“It’s easy for you to say that. You’re strong; you can fight anyone. But I’m forty . . . I was born in Neunen . . . I’ve never been farther away than Eindhoven. Don’t you see, dear, I’ve never broken with anyone or anything in my life.”
“Yes, I see.”
“If it was something
Her voice sank to a whisper. He raised her chin with his first finger and held it with his thumb. There were unshed tears in her eyes.
“My dear girl,” he said. “My very dear Margot. We could live a whole life together. All you need to say is the word. Pack your clothes tonight while your family is asleep. You can hand them to me out the window. We’ll walk to Eindhoven and catch the early morning train to Paris.”
“It’s no use, dear. I’m part of them and they’re part of me. But in the end I’ll have my way.”
“Margot, I can’t bear to see you unhappy this way.”
She turned her face to him. The tears went away. She smiled. “No, Vincent, I’m happy. I got what I asked for. It’s been wonderful loving you.”
He kissed her, and on her lips he tasted the salt from the tears that had rolled down her cheek.
“It has stopped snowing,” she said a little later. “Are you going to sketch in the fields tomorrow?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Where will you be? I’ll come to you in the afternoon.”
He worked late the next day, a fur cap on his head and the linen blouse drawn tightly around his neck. The evening sky was of lilac with gold, over dark silhouettes of the cottages, between the masses of ruddy-coloured brushwood. Above, the spare black poplars rose; the foreground was of a faded and bleached green, varied by strips of black earth and pale dry reeds along the ditch edges.
Margot came walking rapidly across the field. She was wearing the same white dress in which he had first met her, with a scarf thrown over her shoulders. He noticed a faint touch of colour in her cheeks. She looked like the woman who had bloomed so beautifully under love only a few weeks back. She was carrying a small work-basket in her hands.
She flung her arms about his neck. He could feel her heart beating wildly against him. He tipped her head back and looked into the brownness of her eyes. The melancholy was gone.
“What is it?” he asked. “Has something happened?”
“No, no,” she cried, “it’s . . . it’s just that I’m happy . . . to be with you again . . .”
“But why have you come out in this light dress?”
She was silent for a moment and then said, “Vincent, no matter how far away you go, I want you always to remember one thing about me.”
“What, Margot?”
“That I loved you! Always remember that I loved you more than any other woman in your whole life.”
“Why are you trembling so?”
“It’s nothing. I was detained. That’s why I was late. Are you nearly finished?”
“In a few moments.”
“Then let me sit behind you while you work, just as I used to. You know, dear, I never wanted to be in your way, or hinder you. I only wanted you to let me love you.”
“Yes, Margot.” He could think of nothing else to say.
“Then go to work, my darling, and finish . . . so that we can go home together.” She shivered a little, drew the scarf about her, and said, “Before you begin, Vincent, kiss me just once more. The way you kissed me . . . that time . . . in your studio . . . when we were so happy in each other’s arms.”
He kissed her tenderly. She drew her dress about her and sat behind him. The sun disappeared and the short winter gloaming fell over the flat land. The quiet of the country evening engulfed them.
There was the clink of a bottle. Margot rose to her knees with a half stifled cry, then sank to the earth in a violent spasm. Vincent jumped up and flung himself before her. Her eyes were closed; across her face was spread a sardonic smile. She went through a series of quick convulsions; her body went rigid and arched backwards, with the arms flexed. Vincent bent over the bottle that was lying in the snow. A white, crystalline residue had been left just inside the mouth of the bottle. It was odourless.
He picked Margot up in his arms and ran madly across the fields. He was a kilometre away from Nuenen. He was afraid she would die before he could get her back to the village. It was just before the supper hour. People were sitting out in front of their doors. Vincent came in the far side of town and had to run through the full length of the village with Margot in his arms. He reached the Begeman house, kicked the door open with a smash of his boot, and laid Margot on the sofa in the parlour. The mother and sisters came running in.
“Margot took poison!” he cried. “I’ll get the doctor!”
He ran for the village doctor and dragged him away from his supper table. “You are sure it was strychnine?” the medical man demanded.
“It looked that way.”
“And she was still alive when you got her home?”
“Yes.”
Margot was writhing on the divan when they got there. The doctor bent over her.
