The Last Van Gogh Read online

  When Vincent followed me into the garden, both Paul and Papa jumped up from their lawn chairs to greet him.

  “We’re so happy you could make it,” Papa said as he approached Vincent and patted him on the back. A peacock and one of our many cats followed at Papa’s heels.

  I stood there with the two packages in my hand. “Vincent gave us these in honor of our birthdays.” I looked at Vincent. “Which one is for me and which one is for Paul?”

  I looked down and saw that on one of the brown packages there was a small illustration of a butterfly done in bright yellow paint. Otherwise the two packages seemed identical. Each one was wrapped in brown paper and tied with coarse butcher’s string.

  “Yours is the one with the yellow butterfly on it.”

  Paul took the other gift from me and thanked Vincent.

  Then when Paul wasn’t looking, Vincent reached into his pocket and retrieved a small box wrapped in blue rice paper. Nestled under the ribbon was a small folded crane.

  “Open it later,” he mouthed. I nodded, and placed it in one of the front pockets of my dress.

  As my brother and I began to open our seemingly identical presents, Papa smiled. “They both loved the Japanese catalogs that your sister-in-law brought from Paris. Every time I catch one of them in the parlor, they’re poring over those pages.”

  Vincent seemed pleased. “Then I think they’ll like these very much.”

  He was right. He had given Paul and me each a small framed woodblock print. Mine was of a beautiful woman in a kimono kneeling over a tub of bathwater. Her yellow robe was patterned with tiny black circles, and her long white neck arched over the reflection of glistening water.

  “How beautiful…” I covered my mouth with my hand. I was so overcome by such a lovely and generous gift, I had to control my urge to rush over and embrace him.

  My brother seemed equally pleased with his print of a Japanese actor. The large nose and vulpine eyes of the man seemed to amuse Paul. “What a face!” he said, holding it afar.

  “He’s a Kabuki actor, or at least that is what the dealer in Paris told me.” Vincent wiggled his foot a little in the garden’s soil. “I hope you both enjoy them.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said enthusiastically. “It’s the nicest birthday present I’ve ever received!”

  “Yes, thank you so much, Monsieur Van Gogh,” Paul said and he shook Vincent’s hand. I knew he would take this opportunity to try to talk with Vincent about painting.

  I offered to take Paul’s print and place it inside since I needed to go back and retrieve our lunch. But, even more important, I wanted to go inside quickly so I could peek at the secret gift Vincent had brought for me.

  Paul handed his print over to me and I hurried back to the house. Instead of going straight to the kitchen, I bounded up the stairs and closed the door to my room.

  I could hardly contain myself as I carefully detached the crane and removed the rice paper. Inside, tied with a piece of satin ribbon, was a lock of red hair.

  It was more the color of apricots than the fiery red of strawberry. He had tied the strands together with a twist of blue ribbon, the pin-straight ends sticking out like straw.

  I could hardly believe that I was holding a lock of Vincent’s hair between my fingers. As I twisted and turned it, I could see threads of gold and chestnut. Copper iridescence reflecting in the light.

  I imagined Vincent clipping the lock of hair then tying the strip of cobalt blue ribbon around its center. Even I, with my lack of experience, knew that this was a sign. It was as if he had extended his hand in a dance and was waiting to see if I would accept his invitation. Such a romantic gesture was not lost on me. On the contrary, it filled me with confidence and thoughts of how to arrange our next meeting.

  How I wanted to rush in to Louise-Josephine’s room and tell her everything at once. But I had already stepped away from our lunch for too long and I feared Papa would be coming up the stairs to retrieve me. I quickly folded the paper and precious bit of Vincent’s hair and placed it for safekeeping in my drawer. I would show her my most treasured keepsake, all by the day’s end.

  SHE came to my room later that evening. It had taken me some time to clean the dishes and put away the leftover food. I was lying on my bed with my feet resting on a pillow, my journal open on my lap.

  “I have a birthday present for you.” She sat down beside me and handed me a large, flat package.

  “I’ve already received so much today,” I said, placing my journal to the side. I was anxious to show her both the woodblock print and the lock of hair from Vincent. But I didn’t want to appear rude.

  “Open it, Marguerite.”

  I placed the package in my lap and carefully untied the string.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” I said. “You’ve already given me the most extraordinary present.” I took hold of Louise-Josephine’s hand. “You’ve become my friend.”

  She smiled back at me. “I feel the same way, Marguerite. But still I wanted to get you something special.” She pushed herself back on my bed. “Without being able to go into town, it was difficult…I hope you don’t mind that I made one of the gifts myself.”

  I gently opened the package and found a copy of Bernardin’s Paul et Virginie and a beautiful paper portfolio underneath. The cover of the portfolio was full of cabbage roses and yellow jonquils that Louise-Josephine had pasted in découpage. There was a pink ribbon through two holes in the center so I could tie the folder shut.

  “I am not sure if you have the novel already. It’s one of my favorites. Madame Lenoir lent me her copy during that time I spent with her family.” She paused. “I often imagine what it would be like if the two of us lived on the island of Mauritius, like the two main characters. Before one of them is coerced back to Europe, the two of them live idyllically on the island. They sleep under palm trees and climb the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. How wonderful it would be to live like that and be able to wander freely in the wild and not care what one’s neighbors think!”

  Touched by her thoughtfulness, I reached out and clasped her hand.

  She smiled. “As for the portfolio, I thought you could put your sheet music in it,” she said sweetly. “Or perhaps love letters…”

  “It’s so beautiful.” I took her hand in mine and squeezed it again. “I will think of you every time I use it. I already have something I can put inside.”

  “What?” Her voice was now full of mischief. She could barely contain her excitement.

  I went to my drawer and took out the lock of hair.

  “He gave it to me this afternoon along with a woodblock print.” I pointed to the drawing on my desk.

  She took it from me and examined it carefully. Like me, she took it and coiled it around her finger.

  “It’s a sign, don’t you think?” I giggled excitedly.

  “Oh, certainly!” she agreed. “I think we should cut a lock of yours and send it off to him. It’s only fair.”

  “Really?” The thought of it delighted me. “You really think we should?”

  “Absolutely. He’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

  After a few seconds of pondering, I agreed. I stood up and walked to the mirror above my fireplace.

  “Take a small piece in the back,” I suggested. “The color is more golden there. Plus it will be harder to notice it’s gone.”

  She went over and opened the top drawer of my desk and withdrew a pair of cutting shears.

  When she was done, there was a small lock of blonde hair between her fingers. “Use a lavender ribbon,” she suggested. “It will offset the color best.” She smiled. “As a painter, he’ll appreciate that.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Lit from Within

  I PLACED my lock of hair in a plain white envelope and dropped it in the postbox near the train station on my way to do my errands the next day.

  Then I waited three days for him to come. During that time, I spent much of my time either in the
garden or in my room wrapped up in the saga of Paul and Virginie.

  The story consumed me. I closed my eyes and saw the rocky shore; the bending palm trees; the sun descending into the horizon, like a ball of oozing marmalade. I could almost taste the ocean water on my tongue. I looked at my hair after it had been washed and was still in tangles. I imagined wearing it uncombed, the long tresses saturated with salt.

  I imagined climbing trees and collecting coconuts for soup, instead of potatoes and leeks. I began walking barefoot in my bedroom after my bath and imagined my toes naked and brown. I opened my window and stuck my head out between the shutters and imagined the smell of tropical flowers. Wild orchids replacing my rosebushes, fig and mango trees replacing the oaks and poplars.

  It was easy to envision Vincent there with me, along with Louise-Josephine and Théophile, our children growing up together as close as kin. It would be our own utopia. I could see Vincent there with his large sun hat, his white linen shirt, his pale skin red from the sun. He would paint the sunsets, the stretches of dunes and patches of tall, wild grasses where I would run barefoot every day. Just as I had, that evening, when I sought Vincent out by the church.

  After I was done reading the story, I would pass Louise-Josephine in the hall and all she had to say was “Mauritius” and I could not help but smile. It became a sort of secret code between us. At night, if either one of us had trouble sleeping, all we had to do was sneak into the other’s bed and whisper the word and we’d both fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  PAPA had scheduled Vincent to come paint my portrait on Wednesday, June 24. That morning Louise-Josephine helped me get dressed and, as always, helped to calm my nerves.

  “You’re not wearing lavender,” he said when I opened the door for him. He clutched his soft hat to his chest and winked at me.

  “Papa told me to wear white.” I blushed. The gown was a stiff white taffeta, with a pink ribbon sash that cinched at the waist.

  “Never mind. It is a fine choice.”

  I took a few steps and motioned for him to come into the parlor. “The piano is here, as you know. Do you still wish to paint me at the piano?”

  Papa came into the room.

  “Ahh! You’re here right on time!” he said, clutching his pocket watch. “I’m afraid my daughter’s stomach has been in knots all morning!”

  “There is no need for her to be nervous….” His voice was soft now as he glanced around the room. It was obvious he was surveying the light to see where it would be best to assemble the large easel he had under his arm. “She is a natural at this.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Papa chuckled. “Perhaps a natural gardener or pianist, like her late mother. But her brother Paul seems more inclined to the artist’s world.”

  Vincent didn’t respond to Papa. He squinted at the window. “I want the light to come in from an angle.” His voice was exuberant, almost ecstatic, as if he were now in the mind of his painting. “We’ll need to pull out the piano and rearrange some of the furniture. I want to paint the mademoiselle from her right side.”

  “Oh, yes,” Papa said agreeably. “Whatever you want, Vincent. I’ll ask Paul to come down so we can turn around the piano for you. Just tell us where to put it.”

  Papa withdrew from the parlor and called for Paul to come downstairs. Within a few seconds, Paul was in the living room with us, dragging the piano so that it stood perpendicular to the wall.

  “Ah, that’s perfect now,” Vincent said, obviously pleased. He was pacing around the room, kneading his fingers before him. “Now, Marguerite, if you could just sit down and place your fingers on the keys, I’ll do the rest.”

  I walked quietly past my father and brother, their eyes watching me as closely as Vincent’s, and sat down at the piano.

  From that moment on, I heard very little. Vincent began to assemble his large easel. He placed a long, narrow canvas on its wooden lip and opened up his paint box.

  Both Paul and Father watched transfixed as Vincent squeezed out his paints onto his palette board. Their eyes did not waver as he blended the pigments with the back of his palette knife.

  I remained sitting at the keyboard, my eyes glancing outward only occasionally in order to observe everyone in the room.

  Vincent, however, did not look up at me those first few minutes he spent organizing his paints and brushes. Only after he had set at least six colors on the wooden board did he begin to tilt his head and study me more closely.

  “Lift your chin a little, mademoiselle…yes, now rest your fingers on the keys,” he instructed. I obliged. I swiveled to face the piano and delicately placed my hands on the ivory keys.

  Louise-Josephine had suggested that I wear my hair in a chignon that afternoon. As I bowed my head slightly to pretend I was reading the sheet music in front of me, I could feel some of the pins unpopping, a few tendrils slowly unfurling behind my ears.

  THE sound of his brush moving across his canvas sent shivers up my spine. I could smell the intense odor of the turpentine and heard him opening and closing the bottle of linseed oil. Although my eyes were firmly placed on the keys, I could not help but imagine him as I had seen him painting that night at the church. Hunched over his canvas, his eyes darting over his subject, the indistinguishable extension between his brush and his hand.

  I wondered exactly how he was painting me, and whether this time he would delineate my features: the sharp triangle of my nostrils, the low ebbing of my eyelashes, the thin ripple of my tightly pursed mouth.

  My skin felt both hot and damp underneath the crisp white taffeta. My legs were sealed together like two wet leaves. As he painted me, I imagined he was kissing me just as he had that evening in front of the church, all his fingers and eyes wrapping around me like large loops of ivy.

  FOR the several hours that I remained in pose, I became hypnotized by the sounds of wet pigment being applied to the canvas. The dragging of his horsetail brushes, the rake of his palette knife, and the brief sweeping of a dried reed.

  I didn’t hear a peep from Father or Paul. Both of them were so mesmerized by watching him work that they didn’t dare disturb him.

  As the third hour passed, my neck began to ache and my back felt so sore I thought I might fall from the stool. Then, just as I was about to ask if it might be possible to stop for a few minutes, Vincent announced that he was nearly finished.

  “We can take a break now, Marguerite,” he said. “Why don’t you stand up and stretch your legs?”

  I could barely feel my calves as I stood up. My legs were so tired that I feared they might buckle from the shock of my weight. But as I gathered my skirt and lifted myself up, I felt the tension in my back and shoulders finally release.

  “Your daughter’s a natural,” Vincent told Papa. “She’s gone three hours without a break. I have painted other women before, but your daughter is different. Even her silence inspires me. It is like there is music under her skin. I hear it as strong as church bells.”

  Papa tried to smile back at Vincent but it was obvious he was deeply troubled.

  “My Marguerite has always been a natural at the piano,” Papa said diplomatically, clearly ignoring what Vincent was really saying. “Is the painting almost finished?”

  Vincent nodded and put down his brush. “I can finish the rest at home.”

  I smiled and walked over to the canvas. Papa was commenting to Paul that he found it remarkable how quickly Vincent painted. Paul was nodding his head, staring at Vincent intently. He had not taken his eyes off of Vincent for the entire sitting.

  It was a beautiful portrait of me, and I made no attempt to mask my great pleasure.

  “It’s wonderful,” I said, touching one of my hands to my breast.

  He had painted me in swirls of pink and white. My blonde hair piled high above my head, a delicate and flattering profile of me as I concentrated on the keys. He had painted the wall behind me in a mossy green with vibrant orange spots. The contrasting carpet in ox-blo
od red with verdant strokes resembled thick blades of grass. The rich wood of the piano was painted in a dark violet. The long, saturated strokes, glossy like candy.

  And he had made me look beautiful—the swirls of pink and red mingling with the white of my dress made me appear as if I were glowing brightly, lit from within.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Final Touches

  HE came back the following day to make a few adjustments to the painting. Paul was home that afternoon and fetched me in the garden.

  “He’s here,” he said tersely. “He asked if you’d sit by the piano one more time so he can make some final touches to the canvas.”

  I moved my hands over my hair and smoothed out my bun.

  “He’s waiting, Marguerite…I left him alone in the vestibule.” There was a tinge of impatience in Paul’s voice. “I’ll go upstairs and tell Papa he’s here.”

  Our father had been in the attic all day tinkering with his print-making machine.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll go at once.”

  I went into the house to find him. I was surprised my brother had left Vincent in the hallway and not shown him into the parlor. It was very poor manners on his part.

  I found Vincent standing in the corridor looking at the stained glass-window. His straw hat was by his feet, next to the canvas of me at the piano.

  “Good morning,” I greeted him warmly. “I’m sorry my brother didn’t show you in. He should have offered you a cold drink, at least!”

  Vincent smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t come for your brother’s hospitality. I just need to make a few adjustments before I can consider your portrait finished.”

  “Of course,” I said, somewhat surprised by the businesslike nature of his tone.

  “Also,” he said as he stepped closer, “I couldn’t wait to see you again.”