by Linda Urbach
Berthe liked the idea of doing work that had dignity. It certainly made her feel better about the blisters and sore muscles she had developed since coming to her grand-mère’s farm. She liked the way the artist spoke to her as an equal. She assumed this was because he knew nothing of her mother’s reputation.
Monsieur Millet sketched Berthe endlessly. Milking Céleste, churning the butter, carrying water from the well, herding the geese to the river, and resting against a haystack during the heat of the day. He even came by one evening to sketch her while she did her mending by lamplight. She missed him when he wasn’t drawing her.
Her grand-mère, who didn’t like Berthe to spend two minutes alone with Renard, had absolutely no problem with the fact that she spent many hours each day with Monsieur Millet. The fact that he was paying her handsomely for Berthe’s time certainly helped overcome any objections she might have had. And then there was the man himself. Her grand-mère was not immune to his dark good looks and his considerable charm. Making the acquaintance of Monsieur Millet had somehow changed Madame Bovary’s opinion of art in general. Every morning when he arrived at the farm she would engage him in conversation.
“Ah, Monsieur Millet, how goes the painting?” she said, straightening her apron with one hand while she smoothed away the stray ends of her hair with the other.
“It goes well, madame,” he replied each time, not bothering to explain to her that he was sketching, not painting.
“And Berthe, she is behaving herself?”
“She is the perfect model,” he responded.
“You let me know if she gives you any trouble. She has a temper, that one. She gets it from her mother.”
“I can always take a stick to her,” Monsieur Millet said, with a wink in Berthe’s direction.
Her grand-mère didn’t appear to know if he was joking or not. Fortunately, she let the matter of Berthe’s behavior drop.
“If you ever need a more womanly figure to pose for you, I might be persuaded,” her grand-mère said coyly.
“Thank you, Madame Bovary, I may well ask you to do just that.”
Grand-mère Bovary smiled happily.
A few weeks later Monsieur Millet made good his word to Berthe’s grand-mère. He arrived early one morning and stood in the kitchen doorway. Berthe was throwing grain into the courtyard for the chickens and geese. It was already quite hot. Mist rose from the fields. The smell of hay and pigs and apples all mixed together in the wet morning air.
“Madame Bovary, I want to avail myself of your generous offer,” he said to her grand-mère.
“You need only say the word, Monsieur Millet.” Berthe hated the idea of her grand-mère taking her place as Monsieur Millet’s model. She kicked at the dirt with her heavy clog. The chickens and geese scattered in alarm.
“I need two more figures for a drawing I am working on. Perhaps you and your friend Madame Leaumont would accommodate me?” Berthe threw down the empty feed bucket. Her grand-mère was too taken with Monsieur Millet to notice this show of temper.
“I cannot speak for Madame Leaumont, but I’m sure she will consent. And I myself would be honored. What should we wear?” she asked, tilting her head in an almost coquettish manner.
“Just wear your plainest, most comfortable clothes,” he answered. “You will speak to Madame Leaumont for me?” He picked up his drawing materials.
“Of course.”
“Shall we say the day after tomorrow?” He tipped the brim of his straw hat.
“As you wish, monsieur,” she said, making a small curtsy.
Two days later Berthe’s grand-mère and Madame Leaumont stood in the farmyard awaiting the arrival of Monsieur Millet. They were dressed in their very finest clothing. Madame Leaumont wore a blue satin dress with a lavish bow-trimmed bodice, and a matching bonnet trimmed in black velvet with a jaunty black plume affixed to the side. Berthe’s grand-mère was wearing what looked to be a crimson ball gown. It had a huge hoopskirt decorated with jet beads and scallops of black lace. The bodice was so tight she seemed to have difficulty taking a deep breath. Instead of a hat she wore a feather headdress with a curled upsweep. She had donned black lace gloves, and kept her skirts slightly lifted to avoid the manure and soiled hay that covered the ground. Where in the world had they acquired these gowns? Berthe wondered.
“Berthe, fetch a broom and clean this up,” her grand-mère said, indicating the area where she stood.
Berthe opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. What was she going to say? This was her grand-mère’s house, her grand-mère’s world for that matter. And now she was stealing her granddaughter’s only pleasure.
“Isn’t this exciting?” enthused Madame Leaumont. “We’re going to be in a famous painting.”
When Berthe returned with the broom, Monsieur Millet was standing by the front gate shaking his head and laughing.
“Oh, my dear ladies, this will never do. No, I’m afraid it won’t do at all.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Berthe’s grand-mère. “This is my very best frock.”
“Exactly the problem,” he said. “I said to wear something plain and comfortable. You hardly look comfortable, my dear lady. Although I must say, you both look extremely elegant. Far too elegant to appear in my humble sketches.”
“But we are to be painted, are we not?” protested Madame Bovary.
“First the sketch, then the painting,” explained the great artist. “If you please, go and change into the plainest dresses you own, and, Berthe, if you will, fetch some soiled linens and washing paddles.”
Berthe fought hard to keep the smile off her face. Monsieur Millet, in his constant quest to capture the hardworking countryside, was about to sketch laundry day. She expected her grand-mère to refuse to change, and was surprised and more than a little disappointed to see that she was going to comply with the artist’s request.
Madame Leaumont borrowed an old dress from her friend and both of them changed and dutifully followed Monsieur Millet down to the river. He carried the washing paddles and his bag of art supplies. Berthe came after, carrying a huge basket of laundry.
She could see that her grand-mère was already beginning to worry about what the “modeling” entailed. Madame Leaumont, being of cheerful nature, just followed along, happy to be included in this new adventure. When they reached the edge of the river Berthe dropped the heavy basket of laundry.
“Good, good. Now, ladies, if you will please do the laundry while I capture your noble exertions for all time.”
Grand-mère Bovary opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. His phrase “for all time” caught her imagination and she no doubt pictured herself hanging in the Louvre in Paris.
They made a glorious picture: the three of them laboring over the laundry in the river. Berthe’s grand-mère was making a valiant effort of beating the sheets against a rock, her face red, her breathing labored, and sweat soaking the top of her homespun dress. Poor Madame Leaumont struggled to keep up. And Berthe had the most enjoyable hour since first arriving at her grand-mère’s house.
After thirty minutes of scrubbing, washing, and rinsing, Berthe’s grand-mère straightened, dropped a sheet into the water, and said, “I hope you have your sketch, Monsieur Millet. Come, Claudine.” She turned to Madame Leaumont. “That is enough of this … this … art.” Leaving the wet laundry, the two women climbed the slope to the house.
At supper that night Berthe’s grand-mère was so furious she could hardly eat.
“Who in the world will want to buy a painting of women doing laundry in a river? I believe that Monsieur Millet must be slightly demented. If it weren’t for the fee he is paying me for your time I would tell him to take his sketches and go elsewhere.”
“Why are you letting that old man follow you around?” Renard asked Berthe one morning as she poured Céleste’s milk from the bucket into the copper jug. She lifted her chin and flung her gold braid over her shoulder as though it were a fine f
eather boa.
“I pose for him,” she said. “He is an artist and I am his model. Besides,” she added, “he’s not that old.” She wiped the outside of the jug with the corner of her apron.
“He must be at least forty,” Renard said. He knocked a piece of loose shingle off the wall of the barn.
Berthe ignored him, hoisting the copper jug onto her shoulder and steadying it with the leather strap. Renard walked over to Céleste, draped his arm around the cow’s neck, and whispered in her ear.
“Céleste, can you tell me why she likes an old man better than me?”
“Don’t talk to him, Céleste. He’s a stupid boy.” Renard laughed. He pulled a piece of straw from Céleste’s bundle and, walking behind Berthe, tickled her neck with it. She brushed it away with her free hand, taking care not to dislodge the milk jug.
“If I were an artist I would paint grand ladies. I wouldn’t follow a poor farm wench around while she does her stupid chores,” he said. His smile had disappeared.
“You don’t know anything about it,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She liked that he seemed jealous. It made her happy.
“He’s not interested in you as a model. He wants something else,” said Renard, staring at her intently.
“What are you talking about?” She turned quickly and some of the milk sloshed onto her arm. “It’s art, and you’re too ignorant to understand.” She pursed her lips in a show of disdain.
“You’re the ignorant one. Ignorant and ugly.”
She was stung by his words. They were friends—why was Renard being so cruel?
Holding back tears, she turned and stomped out of the barn without another word. She didn’t want to show him that he could so easily hurt her. The happiness she had felt only moments before had vanished.
CHAPTER 5
Homespun
RENARD WAS SPREADING MANURE OVER HER GRAND-MÈRE’S SMALL vegetable garden when Berthe and Monsieur Millet returned from an early morning sketching session. Berthe was still smarting from Renard’s cruel comments of the day before.
She had so wanted him to like her, to be her friend. But she had let down her guard and he had taken advantage of it. Suddenly she had an idea. She would show Renard just who was ignorant and ugly. She pulled the artist aside and whispered in his ear.
“Monsieur Millet, wouldn’t Renard make a wonderful subject for you?” She knew that Millet loved the humble farmer, and who looked more humble at that moment than Renard, ankle deep in cow dung?
“Brilliant,” said Millet. He set down his stool and bag of art materials and, being careful not to step in the manure, approached the working boy.
“Excuse me, young man,” he said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. Renard pretended not to hear him and continued working his rake.
“A moment of your time, kind sir,” the artist said.
Renard looked up, scowling.
“What is it?”
“Will you allow me to sketch you?” The artist pulled at his beard, waiting for a reply. Berthe turned away so that Renard would not see her smiling. She knew he was about to become Monsieur Millet’s next model. Oh, how he will hate that. “I will be happy to pay you for your time. All you have to do is continue what you’re doing.”
“You want to draw me shoveling merde?” Renard said.
Monsieur Millet nodded. To Berthe’s great disappointment, instead of being offended Renard threw back his head and laughed long and loud.
It was a beautiful drawing. Monsieur Millet captured Renard’s strong body leaning against a pitchfork as he seemingly dreamed the day away. In the background, the artist sketched just the barest indication of sapling trees and two bowed figures turning over the soil to work in the manure. The drawing had such a feeling of reality that Berthe could almost imagine one of the figures yelling, Renard, stop your dreaming and get back to work.
Monsieur Millet used him for many more sketches. The artist liked to talk as he drew. And he conversed with Renard on all kinds of farm topics.
“So, how do you think the harvest will be, come fall?” At first Renard didn’t answer but Millet persisted in his efforts to engage the young man. “I see you keep your scythe in good condition. How often do you sharpen it?”
“My father has a fine stone that his father left to him. It takes only a minute to put an edge on my blade,” Renard said, stroking the flat side of the scythe with his thumb.
“You’re quite a strong young man. I can see that by the thickness of your arms. I wager you can lift a horse.” Millet flexed his arms.
“Maybe a small cow,” said Renard, laughing. Berthe found herself laughing too.
One beautiful fall morning when the sky was a brilliant blue and a cool breeze blew over the fields, Monsieur Millet asked Berthe to do her afternoon milking on a hilltop which overlooked the ocean many miles away. It was a good half hour’s walk from her grand-mère’s farm.
“Today I work in pastels,” he said, unrolling a piece of pale blue paper that he affixed to his drawing board.
“Pastels?” she asked, looking up from Céleste.
“Colored chalks,” he explained. “I found an old box. It’s been so long since I’ve worked in color, I am afraid I will have lost the knack.” He gazed up at the sky as if measuring its blueness. “But if there was ever a day that called for color, this is it.”
The sketch that day took much longer than usual. Monsieur Millet asked her to stay seated on her stool long after she finished her milking. Céleste was perfectly content munching away at the thick grass.
“Done,” he said finally, sighing. Berthe rose and moved to peer over his shoulder.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands, “it’s beautiful.”
The drawing captured the brilliant green of the grass, the turquoise of the water, and the blazing blue of the sky. Céleste was the glorious centerpiece. Her end-of-the-summer sleekness shone in the brilliant sunshine. But Berthe was disappointed in how she herself looked in the picture, in her plain black skirt, blue homespun kerchief, and dowdy white cap.
“Why couldn’t you at least put me in a pretty dress?” she asked. “I look so hideous.” She thought about Renard’s remark. She knew she wasn’t ugly, but as her mother had always told her, “Clothes can make all the difference.” She glanced down at herself. “I hate these things,” she said, yanking the itching kerchief off her neck and pulling at it with both hands as if to tear it into shreds. She was feeling strangely weepy, almost as if the beautiful day was working against her.
Millet drew the kerchief from her clenched fingers.
“Look at this carefully,” he said, “and tell me exactly what you see.”
“I see horrible, scratchy cloth,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down.
“And what do they call this cloth?”
“Homespun.”
“Yes,” he said. “Homespun. Spun at home. It’s a beautiful word for a beautiful material. It is made from the wool of lambs, carded and then spun and made into thread and finally woven into fabric.”
“I don’t care how it’s made, it’s still ugly.” She stood with her hands on her hips.
“Dear Mademoiselle Berthe, don’t you see?” he said, lightly touching her cheek with one finger. “This is fabric that comes from the land, from the hard work of human hands. That is what makes it so beautiful. Hold it up to the sun and pull it taut.”
She grudgingly did as he told her. The sun shone through the material and she could see a crosshatch of lines that were not unlike those in Monsieur Millet’s drawings.
“This is the beauty of texture. The fine lines that make up the fabric of everything around us,” he said. As she continued to gaze through the material she saw a flock of geese fly past the golden sun. Slowly, she replaced the kerchief around her neck.
“Look around you. Look at the soil we stand on.” He bent down, scooped up a handful of earth, and poured it into her hands. It was filled with pebbles, dry clumps of dirt, and
bits of straw. “From this comes that,” he said, pointing to an apple tree heavy with yellow fruit. “From that shaggy sheep over there comes the thread of the wool to make a kerchief to keep the sun from baking your beautiful skin.” He lifted her hands, wiping the dirt from them. “These dear callused hands bring forth the sweet milk of Céleste. And from the crude heavy lines of my rough sketches will hopefully come a beautiful painting one day.”
Millet had, just by the magic of his words, managed to transform Berthe’s mood and lift her heart. She did love the countryside. It had been a great comfort to her since moving in with her grand-mère. The first thing she did every morning when she got up was to look out her small window at the lovely fields. She was always filled with gratitude for the beauty that surrounded her. It was the closest she came to saying her morning prayers.
“This is the most important thing I can teach you: the coarser the texture, the sturdier the weave; the rougher the life, the greater the reward. I believe this with all my heart, Mademoiselle Berthe. Your days may be difficult now but the gift of hard work will serve you well. Cherish the calluses and the blisters, see the dignity in the sweat of your labors, and always, always honor the homespun.”
Berthe vowed then and there never to forget what Monsieur Millet said. She could only imagine what a joy it would be to put all her energy and effort into something she actually loved doing. Something creative and beautiful like Millet’s art. That, she thought, would be a dream.
“Monsieur Millet, how did you know?” she asked, as she moved Céleste to a new patch of grass. The cow was growing fat and happy from all the posing she was doing.
“How did I know what?” He tilted his head back to study his sketch and then made a few quick corrective smudges with his little finger.
“How did you know you could make a living by your art?” She picked up a piece of Conté crayon from the box and began to roll it between her fingers.
“Oh, I didn’t know. In the beginning I survived by doing portraits for very little money. But that allowed me to continue my studies. And then I began to do the drawings that got me not only great attention but much grander prices.”
