Every soul to whom he had spoken in the village had asked that identical question. He was getting heartily sick of it.
“I sell sometimes. My brother is a dealer and he buys.”
“You should go to work, Mijnheer. It is not good for you to idle this way. A man will grow old and he will have nothing.”
“Idle! I work twice as long as you keep this store open.”
“You call that work? Sitting and daubing? That’s only play for children. Keep a store; plough in the fields; that’s a real man’s work. You’re getting too old to be wasting your time.”
Vincent knew that Dien van den Beek merely voiced the opinion of the village, and that to the provincial mind the words artist and worker were mutually exclusive. He gave up caring what the people thought, and ceased to see them when he passed them on the street. When their distrust of him had come to a positive climax, an accident happened that put him back in favour.
Anna Cornelia broke her leg on getting out of the train at Helmond. She was rushed home immediately. Although the doctor did not tell the family so, he feared for her life. Vincent threw aside his work without a second thought. His experience in the Borinage had made him an excellent nurse. The doctor watched him for a half hour and then said, “You are better than a woman; your mother will be in excellent hands.”
The people of Nuenen, who could be as kind in times of a crisis as they could be cruel in times of boredom, came to the vicarage with dainties and books and comforting thoughts. They stared at Vincent in utter amazement; he changed the bed without moving his mother, bathed and fed her, took care of the cast on her leg. At the end of two weeks, the village had completely revised its opinion of him. He spoke to them in their own language when they came; they discussed how best to avoid bed sores, what foods a sick person should eat, how warm the room should be kept. Talking to him thus and understanding him, they decided that he was a human being after all. When his mother felt a little better and he could go out to paint for a short time each day, they addressed him with a smile, and by name. He no longer felt the blinds go up a tiny fraction from the bottom, one by one, as he walked through the town.
Margot was at his side at all times. She was the only one who was not amazed at his gentleness. They were speaking in whispers in the sick room one day, when Vincent happened to remark, “The key to many things is the thorough knowledge of the human body, but it decidedly costs money to learn it. There is a very beautiful book, ‘Anatomy for Artists,’ by John Marshall, but it is very expensive.”
“Haven’t you the money to spare?”
“No, and I shan’t have until I sell something.”
“Vincent, it would make me so happy if you would let me lend you some. You know I have a regular income, and I never manage to spend it.”
“It’s good of you, Margot, but I couldn’t.”
She did not press her point, but a couple of weeks later handed him a package from The Hague. “What is it?” he asked.
“Open it and see.”
There was a little note tied on the cord. The package contained Marshall’s book; the note read FOR THE HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY OF THEM ALL.
“But this isn’t my birthday!” he exclaimed.
“No,” laughed Margot, “it’s mine! My fortieth, Vincent. You gave me a present of my life. Do be good and take it, dear. I’m so happy today, and I want you to be, too.”
They were in his studio in the garden. No one was about, only Willemien who was sitting with her mother in the house. It was late afternoon, and the falling sun pasted a slight patch of light on the whitewashed wall. Vincent fingered the book tenderly; it was the first time anyone but Theo had been so happy to help him. He threw the book on the bed and took Margot in his arms. Her eyes were slightly misty with the love of him. During the past few months they had done very little caressing in the fields; they were afraid of being seen, Margot always gave herself to his caresses so whole-heartedly, with such generous surrender. It was five months now since he had left Christine; he was a little nervous about trusting himself too far. He wanted to do nothing to injure Margot or her love for him.
He looked down into her kind brown eyes as he kissed her. She smiled at him, then closed her eyes and opened her lips slightly to receive his. They held each other tightly, their bodies fitting from mouth to toe. The bed was only a step away. Together, they sat down. In that locked embrace each forgot the loveless years that had made their lives so stark.
The sun sank and the square of light on the wall went out. The wrangle room was bathed in a mellow dusk. Margot ran her hand over Vincent’s face, strange sounds coming from her throat in the language of love. Vincent felt himself sinking into the abyss from which there is only one precipitate return. He tore himself from Margot’s arms and jumped up. He went to his easel and crumpled a piece of paper on which he had been working. There was no sound but the call of the magpie in the acacias and the tinkling bells of the cows coming home. After a moment Margot spoke, quietly and simply.
“You can if you want, dear,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, without turning about.
“Because I love you.”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
“I told you before, Vincent, the king can do no wrong!”
He dropped on one knee. Her head lay on the pillow. He noticed again the line on the right side of her mouth, that ran down to her jaw, and kissed it. He kissed the too narrow bridge of her nose, the two full nostrils, and ran his lips over the skin of her face that had gone ten years younger. In the dusk, lying receptively with her arms about his neck, she looked again the beautiful girl she must have been at twenty.
“I love you, too, Margot,” he said. “I didn’t know it before, but now I do.”
“It’s sweet of you to say that, dear.” Her voice was gentle and dreamy. “I know you like me a little. And I love you with all my heart. That satisfies me.”
He did not love her as he had loved Ursula and Kay. He did not even love her as he had loved Christine. But he felt something very tender for this woman lying so passively in his arms. He knew that love included nearly every human relationship. Something within him ached at the thought that he could feel so little for the only woman in the world who loved him unrestrainedly, and he remembered the agony he had undergone because Ursula and Kay had not returned his love. He respected Margot’s overwhelming love for him, yet in some inexplicable way he found it a trifle distasteful. Kneeling on the plank floor of the dark wrangle room, with his arms under the head of the woman who loved him just as he had loved Ursula and Kay, he at last understood why the two women had fled him.
“Margot,” he said, “my life is a poor one, but I should be very happy if you would share it with me.”
“I want to share it with you, dear.”
“We could stay right here in Nuenen. Or would you rather go away after we’re married?”
She rubbed her head against his arm, caressingly. “What is it that Ruth said? ‘Whither thou goest, I will go.’”
6
THEY WERE IN no way prepared for the storm that arose the next morning when they broke the news to their respective families. With the Van Goghs the problem was simply one of money. How could he take a wife when Theo was supporting him?
“First you must earn money and make your life straight; then you can marry,” said his father.
“If I make my life straight by wrestling with the naked truth of my craft,” replied Vincent, “the earning of money will come in due time.”
“Then you must also marry in due time. But not now!”
The disturbance in the vicarage was only a little squall compared to what was going on next door in the house of women. With five sisters, all unmarried, the Begemans could face the world in a solid front. Margot’s marriage would be a living proof to the village of the failure of the other girls. Madame Begeman thought it better that four of her daughters be kept from further unhappiness than that one of them be made happy.