The Lady and the Unicorn

by Tracy Chevalier

  ‘Ah, yes, the painting. Luckily I have my own brushes with me. I wouldn't trust a Brussels brush — if I painted my unicorn with one it would probably look like a horse!’

  I knelt by the paintings — it kept me from kicking him. ‘Have you ever drawn or painted cartoons?’

  Nicolas stopped smirking. He doesn't like to be reminded of what he does not know.

  ‘Tapestries are very different from paintings,’ I said. ‘Artists who haven't worked on them don't understand this. They think that whatever they paint can simply be made bigger and woven just as they have made it. But looking at a tapestry is not like looking at a painting. A painting is usually smaller so that you can see everything at once. You don't stand up close, but a step or two back, as if it is a priest or a teacher. With a tapestry you stand close as you would to a friend. You see only a part of it, and not necessarily the most important part. So no thing should stand out more than the rest, but fit together into a pattern that your eye takes pleasure in no matter where it rests. These paintings don't have that pattern in them. The millefleur background will help, but we will still have to change them.’

  ‘How?’ Nicolas said.

  ‘Add things. More figures, for a start. The Lady should at least be attended by a lady-in-waiting, n'est-ce pas? Someone to hold carnations for her as she weaves them in Smell, or to work the bellows of her organ in Sound, or to hold out a bowl of something for her to feed to the parakeet in Taste. You have a servant holding the jewellery casket in À Mon Seul Désir. Why not in the others?’

  ‘In a seduction a lady should be alone.’

  ‘Ladies-in-waiting must have witnessed seductions.’

  ‘How would you know — have you ever seduced a noblewoman?’

  I turned red. I could not dream of being in a noblewoman's private chamber. I'm rarely in the same street as nobles, much less the same room. Only at Mass do we share the same air, and even then they are far away in the front pews, separate from the rest of us. They leave before we do, their horses taking them away quickly before I have reached the church porch. Aliénor says noblemen smell of the fur they wear, but I've never been close enough to smell it. Her nose is keener than most.

  Clearly Nicolas had been with noblewomen. He must know all about them. ‘What do noblewomen smell like?’ I asked before I could stop myself.

  Nicolas smiled. ‘Cloves. Cloves and mint.’

  Aliénor smells of lemon balm. She is always treading on it in her garden.

  ‘Do you know what they taste like?’ he added.

  ‘Don't tell me.’ I quickly picked up the charcoal and, choosing the painting of Smell to copy, began to sketch. I drew a few lines for the woman's face and head-dress, then her necklace, bodice, sleeves and dress. ‘We don't want large blocks of colour. For instance, the yellow under-dress needs more pattern. Elsewhere you've used a pomegranate brocade — in Taste and À Mon Seul Désir. Let's add it here, like this, to break up the colour.’

  Nicolas watched over my shoulder as I filled in the triangle of cloth with leaves and flowers. ‘Alors, you have the lion and the unicorn holding their banners to the left and right. Between the Lady and the unicorn a monkey sits on a bench holding a carnation. That is good. What if we add a servant between the Lady and the lion? She can hold a plate of flowers the Lady will use to make her crown.’ I drew the outline of a lady-in-waiting in profile. ‘Already this is much better. The millefleurs behind will fill out the scene. I won't draw them here, but on the cartoon. Aliénor can help us with them then.’

  Nicolas shook his head. ‘How can she be of use to us?’ He gestured at his eyes.

  I frowned. ‘She always helps her father with the millefleurs. She keeps a fine kitchen garden and knows the plants well, knows their uses. We'll speak to her once we begin the cartoons. Alors, among the millefleurs we will add some animals.’ I sketched as I spoke. ‘A dog somewhere for fidelity, perhaps. Some hunting birds for the Lady's hunt of the unicorn. A lamb at her feet to remind us of Christ and Our Lady. And of course a rabbit or two. That is Georges' signature — a rabbit holding a paw to its face.’

  I finished drawing, and we looked at the painting and the sketch side by side. ‘Still not right,’ I said.

  ‘What do you suggest, then?’

  ‘Trees,’ I said after a moment.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind the standards and banners. It will make the red coat of arms stand out better from the red background. Then two below, behind the lion and unicorn. Four trees, to mark the four directions and the four seasons.’

  ‘A whole world in a picture,’ Nicolas murmured.

  ‘Yes. And the added blue will please Jacques Le Bœuf.’ Not that I want to please him, I thought. Far from it.

  I drew an oak beside the standard — oak for summer and for the north. Then a pine behind the banner, for autumn and the south. Holly behind the unicorn, for winter and the west. Orange behind the lion, for spring and the east.

  ‘That is better,’ Nicolas said when I was done. He sounded surprised. ‘But can we make such a big change without the patron agreeing to it?’

  ‘It's part of the verdure,’ I said. ‘Weavers are allowed to design the plants and animals of the background — it's only the figures we can't change. There was a law passed about it some years ago in Brussels, so that there wouldn't be problems between patrons and weavers.’

  ‘Or between artists and cartoonists.’

  ‘That too.’

  He looked at me. ‘Are there problems between us?’

  I sat back on my heels. ‘No.’ Not about work, at least, I added to myself. I am not brave enough to say such things aloud.

  ‘Good.’ Nicolas picked up Taste and pushed Smell aside. ‘Now do this one.’

  I studied the Lady feeding her parakeet. ‘You've painted her face with more care than the others.’

  Nicolas fiddled with the charcoal, touching it and then rubbing the black smudge until it turned grey between his fingers. ‘I'm used to painting portraits, and prefer to make the women here real if I can.’

  ‘She stands out too much. The Lady in À Mon Seul Désir as well — she is too sad.’

  ‘I won't change them.’

  ‘You know them, though, don't you?’

  He shrugged. ‘They are noblewomen.’

  ‘And you know them well.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not so well. I've seen them a few times, but —’

  I was surprised to see him wince.

  ‘The last time I saw them was at May Day,’ Nicolas continued. ‘She —’ he pointed to Taste — ‘was dancing around a maypole while her mother watched. They wore matching dresses.’

  ‘The pomegranate brocade.’

  ‘Yes. I couldn't get near her. Her ladies made sure of that.’ He frowned at the memory. ‘I still think there should be no servant in these tapestries.’

  ‘The Lady needs a chaperone, otherwise it wouldn't look right.’

  ‘Not for the seduction itself,’ he insisted.

  ‘Why don't we put servants in all but the one in which she captures the unicorn? In Sight, when he lies in her lap.’

  ‘And Touch,’ Nicolas added, ‘when she is holding his horn. You don't want a chaperone then.’ He smiled. He had become himself again, his mood like a storm suddenly spent. ‘Shall I tell you about the unicorn's horn, then? It may help you.’

  Before I could answer, Aliénor poked her head through the window where Jacques Le Bœuf had been earlier. Nicolas and I jumped. ‘Here we are, Aliénor,’ I said. ‘By the loom.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Maman and I are back already. That Jacques Le Bœuf made us so late that Mass was over before we'd sat down. Will you take some beer?’

  ‘In a moment,’ Nicolas answered.

  When she had gone into the house he turned to me. ‘If you don't want to know about the unicorn's horn I will tell you something else instead.’

  ‘No.’ I didn't want him to talk like that with Aliénor so close.
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br />   He grinned at me. He would say it anyway. ‘Women may smell of cloves but they taste of oysters.’

  ALIÉNOR DE LA CHAPELLE

  The men found me weeding among the strawberries. I have planted them so that there's a place for me to kneel easily and weed. I don't think much of them as plants — the flowers don't smell and the leaves are neither soft nor prickly nor thin nor fat. But the fruit is heavenly. Now in early summer the berries have begun to grow but are still small and hard and have little scent. Once the fruit is ripe, though, I would happily spend all day in this square of the garden, crushing the berries between my fingers to smell and taste.

  I heard Philippe on the path between the squares — he scrapes one of his toes when he walks — and Nicolas des Innocents' bouncing step behind him. The first time Nicolas came into my garden he said, ‘Sainte Vierge, it's a paradise! I have never seen such a kitchen garden in Paris. There are so many houses that there is no room for anything — or perhaps a row of cabbages if you're lucky.’ It was the only time I've heard him praise something in Brussels as better than Paris.

  People are always surprised by my garden. It has six squares, laid out as a cross, with the fruit trees — apple and plum and cherry — at the corners. Two squares are of vegetables, where I grow cabbages, leeks, peas, lettuce, radishes, celery. One square is of strawberries and herbs — that was where I was weeding. Then there is a rose bed, which I do not much like — the thorns prick me — but it pleases Maman, and two beds for the flowers and more herbs.

  I am happiest in my garden. It is the safest place in the world. I know every plant, every tree, every stone, every clod of dirt. It is surrounded by a trellis woven of willow and covered with thorny roses to keep out animals and strangers. Most often I am alone in my garden. Birds do come in and sit on the fruit trees, stealing cherries when they are ripe. Butterflies fly among the flowers, though I know little of them. Sometimes when I am sitting still I've felt the air stirred near my cheek or arm from their fluttering, but I've never touched one. Papa told me there is dust on their wings that comes off when you touch it. Then the butterfly can't fly, and birds eat it. So I leave them alone and have others describe them to me.

  I smiled now when Philippe announced, ‘It's only us, Aliénor — myself and Nicolas des Innocents. Here we are, by the lavender.’ He has known me all my life, yet he still tells me where he is when I already know. I could smell the woody, oily scent of the lavender they were brushing against.

  I sat back on my heels and raised my face to the sun. Early summer is good for sun, as it is directly overhead for longer during the day. I have always loved heat, though not from the fire. Fires scare me. I have singed my skirts too often by the fire.

  ‘Will you pick me a strawberry, Mademoiselle?’ Nicolas asked. ‘I have a thirst.’

  ‘They're not ripe yet,’ I snapped. I had meant to sound pleasant but he made me feel strange. And he was talking too loudly. People often do when they discover I'm blind.

  ‘Ah. Never mind, I expect they'll ripen before I go back to Paris.’

  I leaned forward again, feeling the ground around the strawberry plants, crumbling the sun-baked earth between my fingers as I gently searched for chickweed, groundsel, shepherd's purse. There were few weeds, and none more than a seedling — I had worked among the strawberries only a few days before. I could feel both men's eyes on me, like pebbles pressed into my back. It is strange how I can feel such things when I don't know what it is like to see.

  As they watched me I knew what they were thinking — how could I find the weeds and know them for weeds? But weeds are just like other plants, except unwanted — they have leaves and flowers and scents and stems and juices. By feel and smell, I know them as well as any other plant.

  ‘Aliénor, we need your help with the millefleurs for the tapestries,’ Philippe said. ‘We've drawn some of the design large for the cartoon. But we want you to point out flowers for us to use.’

  I sat back on my heels again. I am always glad to be asked for help. I have spent my life being useful so that my parents will never find me a burden and send me away.

  People often praise my work. ‘How even your stitches are,’ they say. ‘How bright your flowers, how red your cherries. Such a pity you can't see them.’ Indeed, I can hear the pity in their voices, as well as the surprise that I can be so useful. They can't think of the world without eyes, just as I cannot think of the world with them. Eyes are simply two bumps on my face that can move, the way my jaw can chew or my nostrils flare. I have other ways of knowing the world.

  For instance, I know the tapestries I work on. I can feel each ridge of warp thread, each bead of weft. I can trace the flowers of the millefleur pattern and follow my stitches around a dog's hind leg or a rabbit's ear or the sleeve of a peasant's robe. I feel colours. Red is silky smooth, yellow prickles, blue is oily. Underneath my fingers is a map made by the tapestries.

  People talk about seeing with such reverence that I sometimes think if I did have eyes the first thing I would see is Our Lady. She would be wearing a robe all blue and silky in my fingers, and Her skin would be smooth and Her cheeks warm. She would smell of strawberries. She would lay Her hands on my shoulders and they would feel light but firm too, so that once She had touched me I would always feel the weight of Her hands.

  I wonder sometimes if seeing would make honey taste sweeter, lavender smell richer, the sun feel warmer on my face.

  ‘You must describe the tapestries to me,’ I said to Philippe.

  ‘I did so the other day.’

  ‘In more detail now. Where is the Lady looking — at the unicorn or at the lion? What is she wearing? Is she happy or sad? Does she feel safe in her garden? What is the lion doing? Is the unicorn sitting or standing? Is he glad to be caught or does he want to get away? Does the Lady love the unicorn?’

  Philippe began rustling paper, laying out the designs. The sound annoyed me. I turned to Nicolas. ‘Monsieur, you have made the designs. Surely you know them so well that you can describe them without looking at your drawings.’

  Philippe stopped rustling.

  ‘Of course, Mademoiselle,’ Nicolas replied. There was a smile in his voice. The pebbles crunched under his feet as he knelt by the edge of the square.

  ‘You're stepping on mint,’ I said sharply as its scent reached me.

  ‘Oh. Pardon.’ He moved a little. ‘Bon, what were all of those questions you asked?’

  I couldn't think now what I wanted to know from him. I wasn't used to the attentions of such a man. ‘How much blue is in the tapestries?’ I said at last. I'm not happy when the tapestries my father makes have much blue in them. Then I know we will have too many visits from Jacques Le Bœuf, with his heavy tread, his lewd words, and of course his smell — the smell only a broken, desperate girl would live with.

  ‘How much would you like there to be, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘None, unless you are willing to stay and fight with Jacques Le Bœuf each time he comes.’

  Nicolas laughed. ‘The Lady stands on blue grass that makes up the bottom part of each tapestry. But if you like we can make that grassy part smaller. Perhaps an island of grass floating among red, encircling the Lady and the unicorn and lion. Yes, that could work very well. And we can make that change ourselves, can't we, Philippe? It is part of the verdure, n'est-ce pas?’

  Philippe didn't answer. His angry silence hung in the air.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I said. ‘Eh bien, what does the Lady look like? Describe her to me. Describe Taste.’ I chose the Lady I did not like.

  Nicolas grunted. ‘Why that one?’

  ‘I am punishing myself. Is she really very beautiful?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was feeling among the strawberries and accidentally picked one. I threw it down. ‘Is she smiling?’

  ‘A small smile, yes. She is looking to her left and thinking of something.’

  ‘What is she thinking of?’

  ‘The unicorn's horn.�
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  ‘Don't, Nicolas,’ Philippe said sharply.

  That made me more curious. ‘What about his horn?’

  ‘The unicorn's horn is a magical thing,’ Nicolas said, ‘with special powers. They say that if a unicorn dips his horn into a poisoned well, the water will become pure again. He can make other things pure as well.’

  ‘What other things?’

  There was a pause. ‘That's enough about it for now. Perhaps I'll tell you another time.’ Nicolas added the last under his breath so that only I heard. My ears are sharper than Philippe's.

  ‘Bon,’ I said. ‘Let me think. There should be mint among the millefleurs, for it guards against poison. Solomon's seal as well. And speedwell and daisies and marigolds — those are for stomach ailments. Strawberries too, for resisting poison, and for Christ Our Lord, for the Lady and the unicorn are also Our Lady and Our Lord. So you will want flowers for the Virgin Mary — lily of the valley, foxglove, columbine, violets. Yes, and dog roses — white for Our Lady's purity, red for Christ's blood. Carnations for Our Lady's tears for Her son — be sure to put those in the tapestry with the unicorn in the Lady's lap, for that is like the Pietà, n'est-ce pas? Which one is that?’ I already knew — I remember everything. I wanted to tease them.

  There was a pause. Philippe cleared his throat. ‘Sight.’

  ‘Ah.’ I moved on lightly. ‘Carnations too in the one where the Lady is making the bridal crown, yes?’

  ‘Yes, in Smell.’

  ‘There is periwinkle sometimes in bridal crowns too, for fidelity. And you will want stock for constancy, and forget-me-nots for true love.’

  ‘Attends, Aliénor, you go too fast. I'll get some more paper for sketches, and stools so that we can sit.’ Philippe ran to the workshop.

  I was alone with Nicolas. I had never been alone with a man like him.

  ‘Why do they call you Nicolas des Innocents?’ I asked.

  ‘I live near the Cemetery of the Innocents in Paris, off the rue St Denis.’

  ‘Ah. I didn't think you yourself were innocent.’

  Nicolas chuckled. ‘Already you know me well, beauty.’