“No, never, never!”
Once again she ran across the field towards the road. Vincent sat there in the soft sand, stunned. Kay gained the road and disappeared. Vincent picked himself up and dashed after her, calling her name at the top of his voice. When he got to the road, he saw her a long way down, still running, the child clasped to her bosom. He stopped. He watched them vanish at a turning. He stood there quietly for a long time. Then he recrossed the field. He picked up his sketches from the ground. They were slightly dirty. He put the lunch things into the basket, strapped his easel to his back, and trudged wearily home.
The parsonage was thick with tension; Vincent felt it the moment he entered the door. Kay had locked herself in her room with Jan. His mother and father were alone in the sitting room. They had been talking, but stopped abruptly when he entered; he could feel half a sentence suspended in mid-air. He closed the door behind him. He saw that his father must be frightfully angry, for the lid of his right eye was almost closed.
“Vincent, how could you?” wailed his mother.
“How could I what?” He was not sure precisely what they were reproaching him for.
“Insult your cousin that way!”
Vincent could think of no answer to this. He unstrapped the easel from his back and placed it in a corner. His father was still too wrought up to speak.
“Did Kay tell you exactly what happened?” he asked.
His father loosened the high collar that was cutting into the red flesh of his neck. His right hand gripped the edge of the table.
“She told us that you threw your arms about her and raved like a madman.”
“I told her I loved her,” said Vincent quietly. “I don’t quite see how that’s an insult.”
“Is that all you told her?” His father’s tone was icy.
“No. I asked her to be my wife.”
“Your wife!”
“Yes. What is so astonishing about that?”
“Oh, Vincent, Vincent,” said his mother, “how could you even think of such a thing?”
“Surely you must have been thinking too . . .”
“But how could I ever dream you would fall in love with her?”
“Vincent,” said his father, “do you realize that Kay is your first cousin?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You can’t marry your first cousin. That would be . . . that would be . . .”
The dominie couldn’t even bring himself to pronounce the word. Vincent went to the window and stared out over the garden.
“What would it be?”
“Incest!”
Vincent controlled himself with an effort. How dare they muck over his love with second-hand words?
“That is sheer nonsense, Father, and completely unworthy of you.”
“I tell you it would be incest!” shouted Theodorus. “I won’t allow that sinful relation in the Van Gogh family.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re quoting the Bible, Father? Cousins have always been allowed to marry.”
“Oh, Vincent, my dear,” said his mother, “if you did love her, why didn’t you wait? Her husband is dead only a year. She still loves him devoutly. And you know you have no money to support a wife.”
“I consider what you have done,” said his father, “as distinctly premature and indelicate.”
Vincent recoiled. He fumbled for his pipe, held it in his hand for a moment, and then put it back.
“Father, I must ask you firmly and decidedly not to use such expressions any more. My love for Kay is the finest thing that has ever happened to me. I won’t have you calling it indelicate and premature.”
He snatched up his easel and went to his room. He sat on the bed and asked himself, “What has happened? What have I done? I told Kay that I loved her and she ran away. Why? Doesn’t she want me?”
“No, never, never!”
He spent the night tormenting himself by going over and over the scene. Always he ended at the same spot. That little sentence sounded in his ears like his death knell and his doom.
It was late the following morning before he could bring himself to go downstairs. The air of tension had been cleared away. His mother was in the kitchen. She kissed him when he came in, and patted his cheek sympathetically for a moment.
“Did you sleep, dear?” she asked.
“Where is Kay?”
“Father drove her to Breda.”
“Why?”
“To catch a train. She’s going home.”
“To Amsterdam?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“She thought it would be better, Vincent.”
“Did she leave a message for me?”
“No, dear. Won’t you sit down to your breakfast?”
“No word at all? About yesterday? Was she angry with me?”
“No, she just thought she’d go home to her parents.”
Anna Cornelia decided it would be better not to repeat the things Kay had said; instead she put an egg on the stove.
“What time does that train leave Breda?”
“At ten-twenty.”
Vincent glanced at the blue kitchen clock.
“It’s that time now,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Come sit down here, dear. I have some nice fresh tongue this morning.”
She cleared away a space at the kitchen table, laid a napkin and spread breakfast for him. She hovered over him, urging him to eat; she had the feeling that if only he would put enough into his stomach, everything would come all right.
Vincent saw it pleased her, so he swallowed everything she placed on the table. But the taste of “No, never, never” was in his mouth to make bitter every sweet bite he ate.
7
HE KNEW THAT he loved his work far better than he did Kay. If he had been forced to choose between one and the other, there would have been not the slightest doubt in his mind. Yet his drawing suddenly went flat. He could no longer work with any interest. He looked over the sketches of the Brabant types on the wall and saw that he had made progress since his love for Kay had awakened. He knew that there was still something harsh and severe in his drawings, but he felt Kay’s love could soften that. His love was serious and passionate enough not to be chilled by many “No, never, nevers;” he considered her refusal as a block of ice that he would press to his heart to thaw.
It was the little germ of doubt in his mind that prevented him from working. Suppose he could never change her decision? She seemed to have conscientious scruples even at the idea of a possible new love. He wanted to cure her of the fatal disease of burying herself too much in the past. He wanted to join his draftsman’s fist with her lady’s hand, and work for their daily bread and happiness.
He spent his time in his room, writing passionate, imploring messages to Kay. It was several weeks before he learned she did not even read them. He wrote almost daily letters to Theo, his confidant, strengthening himself against the doubt in his own heart and the concerted attacks of his parents and the Reverend Stricker. He suffered, suffered bitterly, and he was not always able to hide it. His mother came to him with a face full of pity and many comforting words.
“Vincent,” she said, “you are only smashing your poor head against a stone dyke. Uncle Stricker says her ‘No!’ is quite decisive.”
“I’ll not take his word for anything.”
“But she told him, dear.”
“That she doesn’t love me?”
“Yes, and that she will never change her mind.”
“We shall see about that.”
“It’s all so hopeless, Vincent. Uncle Stricker says that even if Kay loved you, he would not consent to the marriage unless you earned at least a thousand francs a year. And you know you are a long way from that.”