The Last Van Gogh Read Online Free PDF

No longer was I limited to the fields and small narrow streets of our village. When I was at my piano, I was in a different world; one where I was free to travel, where I felt beautiful and charming. There were only two places in the world that I felt completely at ease, my garden and my piano. In either of those places, I was not the daughter of Paul-Ferdinand Gachet. I was simply me.
    W HEN Vincent arrived that second afternoon, he did not come with a house gift or a bouquet of flowers. He simply arrived carrying his easel on his back and a box filled with paints. This time, I was the one who answered the door, as Vincent was one of those visitors that Papa did not want Madame Chevalier or Louise-Josephine to meet.
    “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. Your father said I might come over and paint in the garden….” He spoke quickly, but his French was formal and polite. From beneath the brim of his hat I could see the smoothness of his skin, the fawn-colored freckles that reminded me of a blue jay’s egg.
    “Oh, yes, of course,” I replied shyly. I touched my fingers lightly to my chest. “Father is out this afternoon. He has consultations in Paris.”
    He looked clearly disappointed not to find Papa at home.
    “Can I give him a message for you?” I asked.
    “No, that’s quite all right,” he replied.
    He looked almost childlike in the doorway. His clothes were too big for his slight build, and his voice was shaky. It was evident that he felt a bit awkward around me. He was clutching a canvas loosely at his side—tapping it gently against his thigh. It looked like it was a painting of one of the many fields behind our village church.
    “I had hoped I might be able to paint in your family’s garden,” he finally stammered. “But with your father away it’s probably not a good time.”
    “You’re welcome to come in,” I said and I felt my heart racing as the words fell from my lips. I knew I should never have made the offer, as I knew Papa would be annoyed if I let Vincent come into the house when he was not there. He would tell me it was wrong to invite a gentleman—a patient of his, no less—into the house without his supervision, but I could not help myself.
    Vincent seemed to think about my offer for a second before refusing it. “No, that’s very kind of you,” he said. “Please just tell him I came by to see if he was available for a short visit. Next time, I shall try to make more formal arrangements.”
    “Papa will be home tomorrow. Why don’t you stop by then?” I suggested. I took a few tiny steps closer to him so I could see his features from underneath the brim of his hat. The sun over the past few days had already made its mark on him. Now all that remained of his former pallor were the delicate white lines around his eyes.
    He seemed slightly uncomfortable in my presence, which made me feel strangely more confident with him. I enjoyed the fact that I did not feel intimidated, something I always felt when I was with Papa. I suddenly felt brave and let myself look straight into his eyes.
    I did not expect him to meet my gaze, but he did. His blue eyes were in stark contrast to his pale red lashes. His dark pupils were small and intense, while mine were wide-eyed and full of excitement.
    “Mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes still firmly fixed on mine. “I shall come tomorrow, then.” A small smile crept over his face. “I look forward to your gentle greeting at the door.”
    I smiled and nodded. Stepping back, my hands clutched the brass handle of the door.
    I watched as he hoisted his rucksack on his back and switched the canvas to his other arm. Again, his eyes locked with mine and my heart began to quicken once more.
    As he turned to walk toward the street, I could not refrain from staring. I could hear the patter of his shoes, the sound of the leather soles slapping against the cobblestones. There was something endearing about it. As if it were the metronome atop my piano, I could