I did not know what to expect from Bussum. Until we set off, I had never left Paris. But because so many of my clients had been Dutch, I learned to speak the language when my brain was still elastic and absorbent. German came easily to me as well. I honed my language skills whenever I could because it made me useful for Madam, and now I believe those same skills will make me useful for Jo.
I was not sad to let Paris go. My only fear was that if I lost my connection to the city and to Madam I would truly never see my daughter again. My fantasies of us being reunited are absurd. I know that. My girl is being raised by another mother. She must be in school by now and she does not know me, or likely even know of me. And yet I still imagine a day when we will meet again.
When I gave my notice to Madam she was sad to see me go, but also happy for me.You deserve all the kindness in the world, Claire. Please believe that.Hearing my name on her tongue reminded me that she was the one who named me. When I came to her, I still had the name the nuns bestowed on me, Espérance. It meant hope and I understood why the sisters thought to give me some. But Madam had taken one look at me and said,You don’t need hope, you need strength to survive in this world. So she named me Claire, which she told me meant clear and bright.It is the name of princesses and queens and you should always carry yourself like one.
Bussum is certainly not a city, but it is also no longer countryside. A strange in-between. There is a new train line to connect it with Amsterdam, and modern buildings have sprouted up among the much older farmhouses. It’s filled with shops, inns, and pubs. Jo was able to procure the lease on this boardinghousein the middle of town using her family connections and some of their money, though there is none of that left. We thankfully have had lodgers almost from the first day we opened. For the past month there has been a family with five children, all of them terrors who insist on bringing feral cats into the house as pets. At the same time, we have been hosting the dignified and composed Mrs. Ballot, a widow in her seventies, who has somehow never lost her temper with the little ones and always sparks wonderful conversations over tea about everything from the Bourbon succession to the poetry of Michelet.
She spends most nights out at parties and sometimes doesn’t return until dawn. Her continued zest for life is most admirable and she infects all of us with her madcap cheerfulness.
Not every guest is so self-sufficient. One of them has developed a cough that never ends, and I can tell his sickness reminds Jo of Theo. She makes him a drink of raw egg in Cognac every night before bed, the same as she did for her husband before he was sent away.
We are busy around the clock, so busy that I do not even have time to obsess over Theo’s letters. Ever since Jo revealed their existence to me I’ve been terrified that she will learn of my relationship with her husband through his writing. So far she has not mentioned anything else about them, but she’s also been so busy she may have abandoned them for now. The other reason that Jo chose this particular house in Bussum is that it is a few hundred yards away from the home of her closest friend from childhood, Anna Veth. I look forward to Anna’s visits because she is one of the few people who can raise Jo’s spirits.
“You would be happier if you went out and socialized more often,” Anna says to Jo one morning, with no small amount of judgment, while the two of them take tea after the boarders have finished their meal. “Your mind will become dull if you do not use it.”
I am cleaning dishes and also eavesdropping.
“Oh, Anna. I am so very preoccupied with keeping the child happy and healthy, and now that things are more stable with the finances of the boardinghouse I must work even harder to convince the critics and dealers here to stage an exhibition of Vincent’s paintings.”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“I need to find a way to persuade them of what Theo believed, that Vincent was representative of a whole new style of painting. I’m not alone in these thoughts. Van Eeden recently wrote that Vincent was a genius, and a saint. It is hyperbolic to be sure, but word is spreading.”
Anna does not look at all convinced. “I think there are ways to accomplish what you wish, but perhaps not how you are going about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who wouldn’t find Vincent’s story intriguing if they knew more? Van Eeden doesn’t know the half of it.” Anna scoffs. “And Theo’s story too. The gentleman who championed the madman besieged by all his nervous crises and violent fits. Isn’t it all in those letters you told me about?” My ears perk up at the mention of the correspondence.
“Those are private,” Jo bites back quickly. “And I never referred to him as mad.”
“Jo, I do not mean any offense. We are nearly as close as family. We can be frank with one another. I am only saying that Vincent is a fascinating, complicated man and the world might be interested in that. And who knows, maybe the fact that he created such beautiful art in the midst of his struggles makes it that much more intriguing for some people.”
“His struggles are something that should not be spoken of.”
“My darling, I do not know if you have a choice if you want there to be more interest. Give him a fairy tale. Make him thevillain of that fairy tale if you must, but make the story delicious to anyone who hears it, admirer of art or not. What does every so-called great artist have in common?”
“Talent,” Jo offers weakly.
“A mythology,” Anna bites back. “People want gossip. They want Caravaggio murdering the man who beat him at tennis or Turner tying himself to the mast of a ship for hours in freezing, stormy weather to capture the churning anger of the waves. Do you think anyone would have cared a speck about Lautrec if he hadn’t been a witty dwarf who was addicted to absinthe and brought his pet cormorant to parties? His paintings and drawings of dance halls and cabarets were a dime a dozen, but everyone thought he was fascinating, especially after he moved into that brothel. Make Vincent more intriguing so collectors can relish him as a doomed eccentric.”
“Who am I to do that?” Jo looks close to weeping. “I am not a storyteller.”
“You’re not an art dealer either, at least not by training, but you’re doing the work of one. What about that incident between him and Paul Gauguin in Arles?”
“Stop!” Jo cuts her off. “We mustn’t talk of that, Anna. You know that.”
My eyes volley between the women. Is this the unspeakable and gruesome thing Agostina told me Vincent did when he learned his brother was to marry Jo? Anna does not continue down that particular path.
“Talk about the artist colony he wanted to build, how he longed to be a wandering preacher. There are many ways to tell this that will help you to convince the buyers that his paintings are imbued with a much greater meaning than they can see. That is what Jan always tells me when he mentions Vincent. Show how Vincent fought against the odds. He created despite his epileptic seizures and his hallucinations and addictions. He persevered despite being crushed from within. That’s the story the artcritics want to hear, and you can give that to them on a silver platter with everything you know.”
Jo looks hollowed out and I fear that she might faint. But I can also see the wheels turning in her head. Jo loves stories and novels. Each night we trade books in front of the fire, from Ibsen’s plays to Zola’s tales of courtesans. She has a delightful openness to new ideas and concepts that break open my brain on a regular basis.
Anna presses on. “There are ways to tell this story that will not hurt Vincent’s legacy or make a mockery of your family. He truly did overcome so much. He was so troubled and passionate. That is what Jan always says.”
Anna’s husband, Jan Veth, is a painter who also works as an art critic and sometime dealer. Jo admitted to me once that she desperately wants Jan’s approval of Vincent’s work, but when he was at the boardinghouse for dinner recently, he announced very loudly that he had a difficult time appreciating the “radical nature” of Vincent’s art. He talks too much and is not particularly jovial. There is something artificial in the way he presents himself. I have known many men like Jan during my time working for Madam, men who wish to be admired and will assert their contrary opinions very loudly for that admiration.
Anna must see that Jo is wary because she quickly switches the subject.
