The Painter and the Patron
To Lynn, the situation itself was nothing short of absurd.
Visiting the mansion at her patron's invitation had posed no problem. The second son of House Medici, whom she had come to know better after the audition, proved a far better man than she'd expected.
He had a fine eye for painting, considerable refinement, and treated even Lynn—who now bore no family name at all—with unfailing courtesy. The money he offered was generous besides; as a patron, he was very nearly ideal.
Still, a man like that...
Truthfully, to look upon the painting Lynn had made at the baron's villa and grasp its intent on the spot went beyond a decent eye—that was insight of a rare order. Among the countless "self-styled" art lovers Lynn had met over the years, only a handful had ever caught on.
Proud of her work as she was, Lynn did soften, considerably so, toward anyone who truly acknowledged that painting.
...Of all people.
Because of all people, the second son of House Medici kept overlapping in her mind with that man.
Because there had been that man—one who had gone beyond merely having a discerning eye and kept drawing ever closer to her, the first person in her life to make her feel warmth and loneliness at the very same time.
The more Lynn looked at the second son of House Medici, the more helplessly she found herself thinking of that man.
That man, whose name she didn't even know.
Still... someday, I'll see him again. I know I will.
She was certain of it. Just as she had once drilled into herself that poverty meant nothing so long as she could keep painting, she persuaded herself of this too, rationalizing as she went.
And for his sake, if nothing else, she had to impress the second son of House Medici. The more he trusted her, the larger her stipend would grow—and on that foundation she could spread the name of Lynn far and wide.
That was why she had accepted the invitation, and all that remained now was to speak with her patron about her paintings.
"The way I see it... you'll pocket the patron's money all the same, then turn around and refuse out of some useless pride."
"...And that's not just because you're a base paint-slinger who never had any pride to begin with, is it?"
Why was this girl picking a fight all of a sudden?
The pink-haired girl—Iris, wasn't it? Lynn remembered her well. Naturally she did; this was the very culprit behind "that kind" of painting at the audition.
Under ordinary circumstances, Lynn had meant to ask her about it during the interview, but thanks to some graceless paint-slinger who could hardly be called a painter at all, that chance had slipped away.
She'd assumed their paths would never cross again—who could have guessed the girl would win the patron's favor and end up sponsored just like her?
Lynn was hardly what anyone would call approachable, flattery included, but with the two of them now sharing a patron, she had intended to at least meet with her once.
"A paint-slinger, that's right. I'm still a paint-slinger even now. That's how I think of myself."
"So you have no pride as a painter at all, I take it?"
"But our patron said he believes in me. And so, someday... I might just become his first dedicated painter, don't you think?"
His first dedicated painter.
In other words, a jab implying that Lynn—who was already receiving his patronage—was no "proper painter." Naturally, the barb did not fly over her head.
She considered simply ignoring it, but instead Lynn folded her arms and looked down at Iris. The difference in their builds accounted for part of that—but it also reflected, quite faithfully, the very gaze Lynn was training on her.
"Well, hearing you hold forth on a painter's qualifications is funny in itself. Is that what a painter is, to you? Someone who'll draw anything if you pay her?"
"If you've taken the money, shouldn't you do the work to match it? Isn't that just common sense?"
"Patrons sponsor painters not because they need a brush on call, but because they want works of that much higher caliber. And when a patron makes an ignorant request, is it not a painter's virtue to set them right with a smile?"
"How easy it must be to say. And what will you do when the patronage dries up?"
"Then that was all they ever were. A patron, and nothing more. That's all I'd think of it."
"My, how very fortunate you've been, Miss Lynn! Living in circumstances where you can paint to your heart's content even without a patron!"
"Quite the barb. Shame it misses. I scrape by with a little studio in the back alleys. Hardly a life of plenty—I've gone hungry plenty of times."
That was the reality Lynn lived in—and her pride all at once. Proof that even starving, even destitute, she had never once let that pride bend.
I am not wrong. Walking out of that house was the right decision. Unlike you, I held steady through hunger and poverty and painted on regardless. A canvas does not demand gilded halls—not the way you people seem to think.
And so Lynn could push back against Iris's words with a certain defiance of her own—but Iris simply smiled. As if she had known this was coming all along.
"Miss Lynn, have you ever truly starved?"
"I told you just now, didn't I? There have been plenty of times I went hungry—"
"No. Not missing a single meal. I mean a whole day—or perhaps days—without a morsel of anything. That is what starving means."
........
"No coin in hand, not even able to buy food, you huddle in the corner of your room and simply let the hours pass. Moving less keeps the hunger at bay, you see. Live that way a few days out of every week, and a person comes to know something."
"Knows what?"
"That if only you can earn money, useless pride means absolutely nothing at all."
"And that's why you paint the way you do, is it? Paintings with nothing of a painter's pride or conviction in them—empty things, and nothing more?"
"And what would 'empty' mean, Miss Lynn? A painting brimming with all the pride and conviction you preach, that no one will buy? Or one that sells just fine without any of it?"
........
........
They glared at one another. Within that brief exchange, ironically enough, each had understood the other's words perfectly.
Lynn spoke of a painter's dignity and pride. To her, a painting was self-respect—art itself, and the true duty of her calling.
Iris spoke of a painter's reality and her purse. To her, a painting was a means of survival—something that had to sell.
Yet for all that, the two shared a single common thread. For both of them, painting was life itself—everything they were.
They simply saw it through different eyes. A matter of which to pursue: artistry, or commerce.
But to understand an argument was not the same as being persuaded by it.
Least of all for those who lived by art.
"Paint-slinger is too generous a word for you, I think. Vulgar picture-peddler suits you far better."
"And the lofty artist lives buried inside her own canvases. Though I do wonder who will ever buy them."
"It would be a genuine inconvenience, having a picture-peddler like you sitting beside my patron."
"And I, for one, would find it stifling to have a stubborn mule of pure pride next to our patron."
Lynn and Iris understood instinctively: the two of them would never grow close, never be friends. They would sooner go on ignoring each other's very existence than ever fully accept, or embrace, the other.
And so the two of them made for the patron's room, walking the same corridor yet hugging opposite walls to keep as far apart as the space allowed—and it was Iris who spoke first, once more.
"Well, it's only that I doubt I'll have to look at you for very long anyway, Miss Lynn."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"Someone with such lofty ideals as yours could never be satisfied here. I needn't even look to know you're harboring other plans. Using our patron as a stepping stone into the capital? Or perhaps hunting for a patron with deeper pockets?"
A misunderstanding. She did not think of the second son of House Medici that way. Enough of the groundless speculation.
...That was what she ought to say.
──So that someday she might meet that man again. So that he, having heard her name, might know who Lynn was. So that the two of them might truly meet once more.
──Because that was what this patronage was for.
........
Iris's words were not entirely correct, of course—but neither were they entirely wrong.
Confronted with her own contradiction, her own self-deception, Lynn clenched her teeth.
That's right. But there's no shame in it. A generous patron isn't someone you're bound to for life. Once I've found that man, I need only thank him for everything and go. Repaying exactly what I received will be enough.
Work for what you're paid. It was the very thing Iris had called "a painter's duty," and Lynn scowled without meaning to. Because somehow, it felt like a defeat.
But it was not wrong. If she repaid the second son of House Medici all she had received—more, even—who could find fault with her?
Not a stepping stone, then, but a companion traveling with her all the way to the destination. They would part someday—but a parting made beautiful, and free of bitterness. A companion worthy of that much.
That was all it would be───
BANG!
"You called for me, Patron, so I came—"
"Ah, Miss Lynn! I looked at the painting you sent over. Remarkable stuff, you know?"
"Thank you for the praise. If I may explain the piece—"
"The luminous pigment especially left an impression. You deliberately rendered the shaded areas in glow-paint—dim by day, bright by night, drawing out the contrast. Exquisitely done."
"Th-that's right. And on top of that—"
"You even used five different luminous pigments to separate brightness and saturation, didn't you? At night the same scene gives off a different feel depending on evening, midnight, or twilight. Truly impressive."
"...Ah."
It would only be that much. A companion, and a temporary one at that.
But every time he saw straight through to the intent behind her painting—every hidden detail—and praised it, satisfaction surged up in her like instinct itself.
"Thank... you..."
Because this patron kept overlapping with that man, and because—of all things—their very builds were similar, it felt almost as if they were one and the same.
Every time that absurd thought stole in unbidden, Lynn shook her head furiously.
"Oh, and—ta-da!"
"Th-this is...?"
"A little patronage, just for you, Miss Lynn. You have to eat if you're going to paint."
........
It's coincidence. Every last one of those mannerisms matching that man's—all of it, coincidence.
Hadn't he just been savoring that fine wine? That man could never stomach wine at all—he'd called it heavy and nothing but bitter. She'd seen that with her own eyes, so this had to be someone else.
Just as Lynn held to that thought, doing her utmost to scrub the delusion from her mind—
"By the way, Miss Lynn—are you free these days, by any chance?"
"Free... time, you mean? Why do you ask?"
"Something's come up and I have to travel to the capital. Would you care to come along?"
...!!
And Lynn caught herself rejoicing at her patron's offer before she could help it.
"Ah—of course, Iris is coming too."
"I would absolutely love to, Patron!"
........
—and at that very same moment, everything got worse.