Lust for Life

“Here, clumsy, let me do it.”

She lifted both arms above her head and worked with deft movements of every muscle of her body. She was quick in her gestures, and graceful. Vincent wanted to take her in his arms, there in the dim light of the lamp, and settle with one sure embrace this whole tortuous business. But Ursula, though she touched him frequently in the dark, never seemed to get into position for it. He held the lamp up high while she read the inscription. She was pleased, clapped her hands, rocked back on her heels. She moved so much he could never catch up with her.

“That makes him my friend too, doesn’t it?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to know an artist.”

Vincent tried to say something tender, something that would pave the way for his declaration. Ursula turned her face to him in the half shadow. The gleam from the lamp put tiny spots of light in her eyes. The oval of her face was framed in the darkness and something he could not name moved within him when he saw her red, moist lips stand out from the smooth paleness of her skin.

There was a meaningful pause. He could feel her reaching out to him, waiting for him to utter the unnecessary words of love. He wetted his lips several times. Ursula turned her head, looked into his eyes over a slightly raised shoulder, and ran out the door.

Terror stricken that his opportunity would pass, he pursued her. She stopped for a moment under the apple tree.

“Ursula, please.”

She turned and looked at him, shivering a bit. There were cold stars out. The night was black. He had left the lamp behind him. The only light came from the dim glow of the kitchen window. The perfume of Ursula’s hair was in his nostrils. She pulled the silk scarf tightly about her shoulders and crossed her arms on her chest.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“Yes. We had better go in.”

“No! Please, I . . .” He planted himself in her path.

She lowered her chin into the warmth of the scarf and looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes. “Why Monsieur Van Gogh, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I only wanted to talk to you. You see. . . I. . . that is . . .”

“Please, not now. I’m shivering.”

“I thought you should know. I was promoted today . . . I’m going forward into the lithograph room . . . it will be my second increase in a year . . .”

Ursula stepped back, unwrapped the scarf, and stood resolutely in the night, quite warm without any protection.

“Precisely what are you trying to tell me, Monsieur Van Gogh?”

He felt the coolness in her voice and cursed himself for being so awkward. The emotion in him suddenly shut down; he felt calm and possessed. He tried a number of voices in his mind and chose the one he liked best.

“I am trying to tell you, Ursula, something you know already. That I love you with all my heart and can only be happy if you will be my wife.”

He observed how startled she looked at his sudden command of himself. He wondered if he ought to take her in his arms.

“Your wife!” Her voice rose a few tones. “Why Monsieur Van Gogh, that’s impossible!”

He looked at her from under mountain crags, and she saw his eyes clearly in the darkness. “Now I’m afraid it’s I who do not . . .”

“How extraordinary that you shouldn’t know. I’ve been engaged for over a year.”

He did not know how long he stood there, or what he thought or felt. “Who is the man?” he asked dully.

“Oh, you’ve never met my fiancé? He had your room before you came. I thought you knew.”

“How would I have?”

She stood on tiptoes and peered in the direction of the kitchen. “Well, I . . . I . . . thought someone might have told you.”

“Why did you keep this from me all year, when you knew I was falling in love with you?” There was no hesitation or fumbling in his voice now.

“Was it my fault that you fell in love with me? I only wanted to be friends with you.”

“Has he been to visit you since I’ve been in the house?”

“No. He’s in Wales. He’s coming to spend his summer holiday with me.”

“You haven’t seen him for over a year? Then you’ve forgotten him! I’m the one you love now!”

He threw sense and discretion to the winds, grabbed her to him and kissed her rudely on the unwilling mouth. He tasted the moistness of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, the perfume of her hair; all the intensity of his love rose up within him.

“Ursula, you don’t love him. I won’t let you. You’re going to be my wife. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I’ll never stop until you forget him and marry me!”

“Marry you!” she cried. “Do I have to marry every man that falls in love with me? Now let go of me, do you hear, or I shall call for help.”

She wrenched herself free and ran breathlessly down the dark path. When she gained the steps she turned and spoke in a low carrying whisper that struck him like a shout.

“Red-headed fool!”

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