to paint these landscapes. And when the autumn comes you’ll see how it will all change before your eyes!”
I took my seat, smoothing my dress underneath me as I adjusted myself into the chair.
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll have a wonderful time painting all the colors of the leaves….”
I could see both Papa and Paul staring at me from above their perched silverware. Like two eagles, they sat hunched, glowering at me with increasing suspicion.
“If you want, Monsieur Van Gogh, I can take you to one of my favorite painting spots in Chaponval. You can see over Oise River and to the fields beyond.” Paul was speaking quickly and I could tell how eager he was to impress Vincent.
I could immediately see Father’s brain latching on to Paul’s idea of accompanying Vincent while he was painting. Just as I suspected he would, Father added: “I could always take you around as well and show you the best vistas in the area. I could bring my easel and we could paint side by side.”
Paul’s face suddenly fell. He could not conceal his disappointment.
Vincent shook his head. “It’s so kind of you both to offer your assistance, but I prefer to paint alone. Even when I lived with Gaugin, we rarely painted at the same spot.” He cleared his throat. “My creative work is better suited for solitude.”
F OR the rest of the meal, my brother remained unusually quiet. I could see that he tried on more than one occasion to look surreptitiously in Vincent’s direction and that his preoccupation was clearly a result of schoolboy curiosity. With a series of unsubtle movements, he shifted in his seat and cocked his head awkwardly to the side. I knew what he was up to—he was trying to confirm whether the information Madame Chevalier had told him about Vincent’s missing left ear was correct.
Papa, however, seemed oblivious to Paul’s macabre curiosity, and in between his enthusiastic eating, he continued to engage Vincent in conversation.
“I was thinking, Vincent. We could invite your brother and his family over for an afternoon…to have lunch in the garden…and you could see your young nephew. Paris isn’t that far,” he continued. “They could come out for the day.”
Vincent smiled. He seemed to brighten immediately at the thought of his brother and his family coming to Auvers.
“What a kind invitation, Doctor.” Vincent looked genuinely pleased. “I had wanted them to join me here for the entire summer—bring the baby with them and get some fresh air—but Theo has just written me telling me it’s impossible. But a lunch—that would be wonderful.”
Vincent cut off another piece of chicken, washing it down with a large swallow of wine. He cleared his throat and turned to me. Again his gaze was intense. Those two pale blue eyes framed by the ledge of his forehead. The eternal arching of his copper brows. Then, unabashed by Father’s presence, he turned to me and announced: “As long as it is no trouble to Mademoiselle Gachet.”
I don’t think I even managed to reply, so overcome was I by my blush. To hide my embarrassment, I turned my head and caught sight of my brother’s face. It took me off guard. He looked as though someone had stolen his only slice of birthday cake.
W E all waited for Vincent to finish eating. Paul had already eaten two helpings of everything and was still looking wolfishly at the remaining bits of chicken on the decorated Limoges plate.
“Was the food to your liking, Monsieur Van Gogh?” I asked.
“Oh, yes…I rarely eat so well…my stomach isn’t used to it.”
I attempted to smile as I stood up to clear the table for dessert. Still, I worried as I exited toward the kitchen that the menu I had prepared was perhaps too rich for his digestion.
After I served the poached pears, Papa clasped his hands and announced that both Paul and I would play something on the piano in honor of Vincent’s arrival.
“Paul will play first,” he said.
I cleared the table as the
I took my seat, smoothing my dress underneath me as I adjusted myself into the chair.
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll have a wonderful time painting all the colors of the leaves….”
I could see both Papa and Paul staring at me from above their perched silverware. Like two eagles, they sat hunched, glowering at me with increasing suspicion.
“If you want, Monsieur Van Gogh, I can take you to one of my favorite painting spots in Chaponval. You can see over Oise River and to the fields beyond.” Paul was speaking quickly and I could tell how eager he was to impress Vincent.
I could immediately see Father’s brain latching on to Paul’s idea of accompanying Vincent while he was painting. Just as I suspected he would, Father added: “I could always take you around as well and show you the best vistas in the area. I could bring my easel and we could paint side by side.”
Paul’s face suddenly fell. He could not conceal his disappointment.
Vincent shook his head. “It’s so kind of you both to offer your assistance, but I prefer to paint alone. Even when I lived with Gaugin, we rarely painted at the same spot.” He cleared his throat. “My creative work is better suited for solitude.”
F OR the rest of the meal, my brother remained unusually quiet. I could see that he tried on more than one occasion to look surreptitiously in Vincent’s direction and that his preoccupation was clearly a result of schoolboy curiosity. With a series of unsubtle movements, he shifted in his seat and cocked his head awkwardly to the side. I knew what he was up to—he was trying to confirm whether the information Madame Chevalier had told him about Vincent’s missing left ear was correct.
Papa, however, seemed oblivious to Paul’s macabre curiosity, and in between his enthusiastic eating, he continued to engage Vincent in conversation.
“I was thinking, Vincent. We could invite your brother and his family over for an afternoon…to have lunch in the garden…and you could see your young nephew. Paris isn’t that far,” he continued. “They could come out for the day.”
Vincent smiled. He seemed to brighten immediately at the thought of his brother and his family coming to Auvers.
“What a kind invitation, Doctor.” Vincent looked genuinely pleased. “I had wanted them to join me here for the entire summer—bring the baby with them and get some fresh air—but Theo has just written me telling me it’s impossible. But a lunch—that would be wonderful.”
Vincent cut off another piece of chicken, washing it down with a large swallow of wine. He cleared his throat and turned to me. Again his gaze was intense. Those two pale blue eyes framed by the ledge of his forehead. The eternal arching of his copper brows. Then, unabashed by Father’s presence, he turned to me and announced: “As long as it is no trouble to Mademoiselle Gachet.”
I don’t think I even managed to reply, so overcome was I by my blush. To hide my embarrassment, I turned my head and caught sight of my brother’s face. It took me off guard. He looked as though someone had stolen his only slice of birthday cake.
W E all waited for Vincent to finish eating. Paul had already eaten two helpings of everything and was still looking wolfishly at the remaining bits of chicken on the decorated Limoges plate.
“Was the food to your liking, Monsieur Van Gogh?” I asked.
“Oh, yes…I rarely eat so well…my stomach isn’t used to it.”
I attempted to smile as I stood up to clear the table for dessert. Still, I worried as I exited toward the kitchen that the menu I had prepared was perhaps too rich for his digestion.
After I served the poached pears, Papa clasped his hands and announced that both Paul and I would play something on the piano in honor of Vincent’s arrival.
“Paul will play first,” he said.
I cleared the table as the
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