Free The Season of Migration by Nellie Hermann Page B

you want more for yourself than this?”
    Theo was quiet for a long moment, looking wistfully out over the mine, as if he were looking out over a calm sea. Finally he spoke again. “I remember when we walked together to that mill at Rijswijk. So many years ago now, it feels like a lifetime. But we agreed on so many things then, remember? We wanted the same things for our lives; we felt the same passions and excitements. We promised each other we would look after each other, we would help each other along the way.” Theo paused, and sighed. “I felt so close to you then. Now”—he turned to Vincent and met his eyes, the two brothers face-to-face—“well, I fear you’ve changed so much that you’re just not the same any longer.”
    All the way back to Mons after this, Vincent did not say a word. He was walking with a stranger who wore the suit of his brother’s skin. His face was flushed with anger; he wanted to run and to weep, but he made himself accompany his brother to his train. “I’m sorry, Vincent,” Theo said on the way back. “I know what I’ve said can’t have been easy to hear. I only thought that perhaps it might do you some good to hear some of this from me, to put an end to some of your idling. And you must know I only want happiness for you.”
    He told Vincent he should go to Etten, where their parents lived, and take some advantage of the love and kindness that waited for him there. He shook his hand, covering it with both of his, and then he turned from Vincent and disappeared onto the train to Paris.

 
    1879
    October 4, midnight
    Cuesmes, the Borinage
    Dear Theo,
    You say I am not the same any longer. The same as who? You have known me at all the stages of my life. What can a man become if he must stay the same?
    It is an outrageous claim. Do you think you are the same as you have always been? When you sat here in my room in Cuesmes, you crossed your right leg over your left and flapped your foot up and down impatiently; I’ve never seen you do that before. When you spoke, which was rare that day, you gestured widely with your pipe in your hand, wider than you ever used to. “I saw the Paris salon last month,” you said, “Breton’s latest is a masterpiece.” On the word masterpiece , your arm swept way out across from your body, as if you were unveiling a horizon.
    When I showed you my drawings, kneeling next to you in the lamplight, I watched your face; when it was at rest, it was a frown. When we were boys, your face was open and wide; I could take your hand and lead you away and you would follow me with curiosity, never fear. How many times did you hear me say that word, masterpiece , before you began to use it? Back then, your eyes were large and open fields, but now I see only narrow lanes.
    That walk to the Rijswijk mill in The Hague, yes, you were right to think of it. That was the first time you came to visit me anywhere, the first time we had ever visited together for more than a day away from home—it was the first time I had a job, my first job at the gallery, that stormy fall of 1872. I remember my room at the Rooses’ house, the rain against the window, the wind howling against the glass and down the chimney, rattling the grates in the fireplace, and you wrapped in one of my blankets, your tousle of brown hair against my pillow. I was so excited to have you there; when I walked home from Goupil’s gallery knowing that you would be waiting for me, I felt a swell of happiness in my chest. We walked the city together when I wasn’t working, ducking into cafés to escape the rain, and I bought you cups of hot tea so you would not catch cold. You were still in school then, only fifteen, but nearly a man; back in my room, that thick red carpet under our bare feet while the world wailed outside, our shirts drying over the back of my wooden desk chair, our bodies warm underneath our two