by Linda Urbach
“Where is your baggage?” her grand-mère demanded, forgoing any greeting as the coach pulled away.
“Baggage?” Berthe’s whole body stiffened as if she had forgotten something.
“Your things.”
“These are all my belongings, Grand-mère.” The old woman took Berthe’s valise, opened it, and glanced at the contents, making a face as she did.
“You truly are a penniless orphan,” she said. “Well, bring it along, and wipe your feet before you ruin my floor. I just swept and scrubbed it.”
This turned out to be one of the last household chores Berthe’s grand-mère performed.
The old woman led Berthe up the stairs to the second floor. She showed her the three bedrooms; the largest, overlooking the courtyard, was beautifully furnished: a majestic oak bed and matching wardrobe with ornately carved cornices of doves, flowers, and fruit.
“My bedroom,” she announced. “Not to be entered without my permission.” The other two rooms were more modestly furnished. “And this is my sewing room,” she said at the door of the second room. “I don’t suppose anyone ever bothered to teach you to sew.”
“My mother did. I can embroider as well,” Berthe said proudly.
One of her earliest memories was her mother teaching her how to embroider. Félicité had started her out practicing a simple slanting overcast stitch to be used in outlining the letters of the alphabet. Berthe couldn’t follow the lines that Félicité had so carefully drawn on the muslin. Her fingers felt fat and clumsy. She was constantly pricking herself. Soon the material was covered with rustred blood spots.
“What is this?” her mother asked, pulling the cloth out of Berthe’s hands. “What are you teaching her, Félicité? How to make useless, ugly things? Come with me. If you are going to sew, at least sew something that I can bear to look at.”
Her mother showed her how to do French knots, candlewicking, point de plume, and point de minute—a stitch used to make the pattern appear raised. Then she gave Berthe a large piece of soft cotton and said, “Now stop pestering me and go make something beautiful.”
“But, Maman, there are no lines to follow.”
“Use your imagination, that’s what it’s for,” she said on her way to the shops.
And Berthe did. While her mother was out shopping, or at home lost in a novel or the latest fashion periodical, Berthe practiced the stitches. As she sewed she found that her fingers seemed to suddenly grow longer and cleverer. When she was all done she presented the work to her mother.
“Now what?” her mother sighed, putting down her book.
“Look, Maman,” she said, laying the embroidery down on her mother’s lap for her to inspect. Madame Bovary picked up the fabric and examined it briefly. Berthe had embroidered an entire garden of multicolored flowers.
“Better. Just remember, there’s no point in creating something unless it makes the world a prettier place.”
Berthe continued to create her own designs. She created flowers and leaves in colors and shapes not found in nature. She spent hours tracing her original patterns first onto paper and then onto cloth. She imagined embroidering entire dresses for herself and her mother, and she lay in bed at night designing these in her head. For her mother, a beautiful summer dress of white piqué with a particular design of tiny intertwined flowers and a hat festooned with pale pink peonies. For herself, a shorter dress of the same material and a small bonnet with a pink peony stitched to the crown. No, no, that will look silly there. She made an instant alteration, removing the flower from the bonnet and placing it … where? Ah, yes, there at the center of the sash. Perfect. In her fantasy, her mother would take her hand and, dressed alike, they would stroll down Yonville’s main street under the envious gaze of the entire town. Her mother would look down on her well-dressed daughter and smiling with pride she would say:
“Aren’t we just the most elegant pair?”
Berthe’s grand-mère was still talking, and she forced herself to pay attention. “We have no use for fancy needlework here. There is no need to go into my sewing room except to dust,” Grand-mère said. Berthe assumed that the third room on the floor was hers. But that was not to be. Her grand-mère showed her a ladder leading up to the attic.
“You will be up there,” she said. “You can have the whole floor to yourself and you won’t be in my way. Put your things away neatly. I don’t want a mess up there. I’m not too old to climb the ladder, so be forewarned.” Berthe felt an urge to scream at her grand-mère: I won’t get in your way. In fact, I won’t live here at all. I’ll go somewhere else and you never have to see me or bother about me again. And then she realized, of course, that she had nowhere else to go. She took in a long deep breath and squared her shoulders before climbing the ladder. Being hidden away in the attic reminded Berthe of one of her favorite fairy tales, Rumpelstiltskin. She just hoped that her grand-mère wouldn’t expect her to spin straw into gold.
The attic had one small dusty window. In the corner under the slanted roof was a narrow rope bed; next to it stood a table with an oil lamp, and under the window was another table with a cracked pitcher and bowl. She sat down on the hard bed. When she stood up she immediately bumped her head on the slanted ceiling. She went over to the window and, using the inside of her skirt, she wiped it clean. It looked out over the vast fields behind the house. To the left she saw a small orchard of apple trees, and beyond that a narrow river sparkling in the sun and winding its way into a wooded area beyond. She unlatched the window, pushed it open, and inhaled the clean country air. As close and shabby as the room was, she was happy to have a place to call her own. And she was particularly grateful for the lovely view. All she had to do was keep looking out, beyond the small stuffy room. The serene fields, the whole outdoors would be her new home.
“Berthe, stop dawdling and come down for supper,” her grand-mère called. Berthe splashed a little water on her face, combed her hair, and hurried down.
She felt she should say something about her father since her grand-mère had not attended the funeral nor said a word about his death. She must be terribly sad having lost her only son, she reasoned.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to attend Father’s funeral.” She stood at the table, her hands clasped in front of her.
“I had no desire to witness the end of a wasted life,” her grand-mère said sharply, smoothing the back of her already smooth hair.
“Well, it was a very nice funeral.” Berthe looked down at her fingernails to make sure they were clean.
“What?” said her grand-mère, bending to pull a roasted chicken out of the oven.
“Father’s funeral. It was very nice. The whole town came.”
“I should hope so,” the old woman sniffed, “after he ruined his health attending those people all times of the day or night. Getting nothing in return. They helped drive him to an early grave. But that was nothing compared to the damage your mother inflicted on the poor man. She should by all rights be hanged for murder.”
Berthe glared at her grand-mère’s hunched, ugly back. Was this the woman she had imagined would love and cherish her? Had she really thought she could squeeze any affection out of this dry old woman?
“It would be difficult to hang her since she’s already dead,” Berthe said through gritted teeth.
“That tone will not be welcome here, miss,” her grand-mère said, giving her a look filled with such venom it put to rest any thoughts of mutual mourning. “Sit down.”
Her grand-mère pushed a plate in front of her.
“I wager you never ate this well at home.” She was right. As angry as Berthe was at her grand-mère’s indictment of her parents, she was desperately hungry. Her hunger took precedence over her feelings. She had to admit that everything was delicious. Roasted chicken with tarragon, tiny onions sautéed in butter and then smothered in a white cream sauce, roasted carrots and turnips, and finally a large slice of apple tart. “I don’t suppose you know how to cook?” Grand-m�
�re Bovary asked when they had finished the meal.
“No, Grand-mère. Before my mother died Félicité did all the cooking for us.”
“You will learn how to cook, how to clean, and how to milk a cow,” the old woman said, neatly rolling her napkin and placing it in the napkin ring. “You will receive an invaluable education from me. One that will prepare you for life. I did not ask God for another child, but now that I have one I will do my duty by you.” She stood, smoothed her apron, and pushed her chair under the table. “Now, wash the dishes.”
Water had to be brought in from the well in the courtyard. Berthe carried it in two heavy buckets, which made her arms feel as though they were being stretched out of their sockets. The water was then boiled in a big pot on the woodstove. By the time she finished washing and drying the dishes she was exhausted and ready for bed. Her grand-mère stopped her as she was about to drag herself up the stairs.
“Where do you think you are going?”
“To bed, Grand-mère.”
“And the kitchen floor? Is it going to scrub itself?”
“That would be truly wonderful,” sighed Berthe.
After Berthe emptied the soapy water she stood at the edge of the kitchen and admired her work. It was a big kitchen, clean, neat, and meticulously well cared for. This was her grand-mère’s house in every way. It was cold, hard, and full of pride. Berthe knew she would live here, but it could never be her home. Not any more than this icy old woman could be her loving guardian.
She noticed the hearth was black with soot. She filled the bucket again, got down on her hands and knees, and scrubbed it clean. By the time she fell into bed she felt as if she had indeed earned her keep that day. She vowed that if she couldn’t gain her grand-mère’s love, she could at least be worthy of her respect and perhaps even her appreciation. She was determined to make the woman glad that she had come to live with her.
She took the illustration from her mother’s fashion magazine out from underneath her pillow, brought it up close to her face, and imagined the gown in the faint moonlight. Tears welled up. Could a piece of silk replace the warmth of a mother’s love? Hardly. She laid the picture back under her pillow, and before long, she was fast asleep.
CHAPTER 3
Chores
THE NEXT MORNING BERTHE AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF A knocking from below. Her grand-mère was pounding on the ceiling with the handle of a broom. It was still dark. The rooster had not yet crowed. Berthe dragged herself down the ladder and down to the kitchen half asleep.
“You are not going to lead a life of luxury here, young lady.” Her grand-mère slid a bowl of coffee and a piece of bread and butter in front of Berthe. The coffee sloshed out onto the table.
She had said nothing about the clean hearth or the gleaming kitchen floor. Gaining her grand-mère’s respect was going to require more work than Berthe had imagined.
“Hurry up and finish, and then we have to do something about your clothes.”
Berthe sipped her coffee as she imagined a new wardrobe filled with soft cotton dresses in pastel shades. But the outfit her grand-mère provided her with was nothing she had encountered before: a scratchy homespun dress with a coarse muslin underskirt and chemise, both of which chafed her skin. Over that she wore a vest made out of old cowhide, and over that a long apron with endless strings that had to be wrapped several times around her waist. Worst of all were the shoes.
“Fancy leather boots have no place on a farm. They’ll fetch a good price at the market,” her grand-mère said, examining Berthe’s boots. She provided Berthe with a pair of wooden clogs that were so big and heavy it was difficult to keep them on.
“Ah, that’s much better,” said her grand-mère, standing back and scrutinizing her granddaughter. “Now you’re dressed properly for work.”
“This is so ugly.” Berthe looked down at herself and felt like crying. She thought of her mother and how ashamed she would be to see Berthe dressed like this.
“Ugly is as ugly does.” Her grand-mère secured the ivory comb in her dark hair.
The first day, Berthe’s grand-mère showed her what was expected of her around the house: sweeping, scrubbing the stone steps, blacking the stove, clearing out the old ashes, laying a fresh fire, airing her bedclothes, and emptying the slops. She pointed to a beautiful oak kitchen dresser that had four open shelves of silver serving dishes and fine pottery.
“These are my best things. Make sure dust doesn’t have the opportunity to gather.” She caressed the edge of a blue and white serving platter as if it were a favored child. “And the silver must be polished at least once a week,” she said grandly. Berthe wondered why she hadn’t sold these things if she was so very poor. “Will you just look at this,” she said, running a finger along the top shelf. “That girl wasn’t worth a handful of dirt.”
“What girl?” Berthe asked, wiping a dustcloth along the sides of the dresser.
“Marie, my maid.”
“You had a maid?”
“Until the day before yesterday, yes. But I always had to do everything over. Lazy girl. It wasn’t as if I didn’t pay her a decent salary.” She took Berthe’s chin in her hand and looked her in the eye. “But you, chère Berthe, are a Bovary. And Bovarys are not afraid of hard work, are they?”
“No, Grand-mère.”
“Then let’s not let the day go to waste.”
“I will get her pay then,” Berthe said, smiling at her grand-mère.
“Whose pay?”
“The maid’s.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not a maid. You’re my granddaughter. You have a roof over your head and plenty to eat. What do you need money for?”
“I need it for my future,” Berthe said, staring hard at her grand-mère.
“Just do your work. The future will take care of itself,” her grand-mère said, moving the serving platter a quarter of an inch to the right.
“But I will need to take care of myself,” said Berthe. “What will happen to me after you die?”
“Die!” her grand-mère bellowed. “She’s barely been here a day and she’s already killing off her poor grand-mère. You wicked, wicked girl!” She grabbed Berthe’s braid and yanked it hard.
“Ouch.” Berthe pulled away. She pressed her lips together. She was fighting back tears but determined not to let her grand-mère see her cry.
I would be better off and far better paid if I was her maid.
Anger seeped through her. She took out her frustration on her grand-mère’s house. She attacked the stone floor with broom and scrub brush. She beat the rugs mercilessly. She scoured the stone sink so hard that had it been made out of flesh it would have bled.
The hardest job was the laundry. It seemed as if Grand-mère Bovary had been saving up the wash for her arrival. She loaded Berthe down with a huge pile of soiled linens.
“The laundry pot is down by the river,” the old woman said, pointing the way.
Carrying two buckets of water at a time, Berthe needed to make several trips to fill the huge pot. Then she had to build a fire underneath. The sun beat down through the trees and before long she was drenched in her own sweat. She added soda crystals to the pot and stood over it, stirring everything with a big stick. Using the same stick, she pulled out the steaming items, put them in a basket, and dragged the basket down to the water’s edge. Then with a square wooden paddle she beat each piece against a rock, rinsed it in the river, beat it again, and rinsed it one final time. The bed linens were hard to lift because they were heavy with water, so she devised a way to squeeze the excess water out of the sheets by standing on one end and twisting the other end until most of the water ran out. Once she finished with the washing, everything had to be dragged back up the hill to her grand-mère’s where it was hung up on a line to dry. Berthe felt a great sense of accomplishment. She had never known how to do the wash, or anything else for that matter. Up until now, her greatest skill in life had been staying quiet and keeping out of the way.
Remembering that her grand-mère had paid someone to do these chores Berthe reasoned she, too, could make her living this way. She would perfect her skills and then perhaps one day she could hire herself out.
She would be in great demand; she would raise her prices, and soon she would make lots of money. Then she could buy herself a beautiful house and hire her own maid to do this hideous work. But she would pay the maid handsomely and be sure to praise her. The harder Berthe toiled the more determined she became. Soon, she no longer even needed her grand-mère’s acknowledgment or appreciation. The work was reward in itself.
Berthe was only twelve years old but she was tall for her age. Her mother had always suffered from poor health and a delicate constitution. When she wasn’t actually sick in bed she was continually nursing a headache or recovering from a fainting spell. By contrast, Berthe prided herself on her physical strength. And since coming to her grand-mère’s she seemed to be growing bigger every day.
One evening Grand-mère measured her against the wall.
“Unfortunately, it appears that you will take after your father when it comes to height. A pity. Big girls are not in great demand. Men want their wives to be petite,” she said, looking Berthe up and down as if she were a weed that needed to be pulled. “No one wants a giantess hanging on his arm. Let’s just hope you stop growing at some point before you tower over your husband.”
“What husband?” Berthe asked, her heart quickening. Was her grand-mère already planning on marrying her off?
“Never you mind,” her grand-mère said, pursing her lips.
The next morning, she announced, “It’s time for you to take on a few of the small farm chores. Renard, a boy from a neighboring farm, does most of the heavy work. He chops the wood, cuts the hay in the summer. He doesn’t have time to do the milking and feed the chickens and pigs. We have to do that.”
As she followed her grand-mère into the barn, Berthe realized “we” meant her.
“This is my angel, Céleste,” her grand-mère said, indicating a small sturdy cow with a white head and brown patches around her eyes like spectacles. “She won’t bite. She may kick, but she’ll never bite.”
