corner of his rucksack. He didn’t move or utter a word as Father chattered on. In contrast, he remained almost frozen. Like a garden statue set against our flowers and trees.
I imagined that as Father rambled on, Vincent was no longer listening, but was busy deciding where he would place his easel, at what angle he would adjust the level, and what colors he would use to paint. He seemed far more interested in painting than talking; that was perfectly clear. I could not help but feel embarrassed that Papa’s egotistic nature prevented him from seeing that.
“I will leave the two of you,” I said as my father took a breath between sentences. “I’m sure Monsieur Van Gogh is anxious to paint.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is!” Father nodded to Vincent. “But I’m sure he would like some tea before he begins. How about picking some lime leaves, Marguerite? Certainly Monsieur Van Gogh will appreciate the fragrance.”
I acknowledged my father’s request and began to walk toward the house.
“Actually, if you don’t mind, Doctor…” I could hear the faint whisper of Vincent’s voice behind me. I slowed down my steps so I could hear more clearly.
“I’d prefer not to have any tea now but to get to work at once, if that’s all right with you. I got up early and painted behind the Château Léry, but the light has changed and I think my paintings here this afternoon will be all the better for it.”
“You’re absolutely right, Vincent!” Father said, clasping his hands. “I think you’ll find the light in our garden to be perfect!”
I collected the lime leaves anyway, as I knew that Father would ask Vincent to stay for tea after he finished his painting for the day. Also, collecting the leaves allowed me another chance to watch him from afar.
From behind the trees, I studied Vincent intently, just as I had the day he arrived in Auvers. He walked around for several minutes before settling on an area with a patch of yucca plants and blooming geraniums. I thought it a wise choice, for from that corner, one could see over the garden wall and view the entire panorama of the village: the tops of the thatched cottages, the tile chimneys, and the blue ribbon of the horizon.
Even at four o’clock, he did not take tea with Father. This surely must have upset Papa, but Vincent was so engrossed in his painting that he seemed to have little time or patience to stop for idle conversation. He painted vigorously, as if he were in a mad race against the setting sun. From the rear window of our house, I caught him looking up at the sky on more than one occasion. With a gaze of competitiveness, he seemed to be challenging the daylight to a race, striving to capture one more image before the sun began to descend.
By five o’clock, he had painted the twisting branches of the apple trees, the spiny blades of the yucca, and our narrow terrace, which he had painted replete with marigold bushes and aloe plants.
Father offered to store the canvas upstairs so that the thick paint might have a chance to dry. Vincent declined.
“Might you join us for dinner and afterward a little music played by my children?” Father asked.
“I am afraid I am too weary this evening, Doctor,” Vincent answered quietly. “But perhaps another time.”
“You must come for lunch, then,” Papa insisted, “when you have your energy about you. Perhaps later this week?”
Vincent smiled and lifted his head. He appeared almost celestial, as if his skin were merely a veil and his eyes and flesh could barely contain the enormity of his spirit.
“It would be my pleasure to join you and your family for lunch,” he answered politely. And as he finished his sentence, he looked up at me and I was sure that I noticed a certain flirtation in his eye.
FIVE
Paul van Ryssel
T HAT Saturday, two days after Vincent painted his first canvas in our garden, Papa took the train to Paris to meet with Vincent’s brother, Theo. I had not known of his
I imagined that as Father rambled on, Vincent was no longer listening, but was busy deciding where he would place his easel, at what angle he would adjust the level, and what colors he would use to paint. He seemed far more interested in painting than talking; that was perfectly clear. I could not help but feel embarrassed that Papa’s egotistic nature prevented him from seeing that.
“I will leave the two of you,” I said as my father took a breath between sentences. “I’m sure Monsieur Van Gogh is anxious to paint.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is!” Father nodded to Vincent. “But I’m sure he would like some tea before he begins. How about picking some lime leaves, Marguerite? Certainly Monsieur Van Gogh will appreciate the fragrance.”
I acknowledged my father’s request and began to walk toward the house.
“Actually, if you don’t mind, Doctor…” I could hear the faint whisper of Vincent’s voice behind me. I slowed down my steps so I could hear more clearly.
“I’d prefer not to have any tea now but to get to work at once, if that’s all right with you. I got up early and painted behind the Château Léry, but the light has changed and I think my paintings here this afternoon will be all the better for it.”
“You’re absolutely right, Vincent!” Father said, clasping his hands. “I think you’ll find the light in our garden to be perfect!”
I collected the lime leaves anyway, as I knew that Father would ask Vincent to stay for tea after he finished his painting for the day. Also, collecting the leaves allowed me another chance to watch him from afar.
From behind the trees, I studied Vincent intently, just as I had the day he arrived in Auvers. He walked around for several minutes before settling on an area with a patch of yucca plants and blooming geraniums. I thought it a wise choice, for from that corner, one could see over the garden wall and view the entire panorama of the village: the tops of the thatched cottages, the tile chimneys, and the blue ribbon of the horizon.
Even at four o’clock, he did not take tea with Father. This surely must have upset Papa, but Vincent was so engrossed in his painting that he seemed to have little time or patience to stop for idle conversation. He painted vigorously, as if he were in a mad race against the setting sun. From the rear window of our house, I caught him looking up at the sky on more than one occasion. With a gaze of competitiveness, he seemed to be challenging the daylight to a race, striving to capture one more image before the sun began to descend.
By five o’clock, he had painted the twisting branches of the apple trees, the spiny blades of the yucca, and our narrow terrace, which he had painted replete with marigold bushes and aloe plants.
Father offered to store the canvas upstairs so that the thick paint might have a chance to dry. Vincent declined.
“Might you join us for dinner and afterward a little music played by my children?” Father asked.
“I am afraid I am too weary this evening, Doctor,” Vincent answered quietly. “But perhaps another time.”
“You must come for lunch, then,” Papa insisted, “when you have your energy about you. Perhaps later this week?”
Vincent smiled and lifted his head. He appeared almost celestial, as if his skin were merely a veil and his eyes and flesh could barely contain the enormity of his spirit.
“It would be my pleasure to join you and your family for lunch,” he answered politely. And as he finished his sentence, he looked up at me and I was sure that I noticed a certain flirtation in his eye.
FIVE
Paul van Ryssel
T HAT Saturday, two days after Vincent painted his first canvas in our garden, Papa took the train to Paris to meet with Vincent’s brother, Theo. I had not known of his