinelike scent of turpentine imbedded in his skin. “I, too, have thought that way. I have imagined you in a small yellow house, in the south, with me upstairs painting. I have imagined the smells of your cooking, coming not from your father’s kitchen but one we share as our own.”

  His voice was soft now, cracking slightly over the words. “But then I worry. My brother can no longer support me…let alone my wife. And, even worse, what if I were to become sick again? I am no use to anyone when I am helpless and full of despair. That would be terribly unfair to you.”

  “I would not mind at all!” My voice leapt forth. “I am used to my father and his own mecurial nature, his fits of despair. I would not be frightened by it!” I took a deep breath. “Vincent, if you give me the opportunity, I will leave my father’s home in a second. I would take only the clothes on my back…I wouldn’t even return to retrieve my shoes that I left at the front gate. I would leave tonight with you and never return, not regretting it once, not even for a moment. I would work as a housekeeper…a cook…a charwoman even…so that you could paint. We needn’t rely on your brother’s kindness—I would work my fingers until they were as brittle as straw just so that your hands could bring beauty into this world!”

  Vincent trembled as I stood there. He looked as fragile as glass.

  “Marguerite….” His voice was quiet at first but then gathered force. “I saw a special light in your eyes that afternoon I first came to your father’s house. I gave you the poppy because I saw the life in you. You were bursting like a spring flower and I recognized that flame in your gaze. But I won’t let myself drain the life from someone I love.”

  I was now crying and he took a small handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my eyes.

  “You came to Auvers to paint, not to find a wife,” I finally managed to say through my tears. “I realize that.”

  “But without even trying I found you, Marguerite,” he said, again touching my cheek. “My little piano player. My Saint Cecilia.”

  He took my face between his hands and kissed me, not on the lips as I had hoped, but on the forehead.

  He pulled away from me and said, quite softly, “I never wanted to hurt you. Sometimes I think the Japanese have it right. There’s a certain nobility in death. There’s no shame in it. Only honor.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve shamed my family by having them think I’m a parasite. If only I were Japanese, I would take my own life and my honor would be restored.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Two Things Revealed

  IT started to drizzle as I ran home that evening and my tears mirrored the rain. I had failed to comfort Vincent and I was now certain that my romance would not have the same ending as Louise-Josephine’s. But what upset me more were his parting words. They worried me greatly. I was anxious to seek Louise-Josephine’s counsel. She would tell me if I needed to tell Papa. I trusted her judgment to always be right.

  Sadly, I did not get the chance. I was halfway up the stairs when I suddenly had the sneaking suspicion I was not alone.

  He was standing there in his silk bathrobe, his face crooked and cross like a gargoyle.

  “Papa,” I whispered. But he did not hear me, or at least he chose not to. When I reached where he was standing, a cold slap found its way across my face.

  “Where were you?” His voice was icy and harsh. I realized that he had no intention of keeping my excursion a secret from the rest of the household.

  I did not answer him at first, and again his voice boomed, this time even louder. “Where were you, Marguerite?” he bellowed. “Answer me, now!” Again, he slapped me. The sheer force of his hand made me totter backward. Quickly, I grasped the banister so that I wouldn’t fall down the stairs.

  I looked up at him with tears filling my eyes. My cheek was stinging as if I had been hit with a mitt of hot needles. I sensed his hand had left a large print across my skin.

  In the corner of the hallway, I saw Louise-Josephine stick her head out from her door. She had a terrible look on her face, half fright and half anger. I tried to tell her with my own expression: “Go back! Go back to your room and save yourself from Papa’s anger,” but she would not be deterred.

  She walked over the floorboards to where Papa was standing and in her white nightdress tapped Papa on his shoulder.

  “Please,” she begged of him, “please stop! It’s my fault s
he left this evening. It was all my doing!”

  I was in a state of disbelief.

  “No, Louise.” I tried to stop her. But she would have none of it.

  “It was me—all my fault,” she repeated. I could see the outline of her spine through her white cotton gown. Her slender frame trembling through the cloth. Still, she continued to defend me.

  “I told her to go. I told her that Monsieur Van Gogh might need comforting. It was me who put the idea in her head. It is me you should blame!”

  Papa now seemed visibly confused.

  “You? You? Why would you encourage her?”

  Louise-Josephine was now standing in front of Papa. In contrast to her diminutive form, Papa appeared like a giant.

  “Yes, I encouraged her! Why not? What does she have to live for here, in this house? Neither she nor I have any opportunity to marry. She, because you have never given her the opportunity. And I am denied it because I don’t even have a birth certificate.”

  Her voice was as clear as a battle cry. I was kneeling on the flight of stairs, my crossed arms covering the neckline of my dress.

  “I was the one who encouraged her because I thought we both had little to lose in our present situation!”

  Louise-Josephine’s face was now as red as a stick of rhubarb. I had never seen her so impassioned, and I stood there completely in awe of her.

  Papa, however, was clearly not impressed with her behavior. He wrinkled his face with disgust. “You don’t know what you speak of, Louise-Josephine. When you were two years old, I helped your mother secure the proper papers for you—the ones that verify that your birth was not through incest or an adulterous relationship. You are in fact free to marry…. My daughter’s behavior, on the other hand, is unacceptable!”

  Louise-Josephine took a step backward and I could see the shock register on her face. “What do you mean? Why have I never been told about this certificate?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe my mother never mentioned it to me before!”

  “It is true. But that is another matter.” Papa turned to face me. “None of this, however, is any excuse for Marguerite’s behavior.”

  Louise-Josephine began to stammer as if she wasn’t sure she should thank Papa or continue to defend me.

  “Please do not be cross with Marguerite, Pa—” She nearly said Papa. I heard it at the tip of her tongue, but she stopped short. “I was the one who put this fantasy into Marguerite’s head. She was only trying to ensure that Vincent was feeling better.”

  “It’s true…,” I managed to interject.

  “It is very courageous of you to defend my daughter,” he said to Louise-Josephine as he reknotted the sash of his silk robe. “But only she can be held responsible for her actions. Marguerite has insulted her upbringing, embarrassed me and our family name. Do I need to remind the two of you that Monsieur Van Gogh is a patient of mine? And a very troubled one at that, sadly. He is not a potential suitor for any young girl, especially my daughter. I have told her this before. Yet, still she went against my wishes. What sort of practice can I have if people hear that my children are cavorting with those entrusted to my care?”

  I was now sobbing and my knees were rattling like two winter branches underneath my dress. Had I not had the support of the banister, I would have fallen to my knees.

  Papa was still staring at me. Although his face had softened slightly, traces of his anger still remained. I noticed that he had bitten through the skin of his lip.

  He now looked exhausted, as if he had used every ounce of his energy confronting me. “This is simply unacceptable behavior.”

  Louise-Josephine, realizing there was little further she could say to Papa, walked over and pulled me up from the stairwell.

  Papa continued to stare at us both.

  “We will speak of this tomorrow, Marguerite. I want you in my study after breakfast,” he said sternly. His blue-gray eyes looked like sharp, broken pieces of china in the moonlight. He walked past me and said nothing as he solemnly returned to his bedroom.

  FORTY-TWO

  A Fitful Night

  I EMBRACED her that night. We clung to each other, her arms wrapped around me as the tears fell down my cheeks and my half-braided hair fell in tangles around my ears.

  “He will be less angry in the morning,” she promised. But I could tell in her voice she didn’t believe it. After so many weeks of secret meetings and whispering, Louise-Josephine and I could read each other too well.

  “He will forbid me from ever seeing him again,” I said, burying my face in the cloth of Louise-Josephine’s nightdress. “Tonight was a mistake.”

  “Tell me,” she said stroking my hair, “tell me what Vincent said. Were you able to see him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said through my tears. “But it is wonderful news that this certificate exists for you. You will be able to marry Théophile.”

  Louise-Josephine shook her head. “Yes, but let’s not talk about that now. Your situation with Vincent is far more pressing. Tell me what happened.”

  I tried to gather myself and tell her what had transpired.

  “I did see him,” I said. “But his meeting with Theo has sent him into a deep depression.” I took a deep breath. “I hardly recognized him.”

  Louise-Josephine threaded her hand into mine. Her fingers wrapped around my own, like a child holding on to something precious.

  “He’s depressed about Theo and worries about money. He says he’s tempted to have a wife and speaks of yearning to have a courtship with me….” I paused. “But he knows he’s incapable of it. He believes it’s impossible to have both love and art in the same life.”

  She said nothing but continued to hold my hand.

  “You were right,” I said. “You were right. It was just as you suspected.”

  “Marguerite,” she said soothingly, “I will not let you waste away here. I promise you that.”

  “No, one day you will get married and you will forget about me.”

  “Never!” she said. “I would never do that to you, Marguerite.”

  I could read the sense of determination she had in her voice. “I have the railroad timetables, and you will join me and my fiancé. We will ride away on the train and never return to this place.”

  I closed my lids, imagining the three of us riding off as she described.

  I wanted to call her “sister.” But this time, I was so overcome in my own grief, the word only floated through my mind, unable to fall from my lips.

  I SLEPT fitfully for those few hours before daybreak. As the roosters sounded in the morning, I rose slowly, unwrapping Louise-Josephine’s tangled limbs from mine.

  There was nothing I dreaded more than seeing Papa at breakfast. The image of him standing atop the staircase, his face swollen in anger and his hand swiping across my cheek, was now indelible in my mind.

  In a desperate attempt to soften his mood, I decided to bake madeleines for him and prepare a pot of hot chocolate. I took out the heavy cast-iron mold from the cupboard and prepared the golden batter to ladle into the delicate shell formations.

  At least he’ll awaken to one of his favorite scents, I thought as I inhaled the sweet aroma of the madeleine mixture.

  Paul came downstairs before Papa and came into the kitchen.

  “What’s this?” he said, opening up the door of my oven. “Madeleines for breakfast?”

  I didn’t answer him. I wiped my hands on the front of my apron and began to fill one of the work bowls with water.

  I had made up my mind that I was not going to discuss the details with him, so I tried to busy myself with the cleaning of my pots. Paul, however, seemed determined to get the full story from me.

  “So where were you last night?” He swiveled around on the heel of his shoe before nestling against the counter. “Madame Chevalier had to hold me back. We were both listening to you and Papa from the hallway.”

  I winced. If Madame Chevalier was on the second-floor la
nding when this all occurred, it meant she had spent the night with Papa. The hypocrisy of his anger infuriated me.

  I tried to ignore my brother. “I’m not discussing this.” I paused. “It was an unfortunate event.”

  “You had another secret meeting with Vincent, didn’t you?” He had one finger idly hooked in his breast pocket, but his eyes were firmly planted on me.

  I didn’t answer him. I took out a saucepan and filled it with milk then lit the stove.

  “There’s no reason to be so coy, Marguerite,” he said. “I’m your brother—you should be confiding in me.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not confiding in anyone.”

  He narrowed his eyes and looked deeper at me. “You’re confiding in Louise-Josephine and she’s not even blood!”

  “Are you sure of that, Paul?” I stepped closer to him.

  Paul’s eyes now grew wide. He could not believe I would be so bold as to suggest we were related to Louise-Josephine. But I knew he, like me, had contemplated the possibility before. He just couldn’t believe I would utter it aloud.

  “Why do you think Papa has gone out of his way for Louise-Josephine all these years? Why do you think he went to all that trouble to secure that certificate he spoke of last night?”

  Paul was shaking his head. He did not want to listen to what I was saying. “It is because he has deep affection for Madame Chevalier! That is why he has done so much for her daughter.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Paul.”

  “I am not naïve,” he said. “You’re the foolish one, Marguerite, if you think Papa will stand for your indiscretions.”

  I didn’t answer him. He reached over to the fruit basket and took a pear before leaving.

  “Good luck with Papa,” he said as he left me. His voice was full of venom.

  AS I lay the cooling madeleines on the wire rack, I heard the sound of Father’s footsteps treading slowly down the stairs. The garden door shut and he was suddenly in the garden talking to his animals.