“That makes him my friend too, doesn’t it?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to know an artist.”
Vincent tried to say something tender, something that would pave the way for his declaration. Ursula turned her face to him in the half shadow. The gleam from the lamp put tiny spots of light in her eyes. The oval of her face was framed in the darkness and something he could not name moved within him when he saw her red, moist lips stand out from the smooth paleness of her skin.
There was a meaningful pause. He could feel her reaching out to him, waiting for him to utter the unnecessary words of love. He wetted his lips several times. Ursula turned her head, looked into his eyes over a slightly raised shoulder, and ran out the door.
Terror stricken that his opportunity would pass, he pursued her. She stopped for a moment under the apple tree.
“Ursula, please.”
She turned and looked at him, shivering a bit. There were cold stars out. The night was black. He had left the lamp behind him. The only light came from the dim glow of the kitchen window. The perfume of Ursula’s hair was in his nostrils. She pulled the silk scarf tightly about her shoulders and crossed her arms on her chest.
“You’re cold,” he said.
“Yes. We had better go in.”
“No! Please, I . . .” He planted himself in her path.
She lowered her chin into the warmth of the scarf and looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes. “Why Monsieur Van Gogh, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I only wanted to talk to you. You see. . . I. . . that is . . .”
“Please, not now. I’m shivering.”
“I thought you should know. I was promoted today . . . I’m going forward into the lithograph room . . . it will be my second increase in a year . . .”
Ursula stepped back, unwrapped the scarf, and stood resolutely in the night, quite warm without any protection.
“Precisely what are you trying to tell me, Monsieur Van Gogh?”
He felt the coolness in her voice and cursed himself for being so awkward. The emotion in him suddenly shut down; he felt calm and possessed. He tried a number of voices in his mind and chose the one he liked best.
“I am trying to tell you, Ursula, something you know already. That I love you with all my heart and can only be happy if you will be my wife.”
He observed how startled she looked at his sudden command of himself. He wondered if he ought to take her in his arms.
“Your wife!” Her voice rose a few tones. “Why Monsieur Van Gogh, that’s impossible!”
He looked at her from under mountain crags, and she saw his eyes clearly in the darkness. “Now I’m afraid it’s I who do not . . .”
“How extraordinary that you shouldn’t know. I’ve been engaged for over a year.”
He did not know how long he stood there, or what he thought or felt. “Who is the man?” he asked dully.
“Oh, you’ve never met my fiancé? He had your room before you came. I thought you knew.”
“How would I have?”
She stood on tiptoes and peered in the direction of the kitchen. “Well, I . . . I . . . thought someone might have told you.”
“Why did you keep this from me all year, when you knew I was falling in love with you?” There was no hesitation or fumbling in his voice now.
“Was it my fault that you fell in love with me? I only wanted to be friends with you.”
“Has he been to visit you since I’ve been in the house?”
“No. He’s in Wales. He’s coming to spend his summer holiday with me.”
“You haven’t seen him for over a year? Then you’ve forgotten him! I’m the one you love now!”
He threw sense and discretion to the winds, grabbed her to him and kissed her rudely on the unwilling mouth. He tasted the moistness of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, the perfume of her hair; all the intensity of his love rose up within him.
“Ursula, you don’t love him. I won’t let you. You’re going to be my wife. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I’ll never stop until you forget him and marry me!”
“Marry you!” she cried. “Do I have to marry every man that falls in love with me? Now let go of me, do you hear, or I shall call for help.”
She wrenched herself free and ran breathlessly down the dark path. When she gained the steps she turned and spoke in a low carrying whisper that struck him like a shout.
“Red-headed fool!”
4
THE NEXT MORNING no one called him. He climbed lethargically out of bed. He shaved around his face in a circular swash, leaving several patches of beard. Ursula did not appear at breakfast. He walked downtown to Goupils. As he passed the same men that he had seen the morning before he noticed that they had altered. They looked like such lonely souls, hurrying away to their futile labours.
He did not see the laburnums in bloom nor the chestnut trees that lined the road. The sun was shining even more brightly than the morning before. He did not know it.
During the day he sold twenty épreuves d’artiste in colour of the Venus Anadyomene after Ingres. There was a big profit in these pictures for Goupils, but Vincent had lost his sense of delight in making money for the gallery. He had very little patience with the people who came in to buy. They not only could not tell the difference between good and bad art, but seemed to have a positive talent for choosing the artificial, the obvious, and the cheap.
His fellow clerks had never thought him a jolly chap, but he had done his best to make himself pleasant and agreeable. “What do you suppose is bothering the member of our illustrious Van Gogh family?” one of the clerks asked another.
“I dare say he got out of the wrong side of bed this morning.”
“A jolly lot he has to worry about. His uncle, Vincent Van Gogh, is half owner of all the Goupil Galleries in Paris, Berlin, Brussels, The Hague, and Amsterdam. The old man is sick and has no children; everyone says he’s leaving his half of the business to this chap.”
“Some people have all the luck.”
“That’s only half the story. His uncle, Hendrik Van Gogh, owns big art shops in Brussels and Amsterdam, and still another uncle, Cornelius Van Gogh, is the head of the biggest firm in Holland. Why, the Van Goghs are the greatest family of picture dealers in Europe. One day our red-headed friend in the next room will practically control Continental art!”
When Vincent walked into the dining room of the Loyers’ that night he found Ursula and her mother talking together in undertones. They stopped as soon as he came in, and left a sentence hanging in mid-air.
Ursula ran into the kitchen. “Good evening,” said Madame Loyer with a curious glint in her eye.
Vincent ate his dinner alone at the large table. Ursula’s blow had stunned but not defeated him. He simply was not going to take “no” for an answer. He would crowd the other man out of Ursula’s mind.
It was almost a week before he could catch her standing still long enough to speak to her. He had eaten and slept very little during that week; his stolidity had given way to nervousness. His sales at the gallery had dropped off considerably. The greenness had gone from his eyes and left them a pain-shot blue. He had more difficulty than ever in finding words when he wanted to speak.
He followed her into the garden after the big Sunday dinner. “Mademoiselle Ursula,” he said, “I’m sorry if I frightened you the other night.”
She glanced up at him out of large, cool eyes, as though surprised that he should have followed her.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. It was of no importance. Let’s forget it, shall we?”