White Blood | Klaus Mikaelson

Chapter Fifteen

1872 — Lourmarin, France

    By the countryside, with a tinsel and a paintbrush in hand, Eleanor met a young Dutch man by the name of Vincent van Gogh. His paintings were filled with colours, which Eleanor loved. He mixed his paintings on a wooden pallet, which was already covered in many different shades of colours of dried paint from the past. She found it all fascinating, and spent the afternoons with him and Thomas on a filed while admiring both boys as they did what they enjoyed most. To her surprise, Vincent spoke as he painted, a soft smile on his lips.

   He told her about his life: his full name was Vincent Willem van Gogh, he was born in Groot-Zundert, Netherlands on March 30, 1853. His father was an austere country minister and his mother was a moody artist whose love for nature, drawing, and watercolour was transferred to him. He was born exactly one year after his parents first son, also named Vincent, who was a stillbirth. At a young age—his name and birthdate already etched on his dead brother's headstone—he was melancholy. He had several siblings, but he was closest to a younger brother named Theo. At the moment, he worked for a travelling art dealer, which was the reason why he was in Lourmarin.

   "What are you painting now, Vincent?" Eleanor asked, coming up behind him to look at the canvas that as filled with spluttering colours.

   "Yellow," he responded, taking a step back from the canvas.

   All that Eleanor saw was yellow, different shades of it collected in the canvas and created wonderful designs. The sun rested on the centre of the canvas, and bellow it a field of flowers of all colours. There was a single figure on the painting, and that was Eleanor with her arms spread and her head looking up.

   "Is that me?" she asked with a grin, glancing back at the painter.

   Vincent's cheeks reddened as he nodded. "Yes," he responded. "You remind me a lot of the colour yellow."

   "Why is that?" she said, tilting her head to the side with curious eyes. 

   "Your hair is yellow," he said, "like gold glimmering with the sunshine. Your eyes, they're a cold blue, Miss Eleanor. They're a tundra, like water spilling from a glass and onto the ground. Your eyes, Miss Eleanor, are cold and broken yet filled with a single speck of life—the yellow. You, yourself, are yellow. There's a sign of happiness inside of you, so big and strong and the possibilities for it to burn brighter and change onto red, but it's yellow. Oh, a pleasant yellow like the stars, like fire on a cold night."

   Eleanor Fraser was at lost for words. Vincent van Gogh's words were surprising, as if he should have been a writer instead of working for his uncle's company or painting for a hobby. She let out a small smile, leaned closer to the man, and laid a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Your words are just as beautiful as your art," she said. 

   "No, no!" he suddenly said, shaking his head and his hands. "No, my art isn't beautiful. It's just simple, a hobby, nothing more."

   "My dearest Vincent," she said with a grin, "if this art isn't beautiful then I don't know what you consider beautiful. Beauty comes in different ways, and yours is a splendour."

   "You remind me of sunflowers," the redheaded man uttered, with cheeks just a red as his hair. 

   Eleanor let out a chuckle and nodded. "Thank you, Vincent. I consider that a compliment."

   "How much for the painting, my dear friend?" Thomas asked, walking up to the pair with a grin. "I must say, it's a wonderful painting and I need to buy it!"

   "It's a gift!" Vincent said with a grin. He took the painted canvas and handed it to Thomas, nodding. "It's a gift, Mr. Cummings."

   "No, no," Thomas chuckled. "I insist to pay for a wonderful piece of work, Vincent. How about a hundred and thirty francs?"