The next morning, our ordeal began. I arranged a chair for the Baron, where the strong light fell on his face. My father sat opposite him. We had decided that the support should be ivory, which had proved to be ideal since the beginning of the eighteenth century. I sat in a corner watching. I was memorizing every line of his face, the sensuous lips which could be cruel, the rather magnificent highbrow and the strong blonde hair springing from his head.
He had told us that the Completed miniature would be set in gold and the frame should be studded with diamonds and sapphires. For that reason, he wore a blue coat, and it certainly accentuated his coloring, it even put a hint of blue into the Grey eyes.
My fingers itched to hold the brush. I was deeply aware of my father. He worked quietly and without apparent tension. I wondered whether he knew how much he could not see.
This morning would tell us a great deal, whether it was possible to carry out this plan or not. I was not sure what sort of miniature I could do from memory or from my father's work. I was sure I could have made a superb portrait if I could have gone about it in the normal way. I would bring out his arrogance. I would capture that look which suggested that the whole world was his. I would paint in a little of the animosity I felt towards him. I would make a portrait which was absolutely him… And he might not like it.
He talked while my father worked and mainly to me.
Had I been to the Bavarian court with my father? I told him I had not. He raised his eyebrows as though asking why not, since you came to Normandy?
"Then you did not see the picture of the Grafin and her inner beauty?"
"I very much regret not having seen it."
"I feel I have met you before. It must be in the miniature of the unknown woman."
I suddenly feel she is unknown no longer.
"How is it going, Monsieur Collison? Am I a good sitter? I look forward to seeing the work as it progresses."
"It is going well," said my father.
"And," I added, "we make a rule that no one sees a miniature before it is finished."
"I don't know if I shall agree with that rule."
"I am afraid it is necessary. You must give a painter a free hand to do what he wishes. To have your criticism now would be disastrous." I said.
"What if it were praise?"
"That, too, would be unwise."
"Do you allow your daughter to lay down the rules, Monsieur Collison?"
"It is my rule," said my father.
He told me then about certain painting he possessed, not all miniature by any means.
"How I shall enjoy gloating over my treasures to you, Mademoiselle Collison," he added.
After an hour, my father laid down his brush. He had done enough for the morning, he said. Moreover, he guessed the Baron must be tired of sitting.
The Baron rose and stretched himself, confessing that it was unusual for him to sit so long at one time.
"How many sittings shall you need? He asked.
"I cannot say as yet," replied my father.
"Well, I must insist that Mademoiselle Collison remains with us so that she may divert me," he said.
"Very well," I replied, perhaps too eagerly. "I shall be there."
He bowed and left us.
I looked at my father. I thought he seemed exhausted. He said. "The light is so strong."
"It is what we must have."
I studied the work he had done. It was not bad, but I could detect an unsure stroke here and there.
I said. "I have been studying him closely. I know his face well. I am sure I can work from what you have done and what I know of him. I think I had better start immediately and perhaps work as soon as he has gone so that I have the details clearly in my mind. We'll have to see how it goes. It will not be easy to work without a living model.
I started my picture. I could see his face clearly, and it was almost as though he were sitting there. I was revealing in my work. I must get that faint hint of blue reflection from the coat into those cold, steely eyes. I could see those eyes. . . Alight with feeling… Love of power, of course… Lust yes, there was sensuality about the mouth in abundance. Buccaneer, I thought. Norseman pirate. It was there in his face. "Ha! Rollo!"
I don't think I ever enjoyed painting anyone as much as I enjoyed painting him. It was because of ten unusual methods, I suspected, and because I had a strong feeling of dislike for him. It was a great help to feel strongly about the subject. It seemed to breathe life into the paint.
My father watched me while I worked.
I laid down my brush at length, "Oh, father," I said.
"I do want this to be a great success. I want to delude him. I want him to have the Collison of all Collisons."
"if only we can work this together…" said my father, his face breaking up in a helpless sort of way which made me wish to rock him in my arms.
What a tragedy! To be a great artist and unable to paint..
It was a good morning work, and I was very pleased with it.
After the food which my father and I took as Bertrand had been summoned to go off somewhere with the Baron and Nicole, I suggested that my father take a rest. He looked tired, and I knew that the morning's work had been more than a strain on his eyes.
I conducted him to his room, settled him on his bed and then, taking a sketch pad with me as I often did, I went out.
I went down to the moat and sat there. I thought of how Bertrand and I had come here and how we had talked and what a pleasant day it had been. I hoped we should see more of each other. He was so different from the Baron. So kind and gentle. I could not understand why women like Nicole could demean themselves as she had done for the sake of men like the Baron. I found him far from attractive. Of course, he had great power and power was said to be irresistible to some women. Personally, I hated all that arrogance. The more I saw of the Baron, the better I liked Bertrand.
It seemed to me that he had all the graces. He was elegant, charming and, above all, kindly and thoughtful for others, qualities entirely lacking in the mighty Baron. Bertrand's task had been to put us at our ease on our arrival and this he had done with such perfection that we had become good friends in a very short time, and instinct told me that our friendship had every chance of deepening.
While I had been thinking, I had been idly sketching, and my page was full of pictures of the Baron. It was understandable that he should occupy my thoughts, as I had to paint a miniature of him in a manner I reckoned no miniature had ever been painted before.
There he was in the center of my page, a bloodthirsty Viking in a winged helmet, nostrils flaring, the light of lust in his eyes, his mouth curved in a cruel and triumphant smile. I could almost hear his voice shouting. I wrote below the sketch, 'Ha! Rollo'.
Round the page were other sketches of him… In profile and in full face. I wanted to know that face from every angel and in several moods. I had to imagine those I had, those I had not seen.
Then suddenly I heard a laugh and, turning sharply, I saw him. He was leaning over my shoulder. His hand shot out, and he took the paper from me.
I stammered, "I didn't hear you."
"My grass is thick and luxuriant here by the moat. I confess, seeing you there so absorbed, sketching away… I crept up to see what could be of such interest to you.".
"Give it to me," I commanded.
"Oh no. It's mine. Mon-Dieu, you are a very fine artist, Mademoiselle. Ha! Rollo. Why, that is magnificent."
I held out my hand pleadingly.
"I feel as though I have been stripped bare," he said accusingly, but his eyes had lost their steely grey. He was amused and pleased. "I did not realize that you knew me so well," he went on, "and to draw this without a model! Why, you are a draughtsman, Mademoiselle. I often say that the reason so many artists today are mediocre is that they never learned how to draw. How did you come to know me so well?"
"I don't know you. I know a little of your face. But I was with you this morning during the sitting."
"I noticed how you kept your gimlet eye on me. Mademoiselle Collison, you should be painting a miniature of me."
"That is for my father," I said. "You can destroy that paper."
"Destroy it! Never! It's too good for that. I shall keep it. It will always remind me of you, Mademoiselle Collison. I have something else to remind me, too. The miniature of which I was telling you. You must see it. I can't wait any longer to show it to you."
He held out a hand to help me to my feet.
"I said: My father is resting. I thought he should do so."
"Well, after a trying morning," he said almost mischievously. "Now you and I will go and see the miniatures, shall we? I refuse to wait a moment longer before showing you your double."
I went with him into the castle. He was carrying my sketch-pad. Fortunately, there was nothing else on it but a few sketches of trees and the moat.
"He took me to a part of the castle where I had not been before."
"This section was restored in the mid-eighteenth century," he told me. "It's rather elegant, don't you think?"
"I agreed it was. Entirely French," I commented, and I could not help adding: "Rather different from the comparatively crude aspect of Norman architecture."
'Precisely,' he replied, 'but lacking the antiquity. Why, it is not a hundred years old yet. So modern! But a fine piece of architecture all the same. What do you think of the furniture? It was made by Gourdin and Blanchard Garnier.'
'Delightful,' I said.
'Come with me.' He opened a door, and we were in a small chamber, the ceiling of which was painted with a celestial scene. Angels floated across a heaven of exquisite blue dotted with golden stars.
The walls were paneled, and on these hung the miniatures. There must have been about fifty of them, all exquisite and of great value. They were of all periods dating back to the early fourteenth century, and many of them were on supports of vellum and parchment, metal, slate, and wood which was largely used at that time.
'They are beautiful,' I cried.
'I think so, too. It's a delightful expression of art. More difficult to execute, I imagine, than a large canvas. The artist must be restricted. You must have very keen eyes for such work.' He hesitated, and my heart started to beat very fast.
For a moment, I thought: He knows! Then he went on: 'I should have liked to be a painter myself, Mademoiselle Collison. I love art. I understand it. I can criticize it… see what is wrong… even feel I know how it should have been done… but I can't paint. That's rather a tragedy, don't you think?
'You are an artist manqué,' I said. 'Yes, I do think that is rather sad. It's better, I think, to be born without the urge to paint than to have it and not be able to use it.'
'I knew you would understand. I lack the divine spark. Is that what it is? I could mix the paints. I have an eye for colour... but alas, the spirit which makes painting great is lacking. But let me show you my Unknown Woman.'
He took me to it, and I was startled. It could have been a painting of me. The reddish tint in the fine abundant hair escaping from the jewelled snood which held it, the tawny eyes. . . The firm chin. . . They might well have been mine. The Unknown Woman, dressed in green velvet, and the colour of the dress brought out this striking tint in her hair.
He laid a hand on my shoulder, "There! Now you see what I mean."
"It's extraordinary," I agreed. "And it really is a Collison?"
He nodded.
"Nobody knows which one. You tiresome people always call yourselves K. If only you had had a variety of initials, what a lot of trouble you would have saved."
I couldn't stop looking at the picture.
"It's always been a favorite of mine." he said. "Now I need no longer call it the Unknown Woman. It now have a name for me: Mademoiselle Kate Collison."
"Have you had it long?"
"It has always been in the family collection for as long as I can remember," I think in the past, one of my ancestors must have been on very friendly terms with one of yours. Why otherwise should he have wanted a miniature of the lady? It's a very interesting thought, don't you agree?"
"it could have come into his possession in some other way. You don't know the identity of several of the people portrayed, I am sure. It is certainly a collection you can be proud of."
"I shall hope to add two more to it shortly."
" I thought the one, my father was painting, was for your bride-elect? I asked.