“I’d like very much to forget that I was rude to you. But the things I said were true.”
He took a step toward her. She moved away.
“Why speak of it again?” Ursula asked. “The whole episode has quite gone out of my mind.” She turned her back on him and walked down the path. He hurried after her.
“I must speak of it again. Ursula, you don’t understand how much I love you! You don’t know how unhappy I’ve been this past week. Why do you keep running away from me?”
“Shall we go in? I think Mother is expecting callers.”
“It can’t be true that you love this other man. I would have seen it in your eyes if you had.”
“I’m afraid I’ve not got any more time to spare. When did you say you were going home for your holiday?”
He gulped. “In July.”
“How fortunate. My fiancé is coming to spend his July holiday with me, and we’ll need his old room.”
“I’ll never give you up to him, Ursula.”
“You’ll simply have to stop this sort of thing. If you don’t, Mother says you can find new lodgings.”
He spent the next two months trying to dissuade her. All his early characteristics returned; if he could not be with Ursula he wanted to be by himself so that no one could interfere with his thinking about her. He was unfriendly to the people at the store. The world that had been awakened by Ursula’s love went fast asleep again and he became the sombre, morose lad his parents had known in Zundert.
July came, and with it his holiday. He did not wish to leave London for two weeks. He had the feeling that Ursula could not love anyone else as long as he was in the house.
He went down into the parlour. Ursula and her mother were sitting there. They exchanged one of their significant looks.
“I’m taking only one grip with me, Madame Loyer,” he said. “I shall leave everything in my room just as it is. Here is the money for the two weeks that I shall be away.”
“I think you had better take all your things with you, Monsieur Van Gogh,” said Madame.
“But why?”
“Your room is rented from Monday morning. We think it better if you live elsewhere.”
“We?”
He turned and looked at Ursula from under the deep ridge of brow. That look made no statement. It only asked a question.
“Yes, we,” replied her mother. “My daughter’s fiancé has written that he wants you out of the house. I’m afraid, Monsieur Van Gogh, that it would have been better if you had never come here at all.”
5
THEODORUS VAN GOGH met his son at the Breda station with a carriage. He had on his heavy, black ministerial coat, the wide lapelled vest, starched white shirt, and huge black bow tie covering all but a narrow strip of the high collar. With a quick glance Vincent took in his father’s two facial characteristics: the right lid drooped down lower than the left, covering a considerable portion of the eye; the left side of his mouth was a thin, taut line, the right side full and sensuous. His eyes were passive; their expression simply said, “This is me.”
The people of Zundert often remarked that the dominie Theodorus went about doing good with a high silk hat on.
He never understood to the day of his death why he was not more successful. He felt that he should have been called to an important pulpit in Amsterdam or The Hague years before. He was called the handsome dominie by his parishioners, was well educated, of a loving nature, had fine spiritual qualities, and was indefatigable in the service of God. Yet for twenty-five years he had been buried and forgotten in the little village of Zundert. He was the only one of the six Van Gogh brothers who had not achieved national importance.
The parsonage at Zundert, where Vincent had been born, was a wooden frame building across the road from the market place and stadhuis. There was a garden back of the kitchen with acacias and a number of little paths running through the carefully tended flowers. The church was a tiny wooden building hidden in the trees just behind the garden. There were two small Gothic windows of plain glass on either side, perhaps a dozen hard benches on the wooden floor, and a number of warming pans attached permanently to the planks. At the rear there was a stairway leading up to an old hand organ. It was a severe and simple place of worship, dominated by the spirit of Calvin and his reformation.
Vincent’s mother, Anna Cornelia, was watching from the front window and had the door open before the carriage came to a full stop. Even while taking him with loving tenderness to her ample bosom, she perceived that something was wrong with her boy.
“Myn lieve zoon,” she murmured. “My Vincent.”
Her eyes, now blue, now green, were always wide open, gently inquiring, seeing through a person without judging too harshly. A faint line from the side of each nostril down to the corners of the mouth deepened with the passage of the years, and the deeper these lines became, the stronger impression they gave of a face slightly lifted in smile.
Anna Cornelia Carbentus was from The Hague, where her father carried the title of “Bookbinder to the King.” William Carbentus’s business flourished and when he was chosen to bind the first Constitution of Holland he became known throughout the country. His daughters, one of whom married Uncle Vincent Van Gogh, and a third the well known Reverend Stricker of Amsterdam, were bien élevées.
Anna Cornelia was a good woman. She saw no evil in the world and knew of none. She knew only of weakness, temptation, hardship, and pain. Theodorus Van Gogh was also a good man, but he understood evil very thoroughly and condemned every last vestige of it.
The dining room was the centre of the Van Gogh house, and the big table, after the supper dishes had been cleared off, the centre of family life. Here everyone gathered about the friendly oil lamp to pass the evening. Anna Cornelia was worried about Vincent; he was thin, and had become jumpy in his mannerisms.
“Is anything wrong, Vincent?” she asked after supper that night. “You don’t look well to me.”
Vincent glanced about the table where Anna, Elizabeth, and Willemien, three strange young girls who happened to be his sisters, were sitting.
“No,” he said, “nothing is wrong.”
“Do you find London agreeable?” asked Theodorus. “If you don’t like it I’ll speak to your Uncle Vincent. I think he would transfer you to one of the Paris shops.”
Vincent became very agitated. “No, no, you mustn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “I don’t want to leave London, I . . .” He quieted himself. “When Uncle Vincent wants to transfer me, I’m sure he’ll think of it for himself.”
“Just as you wish,” said Theodorus.
“It’s that girl,” said Anna Cornelia to herself. “Now I understand what was wrong with his letters.”
There were pine woods and clumps of oaks on the heath near Zundert. Vincent spent his days walking alone in the fields, gazing down into the numerous ponds with which the heath was dotted. The only diversion he enjoyed was drawing; he made a number of sketches of the garden, the Saturday afternoon market seen from the window of the parsonage, the front door of the house. It kept his mind off Ursula for moments at a time.
Theodorus had always been disappointed that his oldest son had not chosen to follow in his footsteps. They went to visit a sick peasant and when they drove back that evening across the heath the two men got out of the carriage and walked awhile. The sun was setting red behind the pine trees, the evening sky was reflected in the pools, and the heath and yellow sand were full of harmony.
“My father was a parson, Vincent, and I had always hoped you would continue the line.”