Once upon a
time I fancied myself a painter.The paintings I made were good, but not
comparable to one of the greats. This carried on until I lost my muse.
Let me tell
you my story.
It begins
with a lake, upon whose shore I first met the woman who would be my muse and my
everything; though I did not know it yet. Her name is unimportant as is mine,
for this is a story of love and love is blind.
We met on
that lake shore one autumn night and got to talking about the world we lived
in. I was a youth back then, full of vigour and energy and she was as beautiful
as the sunset on a dark evening. She had violet eyes, a red mouth and perfectly
shaped teeth which showed when she smiled which was quite often.
Soon we
became lovers. I painted with gay abandon and dedicated each to her in all her
grace. However they were still lacking that spark. I did not let this bother
me.
We used to
return often to the lake on whose shore we met and we used to walk along it,
gazing at the black surface of the lake, as tranquil as could be.
Before too
long, we had started living together and I had proposed marriage to her. We
decided to get married on the shore of the lake. It was a rainy day, but we
still exchanged vows on the shore of the lake.
I should
have realized that the rain was an omen of dark things to come.
The two of
us started our married life in sweet contentment. We had a small cottage in the
village with a quaint garden where my wife grew flowers. I continued to paint
but ll my critics said my drawings lacked life, that they had no soul.
One day she
informed me that she was with child. I was overjoyed at this news and we
embraced warmly. But once again I was reminded of the rain on our wedding day.
I dismissed it as mere fancy for I did not believe in such matters of
superstition. How wrong I was will be revealed shortly.
Our child
never saw the light of day. The midwife tried all she could but she couldn't
save it. It was a girl she said but born still.
This set us
on a path which ended in misery. My wife was unable to cope with the loss of
her child and she became depressed and did not come out of her room. I tried my best to alleviate her suffering,
but my companionship seemed to make her worse. She blamed herself for the loss
of the child.
I suppose I
should have seen it coming,but I didn't. I returned home one day to find her gone.
I started to look for her. I knocked on every door in the village until finally
I went to the lake. There was a boatman upon it, casting his net. Along with the fish there came a body.
My wife had
drowned herself in the lake.
I had lost
my love, and my child in the space of a few months. I broke down, went away
from the village to my father's estate. I found I could not stay there for the
lake called to me. After spending a month there I came back to the village
where my life had fallen apart and took up residence in the same cottage I had
vacated. I used to go for walks on the shore of the lake, trying to recreate
the moment I met my wife.
After a
while, I brought my easel and paints and started painting on the shore of the
lake. I painted the trees next to the lake, the lake itself and the odd boats
that used to get launched from the shore.
I did not
notice it at first and it took one of the art critics to tell me so, but my
painting style had changed. They were technically perfect and they also had a
quality to them that they had lacke previously. My paintings were alive. They
had the spark they were missing all this time.
I realized
this was the way to keep my wife and child alive and so I painted with all the
vigour I possessed.
If you look
about the shore of the lake, you will find me there, painting. It's all I do
now. I sit and I paint, and as I paint, I feel more alive than I have ever felt
before.
The Bilge Master
