by Linda Urbach
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jean-François Millet. I am an artist,” he said, extending his hand. She stood and shyly offered hers in return. His hand was huge and strong. It felt as if it was capable of crushing walnuts, but he held her hand as gently as if it were a newly hatched bird.
“I am hopeful your grand-mère will consent to have you and Céleste pose for me. What, may I ask, is your name?”
“My name is Berthe Bovary,” she said. “What do you mean, pose?”
“I will sketch you for a painting that I will complete later.”
A drawing, a painting, an artist. It all sounded very exciting.
“I don’t think my grand-mère will consent. She doesn’t believe in art. She says it’s a waste of time.” Berthe sighed.
Monsieur Millet laughed. He had a wonderful laugh that came from deep inside his chest. Just hearing it made her smile.
“She may very well have a point. But come, show me to her house. Perhaps I can convince her to let me steal you away for a few hours even if it is all a waste of time.”
“I’m sorry. She would never allow it. She would probably beat me for even talking to you.”
Berthe picked up Céleste’s wet lead rope and pulled her away from the water and up the grassy slope. Once on higher ground she quickly glanced back at the artist, giving him a shy smile before hurrying away.
Madame Leaumont came bursting in the next day with exciting news.
“There is a famous artist who is painting our countryside,” she said, her gray hair spilling out of her bonnet. Her pitted cheeks were flushed with the exertion of walking quickly up the road. “A famous artist. Here! Isn’t it thrilling?”
Berthe felt a rush of anticipation, wondering if this was the man she’d met yesterday. Perhaps she would get a chance to watch him paint. She remembered how her mother had returned from one of her many trips to Rouen and had been filled with chatter about art. She had shown Berthe a miniature copy of a painting by an artist named Ingres. It was called Une Odalisque.
“I have been told that this painting resembles me. Isn’t that absurd?” her mother had said, studying the painting.
Berthe looked at the small painting. It was of a pale naked woman whose back was turned to the viewer. Berthe didn’t think it resembled her mother at all.
“Artists are people of great passion and vision,” her mother continued. “My friend, Monsieur Léon, has the soul of an artist even though he is just a clerk.”
“Does this painting belong to him?” Berthe asked.
“Only the truly wealthy can afford to have great art on their walls. Monsieur Léon can barely afford curtains,” her mother said with a laugh.
“But, Maman, we have paintings,” Berthe said.
“You silly girl, those are only poor, pitiful copies,” said her mother.
“And who is this famous artist?” Grand-mère Bovary asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table repolishing the silver that Berthe had just polished that morning.
“Monsieur Jean-François Millet.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Grand-mère said, as if she carried a list of famous artists in her head.
“Oh my, yes. He’s very celebrated. His paintings sell for thousands,” enthused Madame Leaumont, clearly happy to have one over on her friend. Berthe kept scrubbing the same spot on the floor over and over. She didn’t want to miss a word. “But,” Madame Leaumont continued, “the curious thing is what he is painting.”
“And what is that?” Grand-mère Bovary asked, showing as much disinterest as she could and still keep the conversation going.
“Oh, odd things like peasants cutting hay and sowing seeds, and taking naps in the field. He even did a drawing of René Laforge’s old horse spreading manure.”
“I never heard of anything so ridiculous.” Grand-mère Bovary threw down her polishing rag.
“And René said that the artist has paid him handsomely for his time,” Madame Leaumont said, picking up the cake cover to see if there was anything to nibble on.
“If he’s so important what is he doing painting peasants and old horses? Why isn’t he in Paris painting with the other famous painters?”
Madame Leaumont had no answer.
“What a waste of time! Art is for the rich and they are welcome to it,” Grand-mère Bovary said, swiping at a fly with her dish towel. And then as if noticing Berthe for the first time, she said, “Don’t just stand there; get Madame Leaumont something to drink. She must be thirsty after her long walk.”
“Oh, I’m not thirsty,” responded Madame Leaumont. “But if you have a bit of cheese and bread, I’ve eaten nothing since early morning.” She patted her round belly as if it were a favorite pet.
“When you’re done fetching Madame Leaumont something to eat you might want to take notice of the dust in my bedroom. It is so thick that I woke up in the middle of the night half choking to death,” instructed Berthe’s grand-mère.
Why stop at half? Berthe gave a deep sigh and picked up her dust rag. She wished she hadn’t even heard about the artist and his great paintings. It was just a reminder of how drab and dull her life was as the days stretched out before her in gray dust.
As she was sweeping the courtyard the next morning, the geese kept getting in the way and Berthe grew frustrated with having to sweep around them.
“Go away, you silly birds,” she said, brandishing her broom.
“But I have just arrived, mademoiselle.” She looked up. Monsieur Millet had appeared out of nowhere. She blushed and straightened the kerchief on her head.
“Oh, monsieur, I didn’t expect you.” For a big man, he was very quiet.
“May I help myself to some water? The day is already quite hot.”
“Oh, yes, by all means,” she said, handing him the well dipper. He leaned over the well, which stood in the center of the courtyard, and inhaled deeply. “Ah, the smell of good clean country water.”
Through an open window Berthe could see her grand-mère sitting at the kitchen table tallying figures in her accounting ledger. She hated to be disturbed when she was doing her books, as she called it. Berthe went to the window and cleared her throat.
“I’m busy,” the old woman said without looking up.
“Grand-mère, Monsieur Millet is here to make your acquaintance,” Berthe said, twisting the broom handle.
“And why should I care?” she said, still not looking up.
“Monsieur Millet is the famous painter that Madame Leaumont spoke of.”
Madame Bovary put down her pen. Berthe could see that despite herself she was impressed, art or no art.
“Well, don’t leave him out there to melt in the hot sun. Show him in.”
“Ah, already we are making progress,” Monsieur Millet said. He smiled, touched her on the shoulder, and then followed her into the house.
“And what may I do for you, monsieur?” her grand-mère said after Berthe had introduced them.
Monsieur Millet took off his hat and held it in his hands. He may have been a famous artist but Berthe could see he was quite skilled in handling women like her grand-mère.
“I would like your permission to sketch your granddaughter and her cow,” he said in a soft voice.
“The cow is mine,” Madame Bovary said, obviously not wanting to miss a chance to claim ownership. “And Berthe has many chores and responsibilities. She has no time to pose for pictures.”
“I will gladly pay you for her time,” Monsieur Millet said, winking at Berthe. She smiled and ducked her head. It was as if they had a special secret between them. Although she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“Oh? And how much will you pay?” asked her grand-mère, her voice rising a notch.
“Would three francs a day be acceptable?”
“That’s six days a week?” Madame Bovary asked, taking up her pen to calculate. Monsieur Millet nodded. “That comes to eighteen francs a week. But it is quite absurd. Why would you want to paint her? She is j
ust a peasant girl.” Berthe felt as if she had just been slapped. Her cheeks grew hot.
“That’s exactly why,” explained Monsieur Millet. “Peasants are what I paint.”
“And you sell these paintings, monsieur?” Grand-mère Bovary asked, not bothering to conceal her skepticism.
“Yes, thankfully. Although, to be honest, my formal portraits have been more in demand. But my great passion is the countryside and the people who toil here.”
“Well, Berthe must finish her chores before she does any posing for you,” the old woman said, narrowing her eyes at Berthe.
“Oh, I will not interrupt her chores. In fact, that’s what I want to capture: Berthe doing her usual work around the farm. Here,” he said, taking a money pouch out of his vest pocket, “let me pay in advance.”
“Leave us, Berthe,” her grand-mère ordered. An unusual smile brightened Madame Bovary’s face.
Berthe returned to her chores. She was sure that as soon as she left, her grand-mère would try and bargain with Monsieur Millet and he would change his mind about painting her.
A short time later, Monsieur Millet came out of the cottage. “Tomorrow we begin.” He looked closely at her. “You know, mademoiselle, that you are quite beautiful. Even more than your captivating cow,” he said, tipping his straw hat. Berthe blushed. No one had ever told her this before. It had always been her mother who was beautiful. It was her mother’s beauty that had taken up so much space in their homely little house—almost as if it were another child. It had to be bathed, pampered, and dressed and, most of all, noticed. Beautiful was not a word Berthe would ever have used to describe herself.
Monsieur Millet was smiling broadly and Berthe’s stomach did a corresponding flip of excitement. She turned her back to him and bent to pick up a stone. She was so nervous that she lifted the stone to her mouth and was about to bite into it when she realized it wasn’t an apple. She hurried into the barn in an effort to escape her embarrassment.
“À demain,” Monsieur Millet called out after her.
Berthe was surprised to see the artist waiting in the courtyard first thing the next morning when she went out to milk Céleste. He had a small canvas stool with him which he set up in the corner of the barn. He took out a sketchbook and a box of charcoal and immediately began to sketch her.
“Where are your paints?” She had assumed that being a famous painter he would of course be working in paint. She had already envisioned her image surrounded by a beautiful gilt frame. She thought of the few elaborately framed copies of paintings her parents had owned before her father’s creditors took everything. She remembered the frames being almost more beautiful than the pictures they held.
“These are just sketches,” Monsieur Millet explained. “The painting happens much later.” Berthe was disappointed, particularly when she looked over his shoulder at what he had drawn. It was a series of rough lines that ran back and forth to create a fuzzy image of her. And the cow that was supposed to represent Céleste was far too thin.
“Well,” he asked, as he smudged the black lines even more with his little finger, “what do you think, Mademoiselle Berthe?”
“I think you should keep working on it,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.
He laughed so loud and hard that she feared he might fall off his stool. She felt great pleasure that she had amused him. She couldn’t remember ever having done that before. It gave her a curious sense of power. She began to relax and enjoy posing without worrying about what to say or how to act. Some time later he stopped sketching.
“Why do you live with your grand-mère? Where are your parents?” he asked.
“They are both dead.”
“Oh, dear girl. I am so sorry.” His brown eyes filled with sympathy. She had a sudden urge to throw her arms around this strange, warm man. She imagined following him about the countryside, carrying his little camp stool, helping him find interesting subjects, perhaps even learning to sketch herself. He would teach her all about art and painting. She was a good student and would be eager to learn.
Berthe had been fascinated by the practice of medicine but her father had always been too busy to answer her many questions. If he wasn’t rushing off to patients he was too preoccupied in his clinic trying to wrestle with a difficult medical problem.
There was one day she remembered distinctly. He rushed into the kitchen where she was helping Félicité peel the potatoes.
“I believe I have discovered a cure for clubfoot,” he announced.
“Oh, Papa, how exciting. What is clubfoot?” But he was gone before she could get an answer. Then she remembered the stable boy, Hippolyte, and how he hopped around town, thrusting his badly curled foot in front of him. Her father spent weeks talking the poor cripple into letting him operate on his foot. Berthe had stood by hoping to catch a view of her father’s inventive surgery, but he shut the door in her face.
That afternoon Millet followed Berthe to the river and sketched her as she let Céleste drink. She noticed he was now using different colored papers with the black charcoal. She looked over his shoulder as he completed the sketch. Again she saw no likeness between the figure of the woman and herself, or between the scrawny cow and Céleste.
“And this will someday become a painting?” she asked, shooing a fly away.
“Yes, it will be a very beautiful painting,” he said, as he worked the crayon over and over the buff-colored paper. He added three more cows, his hand moving quickly.
“But there is only one cow,” she said.
“It is called taking artistic license, Mademoiselle Berthe,” he explained, holding up the paper and squinting his eyes. He picked up a piece of red chalk and gave her a rose-colored top instead of her coarse cotton shirt. Then he quickly added a long pole in her hands. Something she would never have carried with Céleste, as it would have frightened the cow.
“If you keep adding things that aren’t there, why do you need someone to model for you? Why don’t you just draw out of your own imagination?”
“An artist uses his imagination but his inspiration comes from the world around him,” he said, putting down the sketch. “Without the real world I would have nothing to say with my pictures.” The way he spoke to her, as if she was someone worth talking to, made her think of her father again. After he had performed the surgery on Hippolyte’s foot he had been so very proud. And so sometime later she felt encouraged to ask him about his most successful patient.
“Papa, how is Hippolyte’s foot? He must be very happy to be able to walk so well.” Her father stared at her for a long moment, his expression one of great distress. Then he walked out of the room without uttering a word. How was she to know that the patient had developed gangrene and lost his entire leg to amputation?
“You are able to create your own world,” Berthe said to Monsieur Millet. She suddenly felt very bold and bright.
“That is exactly it, Mademoiselle Berthe. How well you understand. We all have the ability to create our own world, n’est-ce pas? Which is probably why I became an artist in the first place. But one doesn’t have to be an artist to accomplish this. One need only have the gift of a rich imagination.” He looked at her for a long moment, then turned back to his sketch. He took his thumb and softened the edges of the largest cow. “I actually prefer drawing to painting. Drawing seems to free my imagination. The only reason I paint is so I have something to sell. No one will spend good money on mere drawings. But I believe that one day my drawings will be more appreciated than anything I paint.” He straightened his back with a groan. “Ah, I think that’s enough art for one day. Tomorrow then, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Berthe smiled over her shoulder as she pulled Céleste after her. She felt as if tomorrow were an eternity away. How wonderful it was to be able to take your imagination out of your mind and put it on paper. In Berthe’s fantasy Monsieur Millet would hire her away from her grand-mère and she could spend the rest of her life modeling for him and discu
ssing questions of art and creativity.
Monsieur Millet became Berthe’s shadow, and she grew used to him following her everywhere with his bag of art materials and his stool.
One day he stopped her on the way into the house. She was carrying two heavy pails of water she had just filled at the well.
“Wait, stay there,” he said, grabbing his sketch pad and a Conté crayon from his shoulder bag.
“But, monsieur,” she protested, “these are heavy. Can’t I empty the water from them?”
“That is exactly what I want to capture: the weight of the water, your arms straining, the painful look on your face. The Peasant Labors,” he said, as if to give his drawing a title right then and there.
“I cannot hold these any longer,” she said, lowering the pails to the ground so quickly that half the water spilled out.
“Oh, I am sorry. How thoughtless of me,” he said. He put his sketch pad on the ground and laid his crayon on top of it. “Here, let me ease the ache.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and began gently kneading the muscles. It felt strangely soothing and yet she pulled away. “My apologies. Was I being too rough, mademoiselle?”
“No, no,” she said, lifting the pails again. “I’m fine.” Her face was burning but he didn’t seem to notice.
“You are a wonderful model, Mademoiselle Berthe.”
“But I don’t understand, monsieur. Why do you only make sketches of me doing boring chores?”
“Ah, but there is great dignity in your labor. Don’t you see that?”
She shook her head. She thought him slightly mad. This was a life of drudgery she longed to escape, and here was this man devoting his very considerable talents to capturing it on paper.
“My father and grandfathers were farmers,” he said. “I was supposed to take over the farm in Gruchy.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “The soil there gave forth more stones than it did wheat. In the end, they gave me their hard-earned savings and off I went to study art. And I never returned to the land. So I paint the country and the people as a way of honoring my origins and repaying my family.”