Margot did not accompany him to the weavers that day. Late in the afternoon she came to the studio. Her eyes were puffy and swollen; she looked more her forty years than ever before. She held him close for a moment in a sort of desperate embrace.
“They’ve been abusing you frightfully all day,” she said. “I never knew a man could be so many bad things and still live.”
“You should have expected that.”
“I did. But I had no idea they would attack you so viciously.”
He put his arm about her gently and kissed her cheek. “Just leave them to me,” he said. “I’ll come in tonight after supper. Perhaps I can persuade them that I’m not such an awful person.”
As soon as he set foot in the Begeman house he knew that he was in strange, alien territory. There was something sinister about the atmosphere created by six women, an atmosphere never broken by a masculine voice or footstep.
They led him into the parlour. It was cold and musty. There had not been people in it for months. Vincent knew the four sisters’ names, but he had never taken the trouble to attach the names to the faces. They all seemed like caricatures of Margot. The eldest sister, who ran the household, took it upon herself to manage the inquisition.
“Margot tells us that you wish to marry her. May one presume to ask what has happened to your wife in The Hague?”
Vincent explained about Christine. The atmosphere of the parlour went several degrees colder.
“How old are you, Mijnheer Van Gogh?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Has Margot told you that she is . . .”
“I know Margot’s age.”
“May one presume to ask how much money you earn?”
“I have a hundred and fifty francs a month.”
“What is the source of that income?”
“My brother sends it to me.”
“You mean your brother supports you?”
“No. He pays me a monthly salary. In return he gets everything I paint.”
“How many of them does he sell?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Well, I can. Your father tells me he has never sold one of your pictures yet.”
“He will sell them later. They will bring him in many times as much as they would now.”
“That is problematical, to say the least. Suppose we discuss the facts.”
Vincent studied the hard, unbeautiful face of the elder sister. He could expect no sympathy from that quarter.
“If you don’t earn anything,” she continued, “may one be allowed to ask how you expect to support a wife?”
“My brother chooses to gamble a hundred and fifty francs a month on me; that’s his affair, not yours. For me it remains a salary. I work very hard to earn it. Margot and I could live on that salary if we managed carefully.”
“But we wouldn’t have to!” cried Margot. “I have enough to take care of myself.”
“Be quiet, Margot!” commanded her eldest sister.
“Remember, Margot,” said her mother, “I have the power to stop that income if you ever do anything to disgrace the family name!”
Vincent smiled. “Would marrying me be a disgrace?” he asked.
“We know very little about you, Mijnheer Van Gogh, and that little is unfortunate. How long have you been a painter?”
“Three years.”
“And you are not successful yet. How long will it take you to become successful?”
“I don’t know.”
“What were you before you took up painting?”
“An art dealer, teacher, book-seller, divinity student and evangelist.”
“And you failed at all of them?”
“I gave them up.”
“Why?”
“I was not suited to them.”
“How long will it take you to give up painting?”
“He’ll never do that!” exclaimed Margot.
“It seems to me, Mijnheer Van Gogh,” said the old sister, “that you are presumptuous in wanting to marry Margot. You’re hopelessly
Vincent reached for his pipe, then put it back again. “Margot loves me and I love her. I can make her happy. We would live here for another year or so and then go abroad. She will never receive anything but kindness and love from me.”
“You’ll desert her!” cried one of the other sisters who had a shriller voice. “You’ll get tired of her and desert her for some bad woman like the one in The Hague!”
“You just want to marry her for her money!” said another.
“But you won’t get it,” announced the third. “Mother will turn the allowance back into the estate.”
Tears came to Margot’s eyes. Vincent rose. He realized that there was no use wasting time on these viragoes. He would simply have to marry Margot in Eindhoven and leave for Paris immediately. He did not want to go away from the Brabant yet; his work was not finished there. But he shuddered when he thought of leaving Margot alone in that house of barren women.
