The Last Van Gogh

by Alyson Richman

  DURING that second week in July, I could see that Louise-Josephine was becoming more anxious about her own situation. The heat and our seclusion seemed even more oppressive this year, perhaps because we both were yearning to be someplace other than our house. Still, she continued to slip out for her evening rendezvous with Théophile, taking extra precautions that neither her mother nor my father would hear her as she scurried down the front steps to the street.

  She said he was growing more impatient with each passing day. “He changes our meeting place each time because he says he doesn’t want to have only one memory of me. Sometimes we meet near Le Blanc’s farm…just last night, we met by Père Pilon’s.”

  “You must be careful, Louise-Josephine,” I cautioned.

  “I know…but I too am getting restless.”

  Every night I snuck into her bedroom to wait for her, and I could sense her before she had even slipped into bed. She would return just before dawn, carrying her own nocturnal perfume. The damp clung to her hair, the smell of the dew, and of wet grass on the hem of her housecoat.

  One evening she chose not to go out. I listened for her footsteps leaving, but instead I heard her voice coming from her mother’s room. The two of them were arguing and both sounded defiant.

  “It is not as you think, Louise-Josephine. It’s just not that simple!”

  Louise-Josephine was angry, and I could hear the agitation in her voice. “What are the details then, Maman? He says there is a certificate. What are these complications you speak of, then? Why have you never mentioned this paper before?”

  “Louise-Josephine, you have no idea what I went through when you were first born…your grandmother called me the vilest of names…I was nearly homeless, penniless. I went to Paul-Ferdinand, but he was in the middle of his wedding preparations….”

  I could hear Madame Chevalier sobbing. “It was your grandmother who insisted that he help me get this certificate for you. She said it would protect you…and so I went to him again and he finally agreed to help me.”

  “So why the secrecy all these years? Why did I never know it existed?”

  “Because just having this paper does not mean you can get married at your will. There are still other requirements that need to be met…. I never thought you could obtain them, so I chose not to give you false hope.”

  I could hear Louise-Josephine beginning to cry. I waited to hear if there was any more of their conversation I could make out, but Madame Chevalier’s voice became muffled and I could hear nothing. So for nearly an hour I waited for Louise-Josephine to emerge. When she did, she did not come to my room as I expected; instead, she went directly to her own bedroom and quietly closed the door.

  That following morning Papa returned home from Paris having no idea of the night’s dramatic events. We all ate lunch together though no one except Papa uttered a word. He spoke of his day in Paris, the dinner he had eaten, and a few of the patients he had seen, never even once seeming to notice the tearstains around Louise-Josephine’s eyes.

  Later that afternoon, when we had a private moment between us, I asked her what happened with her mother.

  “She told me the reason she didn’t tell me about the certificate is that it’s useless unless your father is present at the wedding. Maman says he will never do this. And she’s right. Your father would never risk his reputation to attend my wedding ceremony.”

  “Well, maybe she could at least ask him…or—” I was about to suggest myself but Louise-Josephine cut me off.

  “No, no, Marguerite, it’s useless. And I was so rude to your father that night, he’ll never do another thing for me again.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s true—he has such a soft spot in his heart for you.”

  “She said the only other way I can get married is if I produce two male witnesses at the ceremony who knew my family. Now who could do that for me? I cannot even have you do it and you’re my only friend.”

  “Perhaps Papa will do it after he’s relented a bit. Last week’s episode is still fresh in his mind now.”

  Louise-Josephine nodded through her tears.

  “The irony, Marguerite, is that my mother is angry at me that I encouraged you to sneak out and see Vincent. But the truth is, she has snuck around all these years with your father. Now she feigns surprise when her daughter acts as she does. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Papa is the same way.”

  “One day,” she said, “we’ll go. We’ll go as far from this place as we can.”

  I smiled as I imagined us packing our bags and helping one another descend down the trellis to the garden stairs.

  “And we won’t go barefoot, either,” she said, laughing. “We’ll put on our noisiest shoes and clank all the way down the road!”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Bastille Day

  WITHOUT any contact with him, I had no idea how Vincent’s health was faring during my seclusion.

  Vincent had not visited the house for several days, and it began to worry me. Then, one evening, I overheard Father telling Paul about Vincent’s latest painting.

  “He’s painting an expansive plain with sheaves of wheat against a violent sky. He’s so intent on finishing it, he’s refused several of my invitations for lunch.”

  Paul continued to ask Father questions about the painting. He was obviously curious about Vincent’s technique.

  “He’s painting the wheat with staccato strokes. His palette is ocher and cadmium yellow. He’s more interested in conveying the overwhelming enormity of the field than each blade of grass. It is difficult to tell where the hills and sky merge—both are painted in a murky sort of obscurity. Just layers of whale blue and indigo.”

  Papa paused. “It’s all rather ominous, actually. Especially with the black crows flying into the dark sky.”

  THAT Monday was Bastille Day. Papa was in a good mood when I found him in the garden that morning.

  “The town will be having a lot of festivities this afternoon,” Papa mentioned as he nibbled on his breakfast. “Perhaps you and your brother should go.”

  I couldn’t believe he was softening and allowing me to go into town.

  “I trust your brother will keep a sharp eye on you.”

  My heart was racing. The center would be decorated all in red, blue, and white. I was confident Vincent would be in the town painting.

  SHE didn’t say anything as she watched me change my clothes that afternoon. She didn’t have to. All those years when we hardly said a word to each other, Louise-Josephine must have secretly resented me every time I went out.

  I took my yellow dress out of my wardrobe and she helped me—still silently—as I slid my arms into the sleeves and brought the skirt up to my waist. Her slender fingers felt like scampering mice’s feet as she quickly fastened all the buttons. I felt her chin on my shoulder as she folded the two ends of the sash tightly around my waist.

  She was trying to smile, but I could see there were tears in her eyes.

  “I wish you could come with me. You’d be a far better companion than Paul!”

  “Don’t worry about me, Marguerite. I’ve gotten used to it all these years.”

  “One day soon I’ll be the one helping you get into your wedding dress,” I said affectionately. “It will only be a matter of time.”

  She smiled and clenched my hand affectionately.

  “I hope you see him,” she whispered. She reached into her pocket and took out a long swatch of lavender silk.

  “It will be impossible to miss this,” she said as she knotted the silk into a large voluminous bow at the base of my neck. “Now he’ll be certain to see you.”

  THE town hall was adorned with flags. Around the circular entrance, tiny paper lanterns were strung from trees. Nearly everyone in the village was there. I spotted Adeline Ravoux chewing on a stick of hard candy, and Dr. Mazery promenading with his tall, willowy wife.

  It felt so wonderful to be outside our home. I could smell the crêpes s
izzling on the pan from one of the street vendors and the jasmine wafting from the trees. I looked up and saw the endless expanse of blue sky, the plumes of white clouds, and the horizon filled with the terra-cotta rooflines. It all felt glorious to me.

  I did not want my brother to notice that I was secretly looking for Vincent, so I tried to keep my eyes focused on the mayor, who was now teetering onto the podium.

  I searched the crowds for the top of his sun hat or the perch of his easel. If he was here amid the crowd, I was certain I could find him.

  It took me nearly twenty minutes to discover him. He had cloaked himself behind a veil of manicured shrubs. But I could see the white of his hat and the familiar blue smock. As I suspected, he was working on a painting of the day’s festivities.

  Paul was cheering with the rest of the village as the band began to play. He clapped his hands and shouted in a way I had not seen since he was a small boy. Gone for a few moments were his self-conscious gestures, his careful mimicry of Papa’s facial expressions. Beside me, if only for a few moments, was that happy innocent brother I had played with in the garden long ago.

  There was no way I could have approached Vincent. Paul had certainly heard Father’s orders and would never have allowed me to go to him unchaperoned. And so I stood there agonizing, watching him as he continued to paint, not knowing how close I was to where he stood.

  The band was playing so loudly, though, that it gave me an excuse to move. “Can we go farther from the podium?” I pleaded with Paul. I touched my head. “I’m beginning to get a headache from all the noise.”

  He nodded and ushered me farther back, slightly to the side. Now, we were that much closer to Vincent.

  I continued to look secretly in his direction, lightly touching my neck to calm my nerves. Then I saw him squinting out from behind his canvas, his eyes focusing on my profile. He had seen it—as Louise-Josephine predicted—the flag that confirmed it was me. The lavender ribbon.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  An Unframed Nude

  IT would have been impossible for us to meet that afternoon, but at least he had seen me in the crowd. I told Louise-Josephine that she had chosen well by selecting that strip of lilac silk. “I’m certain he saw it,” I told her. “It reminded him that I am still here, waiting.”

  He came the next day. I could hear him quarreling with Papa downstairs. At first I heard him reprimanding Father for not having yet framed a particular painting he had, the Guillaumin nude.

  “You promised me you’d frame it when I first arrived, and still you have not! Do you have such flagrant disregard for the work we painters do?”

  “You are not well,” I heard Father telling him. “Please try and calm down.”

  “You parade around like you’re one of us…empathizing with our worries, our fears. But what worries do you have, Gachet?” Vincent’s voice was now shrill. “You are nothing but a bourgeois doctor, an amateur painter—a pathetic dilettante!”

  Suddenly there was silence, a long, cold pause that seemed unending. Louise-Josephine and I held each other tight.

  Finally, I heard Papa. I could hear the ache in his voice. Vincent had obviously wounded him deeply.

  “Take this,” he told Vincent. “It’s my own tincture of foxglove.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You will feel better, Vincent. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? You are a blind man leading the blind,” he told Papa.

  Again there was silence. Then the sound of the glass flask hitting the table.

  “You know what I wrote Theo? I told him…you were not the man I first believed you to be! You’ve misled me!”

  Vincent must have been moving wildly around the room. I could hear the erratic pattern of his footsteps, the sudden jostling of chairs.

  “You ask me to trust you. But if you trust me, you’d let me see her.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “I need to.”

  “What you need is to rest and then get back to painting. There are hundreds of vistas, dozen of people who would be willing to sit for you. I am simply telling you that you can no longer paint my daughter.”

  Again I heard the sound of shuffling chairs. Then, the noise of a book falling to the ground.

  “It’s in here…,” Vincent said. “I want to paint her as Saint Cecilia. I’ve done the drawing…see?”

  There was the sound of ripped paper. A tear, and then a crackle. As if the sketch had been torn from a notebook and crumpled into a ball.

  His voice was escalating. Louise-Josephine and I were now clutching each other’s hands as we huddled by my bedroom door.

  “You told me weeks ago that you would never stifle an artist’s inspiration…that you would let me choose who and what I wanted to paint. Now you go back on your word!”

  “That is not exactly what I said, Vincent.” Father’s voice was now strained, and it was clear he was finding it difficult to remain calm and professional.

  “Dr. Gachet, I have imagined a third painting of your daughter. Listen to me! It will be so beautiful…she will sit at the church organ, a white halo illuminating her head. Tall and tapered—almost like a candle—she will rest there with her hands on the keys, the silver pipes stretching into the heavens…tiny blue stars in the background, swirls of gold and amber high in the nave. It will be a testament to her chastity, her musical ability…there will be nothing inappropriate, I assure you! I realize that I am not suitable for your daughter! I am not suitable for anyone!” Vincent’s voice was cracking as it escalated.

  “Marguerite will not be sitting as a model for you again, Vincent,” Father said. This time his voice was firm.

  But Vincent was persistent.

  “I will have another relapse if you forbid it! You are my doctor—you are supposed to do whatever you can to help me heal! I must paint her!”

  “No, Vincent!” Father’s voice was now just as loud. “You cannot.”

  This went on for several minutes before I could hear Papa tiring out. Eventually he hollered upstairs for my brother.

  “Paul! Please come downstairs,” he said firmly.

  Louise-Josephine and I had our ears pressed to the wall as we tried to hear what happened next. But Papa must have closed the parlor doors; his conversation with Paul and Vincent was muffled. Moments later, we could hear all three voices again as they entered the hallway. But the discussion was brief and abrupt. I heard the front door slam shut. Paul had obviously just helped escort Vincent out.

  FORTY-NINE

  Saint Cecilia

  AFTER his argument with Papa no one heard from Vincent for almost an entire week. I knew Papa had grown concerned, for that evening he told Madame Chevalier he had gone looking for Vincent in the fields and at the inn, but he was nowhere to be found. It was clear from the look of worry on Papa’s face that he regretted their argument, but now there was little he could do to change what was said.

  “He probably just needs some time to compose himself,” Papa muttered to Madame Chevalier as she knitted in the large chair in the parlor. “He’ll be back soon. If he’s not, I’ll have to alert Theo and the police, I suppose.”

  But Vincent eventually did reappear. He didn’t show up at our front doorstep, though. The following evening he climbed up the garden trellis to my window and knocked at the pane.

  I was half asleep when I saw him. He had one hand on the ledge, the other finger brought to his lips.

  I went over to the window to open it. The cool night air blew ripples in my cotton nightdress.

  “Shhhh,” he said. “We have very little time.”

  I looked around to make sure no one could hear us. “I’m not sure I should go,” I said. “I will not have a second chance with Papa.”

  “You won’t have one with me, either. Are you coming or not?”

  I remained silent for a moment, stunned.

  The risk of leaving with Vincent was obvious, but his offer was exhilarating. I knew I could not refuse him; his
invitation was what I had been wishing for all week.

  No longer was I the solitary figure in a field with no one to accept my hand. The warm sensation of Vincent’s fingers slipping into mine, the feeling of his calloused palms pressed against my skin, sent all sense of reason far away. I hoisted my nightdress above my knees and began my descent.

  WE tiptoed across the wet garden stairs, down to the street, neither of us taking our hand away from the other. I felt almost naked, the breeze lifting up my flimsy gown as we made our way down the street.

  I knew where he was going to eventually take me. It was the only place where we could be ensured our privacy. Knowing this I asked no questions. I simply threaded my hand in his and followed. Down the rue Vessenots we traveled, the moon high in the black sky, the white stars dazzling like ice.

  We arrived at the church nearly twenty minutes later. “I have yet to be inside,” he whispered as he pushed open the heavy doors. A few candle tapers still burned from the evening mass. The tabernacle had been put away, but the decorative cloth was still draped over the altar.

  “Go sit at the organ,” he ordered. “We don’t have much time.”

  I ran, though my feet were now filthy and blistered, and sat down.

  He pulled four stretchers out from his rucksack and a square of cotton cloth. He stretched the canvas right there before me, tacking each corner with a small hammer and nail.

  He painted with the canvas unprimed. He did not speak another word to me, as his eyes darted between his palette and the easel. It did not take longer than forty-five minutes before he announced he was done.

  “We must go now!” Again he barked at me, commanding me in a voice I had never heard before.

  I had only a few seconds to look at the wet painting. Me in my nightdress. You could see the flesh of my legs through the white paint. The organ pipes in pale ocher, the dark wood of the instrument in purple and red.