draw in my features, or to show the various planes of my face and the dips and curves of my figure. But he caught something of me, something more private—and less obvious than my physical countenance. He had portrayed me as I saw myself—waiting in my garden, my arm outstretched as if I were inviting someone to accept my hand.
The painting was quiet. Almost painfully still. I stood alone, my white dress submerged behind an audience of flowers and leaves, my hair and yellow hat flaming above my head like a halo.
“Does it please you, mademoiselle?”
I felt my body shiver as I tried to find the right words to reply. I did not know what I could say. I could not tell him that I thought he had made me look beautiful. I could not tell him that he had rendered my features in a most exacting manner. All of that would have been untrue.
“I look lonely,” I said.
Before I had even finished, I saw Father’s eyes condemning me. “Marguerite!” he blasted. “How dare you insult our guest!”
“I’m sorry, but…” I felt my face grow hot and the tears begin to pool in the rims of my eyes.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Vincent said to me quickly. Then he stated, “She’s right. I have painted her alone.” His voice fell hard against the last word. “A white pillar among a sea of vines and flowers.”
Paul came closer to the canvas and squinted.
“Monsieur Van Gogh, I think you’ve forgotten to paint in her mouth.”
Vincent looked sharply at my brother and his annoyance was palpable. “I have not forgotten anything! There are reasons for such omissions!”
I could see Paul’s embarrassment immediately. Red streaks radiated up from his collar and his cheeks were flushed scarlet.
“Yes, yes,” my father said appeasingly. “Of course there is a psychology to your paintings that might not be apparent to a less sophisticated eye. Please excuse my son’s naïveté when it comes to painting. He is learning, after all.”
Papa patted Paul on the back. “Vincent has done a marvelous painting of your sister.”
Vincent’s paint box snapped shut. He was kneeling on the grass collecting the odds and ends that went in his rucksack. But instead of acknowledging my father’s remarks, I saw him look up from his things and sneak one last peek at me.
I was standing only inches away from him. His body was curled like a fiddlehead fern over his wooden painter’s box and sack of things. As he rose, he reminded me of a sunflower, his straw hat rising as he straightened his spine.
“I would like to give you this portrait of your daughter,” Vincent said reverently to Papa. “And also the painting I did last week of your garden.”
The expression on Father’s face suddenly changed. He was beaming at the prospect of obtaining some new paintings for his collection.
“You’ve been so kind in helping me here in Auvers. Since I cannot pay you your normal wage, I hope you’ll consider these canvases a token of my appreciation.”
Father took a firm hold of Vincent’s hand. “It would be my honor,” he said as he clasped his fingers around Vincent’s. “I will display them proudly.”
“I would also like to begin a portrait of you, Doctor. Perhaps an interior scene with you sitting at your desk….”
Now Father’s face became as rosy as a child’s. He could not contain his delight.
“Oh, I’m so happy you asked, Vincent!” he said. “You just tell me the time and I shall make myself at your complete disposal.”
“And perhaps another opportunity to paint your daughter again,” he said, this time with a voice that was softer, perhaps a bit more nervous than when he asked Papa to sit for him.
“Marguerite? Again? You wish to paint Marguerite again?” Father was visibly perplexed. “Why, if you wish to paint another portrait after mine, Vincent, why don’t you paint Paul’s? He will be done with his exams in only a few short weeks.”
Paul had been standing there the whole time almost
The painting was quiet. Almost painfully still. I stood alone, my white dress submerged behind an audience of flowers and leaves, my hair and yellow hat flaming above my head like a halo.
“Does it please you, mademoiselle?”
I felt my body shiver as I tried to find the right words to reply. I did not know what I could say. I could not tell him that I thought he had made me look beautiful. I could not tell him that he had rendered my features in a most exacting manner. All of that would have been untrue.
“I look lonely,” I said.
Before I had even finished, I saw Father’s eyes condemning me. “Marguerite!” he blasted. “How dare you insult our guest!”
“I’m sorry, but…” I felt my face grow hot and the tears begin to pool in the rims of my eyes.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Vincent said to me quickly. Then he stated, “She’s right. I have painted her alone.” His voice fell hard against the last word. “A white pillar among a sea of vines and flowers.”
Paul came closer to the canvas and squinted.
“Monsieur Van Gogh, I think you’ve forgotten to paint in her mouth.”
Vincent looked sharply at my brother and his annoyance was palpable. “I have not forgotten anything! There are reasons for such omissions!”
I could see Paul’s embarrassment immediately. Red streaks radiated up from his collar and his cheeks were flushed scarlet.
“Yes, yes,” my father said appeasingly. “Of course there is a psychology to your paintings that might not be apparent to a less sophisticated eye. Please excuse my son’s naïveté when it comes to painting. He is learning, after all.”
Papa patted Paul on the back. “Vincent has done a marvelous painting of your sister.”
Vincent’s paint box snapped shut. He was kneeling on the grass collecting the odds and ends that went in his rucksack. But instead of acknowledging my father’s remarks, I saw him look up from his things and sneak one last peek at me.
I was standing only inches away from him. His body was curled like a fiddlehead fern over his wooden painter’s box and sack of things. As he rose, he reminded me of a sunflower, his straw hat rising as he straightened his spine.
“I would like to give you this portrait of your daughter,” Vincent said reverently to Papa. “And also the painting I did last week of your garden.”
The expression on Father’s face suddenly changed. He was beaming at the prospect of obtaining some new paintings for his collection.
“You’ve been so kind in helping me here in Auvers. Since I cannot pay you your normal wage, I hope you’ll consider these canvases a token of my appreciation.”
Father took a firm hold of Vincent’s hand. “It would be my honor,” he said as he clasped his fingers around Vincent’s. “I will display them proudly.”
“I would also like to begin a portrait of you, Doctor. Perhaps an interior scene with you sitting at your desk….”
Now Father’s face became as rosy as a child’s. He could not contain his delight.
“Oh, I’m so happy you asked, Vincent!” he said. “You just tell me the time and I shall make myself at your complete disposal.”
“And perhaps another opportunity to paint your daughter again,” he said, this time with a voice that was softer, perhaps a bit more nervous than when he asked Papa to sit for him.
“Marguerite? Again? You wish to paint Marguerite again?” Father was visibly perplexed. “Why, if you wish to paint another portrait after mine, Vincent, why don’t you paint Paul’s? He will be done with his exams in only a few short weeks.”
Paul had been standing there the whole time almost
Similar Books
