The Last Van Gogh

  “It was like that the first time I saw him. Your father was in Paris that afternoon and Mother had told me that I could wander in the fields behind our house.” A mischievous smile crossed Louise-Josephine’s lips. “But I had no desire to wander in the fields! I took the opportunity to go into town!”

  I smiled. I was glad to hear that she had broken both my father’s and Madame Chevalier’s orders.

  “I decided to buy a bar of lavender soap at the pharmacy. I had only a few centimes and that was all I thought I could afford.” She took a deep breath and then exhaled as if she were relishing reliving the memory of their first meeting. “He was standing next to me at the counter. I turned and our eyes locked. His felt like a hot iron searing past the cotton of my dress, tiny needles tingling on my skin.”

  Her description sounded familiar to me. I didn’t want to reveal that I, too, had felt the same way when Vincent first gazed at me, but I was desperate to confirm what I had experienced.

  “I paid for the soap and tried to avert my gaze from him while I left the store,” she continued.

  “He followed me. Through the Place de Marie, even past the boulangerie. When I approached the hill near the Château Léry, I turned around and faced him.

  “‘Why are you following me?’ I asked him. I was nervous someone might suspect I was living with your father and I knew how angry he’d be that I had betrayed his orders, so I looked him squarely in the eye and tried to sound intimidating. Inside, however, I was trembling. I clutched the package of soap to my chest in order to calm my nerves.

  “‘Because you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,’ he said. ‘Imagine I’m a honeybee, following my chosen flower…. Théophile Bigny,’ he said as he took my hand and slowly pressed it to his lips. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’”

  A small smile crossed over Louise-Josephine’s face as she recalled their first meeting. Her dark eyes reminded me of silky chestnuts, slick after the rain. And though most of her hair was pinned behind her nightcap, several soft brown ringlets now peeked through the sides. She looked beautiful.

  “Have you seen him many times since?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her pink mouth turning up slightly at the edges. “But you must swear on your honor that you’ll never discuss what I’ve told you with anyone. Not Paul, not anyone!”

  “No, no, never,” I promised, pressing two of my fingers to my chest.

  She curled deeper into the bed, and I could feel her breath close to mine. “Sometimes, one can’t wait for love to find you. Sometimes one has to pursue it.”

  I smiled, implicitly thanking her for the advice and encouragement.

  Her eyes were beginning to close now. “I need to get some sleep now, Marguerite,” she said. My mind continued to race as I lay next to her. I suddenly felt guilty that I had never accepted Louise-Josephine as a sisterly presence—even a friend—all these years. I wanted to wake her up and apologize to her. Tell her how grateful I felt that she lived in our home.

  I listened to the rhythmic undulations of her breathing and could not help but feel less lonely than I had when I tossed and turned in my own room. Still unable to sleep, I found myself observing her as she slumbered. I looked at her delicate profile. Her small upturned nose, her brown hair piled into her nightcap. She was so beautiful. Quite different from her mother, whose features were so severe.

  Fearing that Madame Chevalier might grow suspicious if she saw me departing her daughter’s room in the morning, I decided I should return to my bedroom. I carefully unrolled myself from the covers and tiptoed across her room.

  From the window where Louise-Josephine had escaped a few hours before, I could now see the sun rising over the beet fields. The light in the sky was the color of ripe apricots and the thatched cottages looked aflame against the dawn. It would make a beautiful picture, I thought to myself as I turned back before leaving. I hoped that Vincent had also risen early that morning, so he too would see the beauty. I imagined him capturing it with his brushes and paint, like a child seizing a handful of fireflies.

  SEVENTEEN

  Like a Sister

  VINCENT wasted no time in beginning his portrait of Father. He arrived the following morning full of energy and excitement.

  “Good morning, mademoiselle,” he said when I opened the door. “Your father is expecting me.”

  He was smiling in a way that I had not seen before and his pupils were widely dilated. I wondered if it was a result of the digitalis.

  “Please, come in.” I motioned. I took his hat from him and hung it on one of the pegs on our wall.

  I had dressed differently that afternoon, as I knew that Vincent would be visiting us. The memory of having been caught unexpectedly in an old cotton dress—and being painted in it, no less—was still fresh in my mind, and I desperately wanted to make a more stylish appearance.

  I had sewn a new yellow dress from a pattern I had seen in one of the monthly fashion magazines. The neckline exposed a little more décolletage than I normally revealed, but I sewed it anyway, thinking it might be a nice change from the high collar I typically wore.

  That morning, I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself. The deep square neckline exposed an area of flesh that had rarely been exposed. My bosom peeked out from the trim like two ripe apples, and my neck seemed longer and leaner than before.

  I hesitated, worried that this change of dress might appear immodest, but as I smoothed down the front plackets of the skirt, Louise-Josephine passed by my door and told me otherwise.

  “You look so beautiful today, Marguerite,” she said sweetly. She came in and stood by me.

  Both of our reflections were now cast in the mirror: she small and petite with her black hair and dark eyes, and me tall and fair.

  She took her hand and swept it across the box pleat. “It’s a gorgeous dress. Is this the one you’ve been working on all week?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’m afraid it might be a bit too immodest to wear.”

  Louise-Josephine giggled. “Absolutely not! It’s lovely and it suits your figure perfectly. You shouldn’t be ashamed. There’s nothing inappropriate about it.”

  I twirled around and the hem of my skirt lifted like a bell.

  “He won’t be able to keep his eyes off of you.” She giggled again. “I bet he’ll change his mind as soon as he sees you and decide he wants to do that second portrait of you instead of painting your father!”

  “Oh, God, I hope not!” I shook my head and covered my mouth to hide my smile. “That would only make Papa angry!”

  She shook her head. “You shouldn’t worry so much. When I lived in Paris with my grandmother I spent the first three years living in fear of her. But when I was eleven years old I began to realize that there was little she could do to punish me. If I were to be banished to my room all day, how was that different from any other day? I was a bastard child with few prospects in life, so why not enjoy a certain amount of freedom? Those who might have a more secure station in life have more to lose.” She looked at me and shrugged. “I have little.”

  I turned around and looked at her. I was shocked by her frankness.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Marguerite,” she said. “I was eight years old when my mother left me to go live with your family. She packed up her small leather suitcase and kissed me on the forehead, telling me she’d be back within the year. She wasn’t, as you know….”

  Louise-Josephine continued to stare ahead. “Luckily Mother had taught me to read when I was six years old, so I could find some sort of solace in the books she left behind. But otherwise I lived in a small, dank apartment with an old woman who thought very little of me. She constantly reminded me that I was the product of my mother’s indiscretion. My grandfather had been a glassblower from Biot and had lofty dreams of creating glass chandeliers for the rich in Paris. He ended up dying a few years later from heart failure, leaving my grandmother in the capital with enormous debts and no source of inco
me. Mother had little choice but to find some employment. Your father was a young medical student at the time and hired her to keep his apartment tidy. Before his engagement to your mother, she helped him maintain his office—she did menial housework; she assisted him with his files.”

  I’d always wondered how Papa came to find Madame Chevalier as our governess. Now I knew.

  “I was born the year your parents married, and my mother stopped working for your father a month before their betrothal. I know few other details. I only know that your father has continued to be generous and supportive of us both. He sent my mother’s salary from governing you and Paul directly to my grandmother so she never had to worry about rent or food. Sometimes he visited us when he was on business in Paris.”

  I raised an eyebrow. It seemed unlikely for Papa to make such a social call for people clearly beneath his social station and without any ties to the artistic world.

  Was this the confirmation for what I had always suspected? Was Louise-Josephine my half sister, born before Papa and Mother married?

  Secretly, I had always wondered about the coincidence of Louise-Josephine’s name. Papa’s father’s name was Louis and his mother, Clementine-Josephine.

  Louise-Josephine cleared her throat. She now had the ribbon around my waist and was in the process of retying the bow tighter.

  “I am not telling you all of this so that you will pity me, Marguerite. I am telling you so you know why I believe in seizing adventure when it presents itself. You see, I have little to lose. I don’t have a proper birth certificate and without the proper documentation, I will never be able to marry. It is Napoleonic law.”

  I had no idea about her predicament.

  “I am sorry, Louise-Josephine,” I said, gently reaching for her hand. “I have been selfishly complaining about myself when your life has been so hard.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Your father has been generous with me, Marguerite, even if he prevents me from showing my face in public. I cannot deny that he has always in a strange way looked out for me.”

  I remained quiet as she continued.

  “Just before I arrived here, your father arranged for me to assist a young doctor and his family on the Côte d’Azur. He paid for my train passage and even gave me a few extra francs for a new dress.

  “Dr. and Madame Lenoir had two small girls and I helped mind them during the afternoon. They rented a small villa on the cliffs overlooking the sea and every room smelled delicious, like jasmine and tuberoses with a hint of the ocean just behind.

  “This family was kind to me. They spoke to me as if I were their third daughter, including me in conversations about art and music. The husband gave me books from his own library to read; his wife always complimented me about my easy way with her children. I had never sat at a table with real silver and elaborate place settings and the wife gently instructed me so that my manners could improve.

  “I was heartsick when it came time for me to leave and I secretly hoped that they would ask me to come and live with them back in Paris. But they didn’t. When we parted, they kissed me gently on each cheek and wished me well. I can’t tell you how heartsick I was when I left them and learned that I would have to come live here.”

  “How heartbreaking. You must have found your situation here absolutely unbearable.”

  “Yes and no, Marguerite. Here, your father has been generous in giving me a roof over my head, yet he keeps me away from the public eye in order to preserve his privacy. It is unfair and even cruel but, still, even with these restrictions, I have found Théophile. Life, you see, is not that bad.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and smiled. “If a woman is truly clever, she can find freedom even in the most restrictive circumstances.” She tapped the side of her head. “One just needs a little imagination and a little fortitude.”

  “I envy your creativity,” I sighed—and I wasn’t just speaking about the small knickknacks in her room. She had succeeded in duping Papa. And no one knew more than I that this was no small feat.

  “Somehow you’ve maintained your optimism while living here. It’s remarkable.”

  She let out a small laugh. “Never mind about me, Marguerite. Go now and prepare the downstairs, he’ll be here any moment!” She took out a small coin-sized tin from her pocket and undid the lid. Inside was a pale pink wax.

  “Here,” she said. “One last thing…” She dipped her finger into the salve and rubbed a little into my lips and cheeks. “You look a little brighter now.”

  I took one last glance in the mirror and straightened the pins that held up my hair.

  “You’ve been like a sister to me these past two days,” I whispered and took her hand in my mine. “Thank you.”

  She said nothing, but she squeezed my hand tightly in hers. And, in my heart, I knew what she was trying to say.

  EIGHTEEN

  A Symbol of Modern Man

  THE dress clearly had the desired effect on Vincent. As I showed him into the garden, I could see that he could not take his eyes off of me.

  “You look different this afternoon, mademoiselle,” he said as we walked down the hall. “Even more radiant than before.”

  I smiled back at him and smoothed out my bodice-hugging dress with my palms.

  Vincent appeared at ease. He spoke of eating an almond pastry with great relish earlier that morning. “We Dutch don’t have pastries like you French!” he laughed and flicked a finger in his beard as if to ensure there weren’t any embarrassing crumbs lurking in his patch of red whiskers. “I should have saved my sous for a tube of malachite green, but one must succumb to the seduction of the bakery shop every now and then, non?”

  I giggled. “Monsieur Cretelle has the best in town. We would be lost without his croissants.”

  Vincent smiled. Our exchange was light and cheerful and it filled me with such temporary happiness, I would have done anything to prolong it. But the distance from the house to the garden was a short one. I slowed down as we approached the entrance. It was not I who pushed open the gate. It was Vincent. I did not want to leave him.

  FATHER had been waiting in the garden for Vincent to arrive, and he sat at our red picnic table with one hand forlornly placed on his cheek, the other resting at his side. He was brightly dressed in a cobalt blue smock and a voluminous scarlet bow. His strawberry hair was covered by a cotton-white cap.

  I could tell by the slow, nearly silent way Vincent approached Father that he had already found the pose he wanted. There, sitting before him, was Papa, looking sad, melancholy, and preoccupied with his thoughts.

  When Father finally heard the rustle of Vincent and my footsteps, he looked up half-startled and rearranged himself.

  “I didn’t hear you arrive!” he said, and one could detect that he was taking special pains to make his voice sound in high spirits. “You surprised me, Vincent! I was just dozing off.”

  Vincent took his rucksack off his shoulder and placed his paint box on the grass.

  “I’m happy I did. I was able to catch you in a natural setting…see you lost in thought. I think I’d like to paint you in that same pose.”

  Father’s brow wrinkled. “I’m not sure I want to be portrayed napping, Vincent!”

  Vincent combed his fingers through his hair and squinted into the sun. “This will not just be a painting, Doctor. It will be a symbol…a commentary on the modern man and the conflicts that plague him.”

  Father seemed impressed. “Me as a symbol, eh? Your brother sent me a copy of Monsieur Aurier’s article on you. If I am to be one of your symbols, you’re bestowing on me a great honor!”

  I could see Vincent felt uncomfortable lavishing any unnecessary flatteries onto Papa. He mumbled something about not choosing his symbols but them finding their way to him.

  “We’ll need to get to work now.” His voice suddenly became loud as if he were barking an order at Papa. “The sunlight’s perfect. I want to move quickly before I lose my train of thought.”

  P
apa agreed.

  I could see how excited Father was to begin. He smoothed out his smock and ran his hands over his cheeks. “This will be an important day!” he told Vincent as he watched him set up his easel and paints.

  “Will you need anything before I return to the house?” I asked both of them. Father shook his head but Vincent turned toward me and asked me to come closer.

  Father had already sat himself down again at the red picnic table. So I now stood a few meters away from him, next to Vincent, who was adjusting his canvas on the lip of his easel.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said softly, and I could see that his gaze did not rest entirely on my eyes as it had in recent encounters. Now it seemed to travel from my collarbone to my breasts, just as it had in the hallway. “If it’s no trouble to you, I will need you to bring two books from your father’s library. Look and see if he has copies of Manette Salomon and Germinie Lacerteux. But if you can’t find the novels on his shelf, bring him any by the de Goncourts.” He folded his hands behind his back and looked around. “Also, Marguerite, might I have a small drinking glass filled with water?”

  I nodded my head to show him I understood his instructions.

  “You are a big help to me,” he said, to which I lifted my chin and looked directly at him. This time, however, I was certain I was not imagining the connection between us.

  “I will be back in a few minutes, monsieur,” I replied, and as I turned, I saw Father give me a disapproving glance.

  “Don’t keep us waiting! Vincent and I have a lot of work to do!”

  I RETURNED quickly with what he had requested. I knew Papa’s library like the back of my hand, having dusted those shelves one too many times. The ocher spines of the two novels were split from countless readings during Papa’s bachelor days. I myself had read both of them. Manette Salomon was one of Father’s favorite novels, as he likened the story, which revolved around a group of artists living in midcentury Paris, to be similar to his vie bohème days. His love of Germinie Lacerteux was also evident by the subject matter. The novel traced the fatal decline of a working-class woman through her trials with alcoholism, tuberculosis, madness, and eventually death. In general, any novel where one of the characters suffered from melancholy fascinated Papa. Germinie, like Flaubert’s Emma Bovary, was the embodiment of this affliction. It was no wonder the cover of this novel was worn thin.