“Kay, why do you run away from me when I love you so? Can’t you see, I’ve got to have you. You love me too, Kay. Don’t be frightened. I’m only saying that I love you. We’ll forget the past, Kay, and begin a new life.”
The look of horror turned to hatred in Kay’s eyes. She wrenched her hand away from him. Jan was now fully awake. The fierce, impassioned look on Vincent’s face frightened the child, and the tumultuous words pouring from the strange man’s lips put him into a terror. He flung his arms about his mother’s neck and began to cry.
“Kay, dear, can’t you say that you love me just a little bit?”
Once again she ran across the field towards the road. Vincent sat there in the soft sand, stunned. Kay gained the road and disappeared. Vincent picked himself up and dashed after her, calling her name at the top of his voice. When he got to the road, he saw her a long way down, still running, the child clasped to her bosom. He stopped. He watched them vanish at a turning. He stood there quietly for a long time. Then he recrossed the field. He picked up his sketches from the ground. They were slightly dirty. He put the lunch things into the basket, strapped his easel to his back, and trudged wearily home.
The parsonage was thick with tension; Vincent felt it the moment he entered the door. Kay had locked herself in her room with Jan. His mother and father were alone in the sitting room. They had been talking, but stopped abruptly when he entered; he could feel half a sentence suspended in mid-air. He closed the door behind him. He saw that his father must be frightfully angry, for the lid of his right eye was almost closed.
“Vincent, how could you?” wailed his mother.
“How could I what?” He was not sure precisely what they were reproaching him for.
“Insult your cousin that way!”
Vincent could think of no answer to this. He unstrapped the easel from his back and placed it in a corner. His father was still too wrought up to speak.
“Did Kay tell you exactly what happened?” he asked.
His father loosened the high collar that was cutting into the red flesh of his neck. His right hand gripped the edge of the table.
“She told us that you threw your arms about her and raved like a madman.”
“I told her I loved her,” said Vincent quietly. “I don’t quite see how that’s an insult.”
“Is that all you told her?” His father’s tone was icy.
“No. I asked her to be my wife.”
“Your wife!”
“Yes. What is so astonishing about that?”
“Oh, Vincent, Vincent,” said his mother, “how could you even think of such a thing?”
“Surely you must have been thinking too . . .”
“But how could I ever dream you would fall in love with her?”
“Vincent,” said his father, “do you realize that Kay is your first cousin?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You can’t marry your first cousin. That would be . . . that would be . . .”
The dominie couldn’t even bring himself to pronounce the word. Vincent went to the window and stared out over the garden.
“What would it be?”
“Incest!”
Vincent controlled himself with an effort. How dare they muck over his love with second-hand words?
“That is sheer nonsense, Father, and completely unworthy of you.”
“I tell you it would be incest!” shouted Theodorus. “I won’t allow that sinful relation in the Van Gogh family.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re quoting the Bible, Father? Cousins have always been allowed to marry.”
“Oh, Vincent, my dear,” said his mother, “if you did love her, why didn’t you wait? Her husband is dead only a year. She still loves him devoutly. And you know you have no money to support a wife.”
“I consider what you have done,” said his father, “as distinctly premature and indelicate.”
Vincent recoiled. He fumbled for his pipe, held it in his hand for a moment, and then put it back.
“Father, I must ask you firmly and decidedly not to use such expressions any more. My love for Kay is the finest thing that has ever happened to me. I won’t have you calling it indelicate and premature.”
He snatched up his easel and went to his room. He sat on the bed and asked himself, “What has happened? What have I done? I told Kay that I loved her and she ran away. Why? Doesn’t she want me?”
He spent the night tormenting himself by going over and over the scene. Always he ended at the same spot. That little sentence sounded in his ears like his death knell and his doom.
It was late the following morning before he could bring himself to go downstairs. The air of tension had been cleared away. His mother was in the kitchen. She kissed him when he came in, and patted his cheek sympathetically for a moment.
“Did you sleep, dear?” she asked.
“Where is Kay?”
“Father drove her to Breda.”
“Why?”
“To catch a train. She’s going home.”
“To Amsterdam?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“She thought it would be better, Vincent.”
“Did she leave a message for me?”
“No, dear. Won’t you sit down to your breakfast?”
“No word at all? About yesterday? Was she angry with me?”
“No, she just thought she’d go home to her parents.”
