care of out here. And should you need a little something at night, I’ll make you a tincture of passionflower to calm those nasty nerves of yours!”
Vincent made a face at Papa’s remark about the tincture. “Well, I am happy to hear my brother is asking you to keep an eye on me. I have not heard from Theo in days, have you?”
“I saw him a few days ago in Paris. We had lunch together.” Papa went over to the server and withdrew a bottle of wine. “You’re lucky to have someone as devoted and dedicated as your brother. He’s convinced that your day of public recognition is not too far off.” Papa turned the corkscrew as he spoke, holding the tall green bottle with his other hand. “We talked about you and some of your colleagues. I think he mentioned a man named Paul Gauguin.”
Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly. “We lived briefly in Arles together before my headaches returned.” It was obvious he wanted to change the subject. “I’m a bit anxious to have my things shipped to me…. I left a few paintings with Tanguy back in Paris and have some furniture still in Arles.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Did Theo mention anything about this?”
“No, I’m afraid he didn’t.” Father shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will all get sorted out soon. Your responsibility now is to concentrate on your painting and on regaining your health.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied softly. “I nearly finished the painting I did in your garden the other day, and I’ve begun three more.”
“Good!”
“And you’re right, when I paint things are much better….”
“Then just continue to paint and I’ll have a look at my various herbs. We’ll make you another tincture so that you can sleep better at night and be refreshed in the morning.” Father cleared his throat. “Remind me after lunch—I will give you another tincture to take home with you.”
F ATHER and Vincent continued to talk in the parlor before I called everyone for lunch.
I had spent the early part of the morning preparing my favorite dishes. I had gotten up early so I could get the first pick of the market. I filled my basket with chicory and small fingerling potatoes, several heads of garlic, and a generous bunch of carrots. I hand-picked the chicken from Armel, the butcher, insisting that I have the largest, juiciest one from that morning’s slaughter. The herbs in my own garden had been paltry that morning, so I indulged in buying fistfuls of rosemary, marjoram, and thyme. I never tired of the fragrance of fresh-picked herbs and as I walked home, I inhaled their heady perfume, eager to begin my preparations.
The entire house now smelled of my crisp roasted chicken and creamed, buttered potatoes. I could not help but smile as I emerged from the kitchen with the large platter in my arms. I had placed a few more sprigs of rosemary on the chicken for decoration, and the colorful contrast of the carrots and chicory made it look as though it were made for a king. I believed all eyes were on me. But just as we were about to take our seats at the table, Paul appeared. He was wearing a bright red cravat and black waistcoat, his gold watch dangling from his vest pocket.
“I’ve been painting today up near Chaponval, Papa,” Paul announced loudly as he sat down. “I’m sorry that I’m late.”
Papa shook his head, then turned from Paul to Vincent and asked, “Have you been up to Chaponval yet? The trees are over a hundred years old…. Cézanne liked to take his easel there to paint.”
I stood at the table slicing the chicken before dishing the vegetables and creamed potatoes onto everyone’s plates. I served Vincent first, trying to arrange his plate as artfully as I could. He, however, didn’t seem to notice.
“No, I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’ve been mainly painting near the Ravoux Inn and near your home.”
“Well, you are lucky that you are here indefinitely. There will be countless opportunities for you
Vincent made a face at Papa’s remark about the tincture. “Well, I am happy to hear my brother is asking you to keep an eye on me. I have not heard from Theo in days, have you?”
“I saw him a few days ago in Paris. We had lunch together.” Papa went over to the server and withdrew a bottle of wine. “You’re lucky to have someone as devoted and dedicated as your brother. He’s convinced that your day of public recognition is not too far off.” Papa turned the corkscrew as he spoke, holding the tall green bottle with his other hand. “We talked about you and some of your colleagues. I think he mentioned a man named Paul Gauguin.”
Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly. “We lived briefly in Arles together before my headaches returned.” It was obvious he wanted to change the subject. “I’m a bit anxious to have my things shipped to me…. I left a few paintings with Tanguy back in Paris and have some furniture still in Arles.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Did Theo mention anything about this?”
“No, I’m afraid he didn’t.” Father shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will all get sorted out soon. Your responsibility now is to concentrate on your painting and on regaining your health.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied softly. “I nearly finished the painting I did in your garden the other day, and I’ve begun three more.”
“Good!”
“And you’re right, when I paint things are much better….”
“Then just continue to paint and I’ll have a look at my various herbs. We’ll make you another tincture so that you can sleep better at night and be refreshed in the morning.” Father cleared his throat. “Remind me after lunch—I will give you another tincture to take home with you.”
F ATHER and Vincent continued to talk in the parlor before I called everyone for lunch.
I had spent the early part of the morning preparing my favorite dishes. I had gotten up early so I could get the first pick of the market. I filled my basket with chicory and small fingerling potatoes, several heads of garlic, and a generous bunch of carrots. I hand-picked the chicken from Armel, the butcher, insisting that I have the largest, juiciest one from that morning’s slaughter. The herbs in my own garden had been paltry that morning, so I indulged in buying fistfuls of rosemary, marjoram, and thyme. I never tired of the fragrance of fresh-picked herbs and as I walked home, I inhaled their heady perfume, eager to begin my preparations.
The entire house now smelled of my crisp roasted chicken and creamed, buttered potatoes. I could not help but smile as I emerged from the kitchen with the large platter in my arms. I had placed a few more sprigs of rosemary on the chicken for decoration, and the colorful contrast of the carrots and chicory made it look as though it were made for a king. I believed all eyes were on me. But just as we were about to take our seats at the table, Paul appeared. He was wearing a bright red cravat and black waistcoat, his gold watch dangling from his vest pocket.
“I’ve been painting today up near Chaponval, Papa,” Paul announced loudly as he sat down. “I’m sorry that I’m late.”
Papa shook his head, then turned from Paul to Vincent and asked, “Have you been up to Chaponval yet? The trees are over a hundred years old…. Cézanne liked to take his easel there to paint.”
I stood at the table slicing the chicken before dishing the vegetables and creamed potatoes onto everyone’s plates. I served Vincent first, trying to arrange his plate as artfully as I could. He, however, didn’t seem to notice.
“No, I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’ve been mainly painting near the Ravoux Inn and near your home.”
“Well, you are lucky that you are here indefinitely. There will be countless opportunities for you
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