Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace

Leaving Van Gogh by Carol Wallace

Author:Carol Wallace [Wallace, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-04-19T07:00:00+00:00


Ten

MADAME VAN GOGH may have been surprised to see me on her doorstep, but she expressed only pleasure. The apartment was very appealing, bright and clean and cheerful, but the air of orderly Dutch housekeeping made Vincent’s pictures look especially remarkable. I might even say they appeared ferocious. My hostess saw my eyes rest on a strange, dark canvas of a group of peasants in a shadowy hut, sitting around a table. A platter of potatoes lay on the table, and the oldest woman in the picture was pouring coffee. Her hands were twisted with arthritis. The colors were mostly browns and umbers, as if it had been painted with earth. I could barely recognize it as Vincent’s, though in places I could see his characteristic heavy application of paint. “That was one of Vincent’s first ambitious pictures,” Jo told me. “He painted it in Holland, before he came here to live with Theo. Let me show you my favorite, the almond blossoms he sent after the baby was born.”

She led me into the little alcove where the baby’s crib was set underneath what I think might be the loveliest picture Vincent ever painted. In format it was like the painting of chestnut blossoms that I still possess, but the colors were lighter and the brushwork more serene. Theo had described it as “tender,” which was right. The pink and white blossoms sprayed across a sky of an exquisite blue. “Vincent can be very difficult,” his sister-in-law said, “but this is part of him, too. He can be so gentle and sweet.” She guided me into the dining room and stood by a little cabinet beneath the window. “Theo’s note says you would like to read some of Vincent’s letters. Will that help you? Can you help him, I mean?” She opened a drawer and lifted out a loose sheaf of envelopes and folded pages. Her frank, open face seemed very hopeful.

“Madame, I do not know,” I confessed, shaking my head. “Like you, I want very much to do so. I was explaining to Monsieur van Gogh that mental maladies are difficult to diagnose, especially since I do not know Monsieur Vincent very well. Your husband thought that these letters might help.”

“Well, perhaps they may,” she said, shrugging. “Will you sit—at the table here, perhaps? Would you be comfortable there? You could lay the letters out, and I will bring you some coffee.”

“Yes, of course, thank you,” I said, feeling somewhat helpless. Theo’s description of his wife’s quarrel with Vincent seemed less puzzling now that I saw her as mistress of her own home, with the effortless authority of the virtuous housewife.

Settled at the polished table, with a gleaming blue and white coffeepot and a platter of bread and cheese to go with the coffee, I could not help thinking of Theo. This home, so cheerful and serene, seemed like an embodiment of all that was wholesome. Yet the man of the house was suffering from a malady that was born in shame.



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