He returned to walk grimly beside me. I feared he might cry. I feared I might yet break down myself from sheer sympathy.

“How is your brother?” I rushed to ask. “The painter.” He had two brothers and three sisters. “How does he like Paris? You must be glad he finally decided to move there so you can be together again.”

“Vincent is finally adding color and light to his paintings after much urging on my part. He needed Paris. He needed to experience the new spirit of the times. The dreariness of Antwerp wasn’t beneficial to his health or his painting.” Theo spoke haltingly, as if he hadn’t fully left the pain of our previous subject behind, but was unable to resist telling me about his brother. His expression softened. Another woman, who was not already in love with a different man, would have found him handsome.

“Dries wrote about Vincent’s terrible illness and other troubles last year.” My brother was of the opinion that a lot of Vincent’s problems were caused by his stubbornness. “He has fully recovered?”

“For the time being. Unfortunately, he is prone to relapses. I wish he would rest and eat more.”

And drink less. Another tidbit I suddenly remembered from Dries.

“I must help him in any way I can.” Theo looked at me with a disconcerting longing, but he stayed on the topic of Vincent, thank heavens. “As young boys, we pledged our support and devotion to each other for the rest of our lives. We swore an oath.”

I had my favorite among my siblings, Dries, so I appreciated the sentiment. “It must be liberating to find one’s true calling.”

And to be allowed to follow that calling.

“He first chose the church.” Theo nearly smiled. “Did Dries tell you? Vincent ministered to the most wretched miners, down in the darkest shafts. He gifted away all his belongings. If he saw someone poorer than him, he gave the shirt off his own back.”

“A shining example of his faith.”

“The church expelled him for taking the teachings of the Bible to the extreme.” Theo sighed with fraternal desperation. “His idealism is more suited to painting.”

We reached my parents’ yard. Just a few more steps. “Is his art popular in Paris?”

“He will have his first sale soon, I predict. You should see his Tulip Fields. A bridge between styles, his past and his future, a new direction with light. When I first saw it, I felt as if I were witnessing color being born…” He gushed on as we went in.

He had more brotherly love in him than water in Amsterdam’s canals, and for that I liked him, but I could not love him.

“Had a pleasant walk?” Mama’s expression promised a tidal wave of questions as soon as we were in private. She wasn’t going to believe what I had to tell her. “More tea, Theo?”