The Last Van Gogh by Alyson Richman Page B

motionless. After Vincent had seemed irritated by his comments about the painting of me, Paul had not uttered a word. Now, suddenly everyone went quiet waiting for Vincent’s response.
    “Out of no disrespect to you, Doctor, I hope you will allow me to pick who I wish to paint.”
    Father suddenly turned red, clearly embarrassed not only by his error, but also for his young son, who now seemed more pained than ever.
    At that moment I too felt quite badly for my brother. I knew Father had embarrassed him with his presumptuous request, but even more humiliating was Vincent’s obvious lack of interest in painting him.
    But there was also something in me that felt strangely gratified to be the recipient of Vincent’s attention. Paul had had years of coddling from Madame Chevalier, while she had treated me with complete disregard. And Papa’s affection had always leaned toward my brother, especially now that he was trying to cultivate a certain artistic talent. So Vincent’s kindness toward me was something that I relished, even if it did appear to upset Paul.
    “Will you be needing anything else this evening?” Father was the one to finally break the awkward silence.
    “I just want to thank you for allowing me to paint your daughter. It has been such a pleasure to be able to get back to my work and finally be inspired again.”
    I could feel Vincent’s eyes stealing a glance at me.
    I wondered if Father noticed, too, as minutes later, he motioned for Paul and me to go inside. “Children, if you’ll excuse Vincent and me for a moment, I need to speak to him in private.”
    “Of course, Papa,” I said demurely. I curtsied in Vincent’s direction and said good-bye. Paul followed awkwardly behind.
    Upon reaching the house, I turned to close the door behind us, but as I did, I noticed Papa reaching into his breast pocket and retrieving a glass vial. He pressed the flask into Vincent’s hand. I saw Vincent shake his head and try to push the vial back into Father’s hand, the two of them going back and forth like that for several seconds. Eventually, Vincent acquiesced. He placed the vial in his breast pocket and then he and Father walked down the garden stairs.

FOURTEEN
     

Foxgloves
     
    I T always amazed me how, despite the lovely weather we had in spring and summer in Auvers, the first floor of our house always seemed dark. The heavy wool drapes allowed little light to penetrate the rooms. The bric-a-brac of Father’s keepsakes—his brass compasses, his antique stethoscopes, the left-behind figures that Cézanne had used in a still life—littered the shelves. There were canvases painted by Pissarro. One of chestnut trees poking through the fog, another of a ferry gliding through pewter waters. Crowded next to them were studies by Cézanne—a table full of apples and pears, a vase overflowing with white dahlias—and a painting of the houses on our street, the terra-cotta rooflines set against a blue-white sky. Father had hung these canvases so closely together that the room resembled the basement of the Louvre.
    When sitting in our parlor, I always felt my lungs struggling to breathe. But Father’s gloom was often more stifling than the clutter. There were times when no one from our household—including Madame Chevalier—could rouse him from his despair.
    “I need my solitude! Can’t a man have any peace?” he would holler at Paul or me if we disturbed him. He would sit for hours in the same parlor chair with the lamps unlit, a book half-opened on his lap, and his face turned away.
    In the months before Vincent arrived, Father’s bouts of depression appeared more frequently. If Father was truly as depressed as he appeared, his self-medication was obviously not working, and I could not help but wonder how Father could treat patients if he failed to successfully treat himself.
    Sometimes his tinctures did prove effective and he would rebound with tremendous energy. He’d be so ebullient that neither Paul