Read Online The Last Van Gogh by Alyson Richman - Free Book Online
Authors: Alyson Richman
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three men went into the parlor. I could hear Paul saying he was going to play a piece by Bach. It was an ambitious choice on my brother’s part, and I knew he had chosen it because he wished to impress not only Vincent, but Papa as well. He was starving for Papa to notice him (something I had long given up on) and hoped that though Papa failed to notice his paintings, perhaps he would take notice of his piano playing.
But the piece was far too difficult for him. He hadn’t been able to practice when he was away at school and the selection he made required tremendous precision. I wished that I could have taken him aside and gently suggested that he choose something a little easier for such a spontaneous recital. But I had been so busy and preoccupied over the week with the cooking and cleaning of the house that I hadn’t had the chance. Later on, I would feel guilty that I hadn’t been more inquisitive, that I had not asked him what music he was planning to perform. Certainly, had I known it was Bach, I would have tried to encourage him to perform something less complicated.
But it was too late. By the time I walked into our living room he had already taken his seat at the keyboard. His nervousness must have gotten the best of him, for as he played his fingers shook like fluttering pine needles and he was incapable of striking all the correct notes.
It was painful to watch. It was equally painful to listen to. Knowing that he was failing publicly—in the eyes of my father and his esteemed artist guest—Paul’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. His ears turned scarlet as well, and it looked as though he might faint from the sound of his own blundering at the keys. When he finally finished, I tried to clap as hard as I could. But it was little consolation. He sat sulking as I stepped up to the piano to play Chopin’s Impromptu, which I had practiced each day since Vincent first arrived in Auvers.
I settled myself at the piano. If I looked to my left, I could see both Vincent and Papa reflected in the gilded mirror on the wall so I looked straight ahead toward my sheet music and the point of the metronome just beyond.
Papa let out a small cough and I knew he was signaling for me to begin.
I smoothed out my dress and placed my fingers at the keys. I placed my foot on the pedal and took one last, deep breath.
I began tentatively, cautiously approaching the first few notes, but soon I forgot that I was playing for an audience and the melody took over.
No longer did I need to read the music; I knew each stanza by heart. My body swayed as I connected each note. My diaphragm rose—my breasts lifted—as I breathed and exhaled into the melody. I felt as though I were a fir tree shaking off a winter’s worth of snow.
The crescendo approached and as I struck the final notes, I felt a few stray locks of hair come loose from my chignon. They fell over my eyes and I fought hard not to push them back.
My fingers now felt as though they were being pulled by a spirit not their own. With lightning speed they danced over the keys.
Vincent was already on his feet clapping as I lifted my foot off the pedal.
“Such artistic passion,” I heard him gush. He was clapping so feverishly that even Papa seemed embarrassed by his guest’s enthusiasm and his sheer inability to mask his delight.
When I sat down, I could feel Paul’s eyes glaring at me. He wouldn’t be showing Vincent his paintings, and I felt sorry for my little brother. He had wanted so desperately to impress our guest.
“I NEED to get a tincture for Vincent,” Papa whispered to me after the recital. “Your brother is clearly upset about his performance. Why don’t you take Vincent to the parlor and entertain him for a few minutes…. I’ll only be a moment.”
Papa’s suggestion took me by surprise but I could not protest. After all, wasn’t this what I had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with him?
I motioned for Vincent to follow me into the
But the piece was far too difficult for him. He hadn’t been able to practice when he was away at school and the selection he made required tremendous precision. I wished that I could have taken him aside and gently suggested that he choose something a little easier for such a spontaneous recital. But I had been so busy and preoccupied over the week with the cooking and cleaning of the house that I hadn’t had the chance. Later on, I would feel guilty that I hadn’t been more inquisitive, that I had not asked him what music he was planning to perform. Certainly, had I known it was Bach, I would have tried to encourage him to perform something less complicated.
But it was too late. By the time I walked into our living room he had already taken his seat at the keyboard. His nervousness must have gotten the best of him, for as he played his fingers shook like fluttering pine needles and he was incapable of striking all the correct notes.
It was painful to watch. It was equally painful to listen to. Knowing that he was failing publicly—in the eyes of my father and his esteemed artist guest—Paul’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. His ears turned scarlet as well, and it looked as though he might faint from the sound of his own blundering at the keys. When he finally finished, I tried to clap as hard as I could. But it was little consolation. He sat sulking as I stepped up to the piano to play Chopin’s Impromptu, which I had practiced each day since Vincent first arrived in Auvers.
I settled myself at the piano. If I looked to my left, I could see both Vincent and Papa reflected in the gilded mirror on the wall so I looked straight ahead toward my sheet music and the point of the metronome just beyond.
Papa let out a small cough and I knew he was signaling for me to begin.
I smoothed out my dress and placed my fingers at the keys. I placed my foot on the pedal and took one last, deep breath.
I began tentatively, cautiously approaching the first few notes, but soon I forgot that I was playing for an audience and the melody took over.
No longer did I need to read the music; I knew each stanza by heart. My body swayed as I connected each note. My diaphragm rose—my breasts lifted—as I breathed and exhaled into the melody. I felt as though I were a fir tree shaking off a winter’s worth of snow.
The crescendo approached and as I struck the final notes, I felt a few stray locks of hair come loose from my chignon. They fell over my eyes and I fought hard not to push them back.
My fingers now felt as though they were being pulled by a spirit not their own. With lightning speed they danced over the keys.
Vincent was already on his feet clapping as I lifted my foot off the pedal.
“Such artistic passion,” I heard him gush. He was clapping so feverishly that even Papa seemed embarrassed by his guest’s enthusiasm and his sheer inability to mask his delight.
When I sat down, I could feel Paul’s eyes glaring at me. He wouldn’t be showing Vincent his paintings, and I felt sorry for my little brother. He had wanted so desperately to impress our guest.
“I NEED to get a tincture for Vincent,” Papa whispered to me after the recital. “Your brother is clearly upset about his performance. Why don’t you take Vincent to the parlor and entertain him for a few minutes…. I’ll only be a moment.”
Papa’s suggestion took me by surprise but I could not protest. After all, wasn’t this what I had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with him?
I motioned for Vincent to follow me into the
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