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Authors: Carol Wallace
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suggested forcefully that I remove myself to the riverbank. “If it’s dirt and mess you want, you’ll find it aplenty there. We’ll be finished by sunset, but you’ll have to find yourself a meal elsewhere. I did tell you this, you know.”
I was grateful at that moment that I did not have a wife. There is occasionally something intolerable in women’s obsession with order. I put on my oldest jacket and tore off a good third of a baguette I found in the kitchen, seized my fishing rod, and headed to the river as Madame Chevalier had suggested. It even bothered me that I was obeying her—but fish do come to the surface on damp days like that.
I encountered Vincent near the train station, walking slowly with his shoulders hunched against the rain. He was carrying his painting kit, but a discouraged look on his face suggested that the weather had forced him to change his plans. He had hoped to paint the cottages in the rain, but the humidity interfered with the application of pigment to the canvas. “It so rarely rains in the South,” he told me. “I feel very foolish as well as disappointed.”
I, on the other hand, was delighted to see him. A solitary afternoon beneath the willows would not have been terrible, but Vincent’s company in a rowboat—that would be quite charming.
It was not easy to persuade him to join me. I had to walk back to Ravoux’s with him and beg the loan of a large umbrella so that Vincent could still sketch on the boat in the rain. He refused to have anything to do with a fishing rod. Then at the landing stage, where I rented a boat for a paltry sum—there was certainly no one else out that day—Vincent balked at stepping into the craft. One does not want to laugh in such a situation, for he was masking genuine fear, but his almost childish apprehension was comical. Once we were launched, he seemed consoled by my obvious competence at the oars—at least he could be sure I would not overturn the boat—and before long he was intrigued by the entirely new vantage point provided by the little craft. For my part, I was pleased for once to be the expert, showing him how to sit in the center of the boat, pointing out little landmarks like the river otters’ den. Paul had long since seen everything and sometimes attempted to snub me in similar circumstances, but Vincent was much more receptive. Bit by bit, his apprehension diminished. Then he confessed: “I cannot swim, you know.”
“The river is shallow. And I would have thought you Dutchmen were all at home on the water.”
He laughed. “You know, even fishermen often can’t swim. Imagine what a predicament! Spending your time on the open water, every day, in every weather, always aware that it can kill you.”
“The Oise cannot kill you,” I remember saying, not entirely truthfully. A hip bath can kill you, if you want it to. I shipped the oars and prepared to bait my hook. Vincent watched intently. Then I dropped the hook overboard and let it drift in the current.
“Is that all you do?” he asked.
I was surprised. “Yes.”
“I was expecting nets, I think,” Vincent said. Then he began to laugh. “But that would be ridiculous! I was thinking of ocean fishing, where men go out to sea and put their lives at risk!”
I had to laugh with him. “That being the case, you were very brave to get into this boat with me.”
“That was certainly my opinion!”
This short exchange put us on a new footing. We were companions rather than doctor and patient. Vincent refused to bait the hook, claiming that he could not bear to be cruel to the earthworm, but he took his turn with the rod and reeled in a fairly respectable perch, which he then sketched, lying on the flat seat between us. I wish I knew what had become of that drawing. I suppose those notebooks went back to Holland with Johanna.
“Do you ever paint still lifes?” I asked Vincent, as he admired his catch. I had seen flower paintings at Tanguy’s in Paris, but I
I was grateful at that moment that I did not have a wife. There is occasionally something intolerable in women’s obsession with order. I put on my oldest jacket and tore off a good third of a baguette I found in the kitchen, seized my fishing rod, and headed to the river as Madame Chevalier had suggested. It even bothered me that I was obeying her—but fish do come to the surface on damp days like that.
I encountered Vincent near the train station, walking slowly with his shoulders hunched against the rain. He was carrying his painting kit, but a discouraged look on his face suggested that the weather had forced him to change his plans. He had hoped to paint the cottages in the rain, but the humidity interfered with the application of pigment to the canvas. “It so rarely rains in the South,” he told me. “I feel very foolish as well as disappointed.”
I, on the other hand, was delighted to see him. A solitary afternoon beneath the willows would not have been terrible, but Vincent’s company in a rowboat—that would be quite charming.
It was not easy to persuade him to join me. I had to walk back to Ravoux’s with him and beg the loan of a large umbrella so that Vincent could still sketch on the boat in the rain. He refused to have anything to do with a fishing rod. Then at the landing stage, where I rented a boat for a paltry sum—there was certainly no one else out that day—Vincent balked at stepping into the craft. One does not want to laugh in such a situation, for he was masking genuine fear, but his almost childish apprehension was comical. Once we were launched, he seemed consoled by my obvious competence at the oars—at least he could be sure I would not overturn the boat—and before long he was intrigued by the entirely new vantage point provided by the little craft. For my part, I was pleased for once to be the expert, showing him how to sit in the center of the boat, pointing out little landmarks like the river otters’ den. Paul had long since seen everything and sometimes attempted to snub me in similar circumstances, but Vincent was much more receptive. Bit by bit, his apprehension diminished. Then he confessed: “I cannot swim, you know.”
“The river is shallow. And I would have thought you Dutchmen were all at home on the water.”
He laughed. “You know, even fishermen often can’t swim. Imagine what a predicament! Spending your time on the open water, every day, in every weather, always aware that it can kill you.”
“The Oise cannot kill you,” I remember saying, not entirely truthfully. A hip bath can kill you, if you want it to. I shipped the oars and prepared to bait my hook. Vincent watched intently. Then I dropped the hook overboard and let it drift in the current.
“Is that all you do?” he asked.
I was surprised. “Yes.”
“I was expecting nets, I think,” Vincent said. Then he began to laugh. “But that would be ridiculous! I was thinking of ocean fishing, where men go out to sea and put their lives at risk!”
I had to laugh with him. “That being the case, you were very brave to get into this boat with me.”
“That was certainly my opinion!”
This short exchange put us on a new footing. We were companions rather than doctor and patient. Vincent refused to bait the hook, claiming that he could not bear to be cruel to the earthworm, but he took his turn with the rod and reeled in a fairly respectable perch, which he then sketched, lying on the flat seat between us. I wish I knew what had become of that drawing. I suppose those notebooks went back to Holland with Johanna.
“Do you ever paint still lifes?” I asked Vincent, as he admired his catch. I had seen flower paintings at Tanguy’s in Paris, but I
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