Madame Bovary's Daughter (38 page)

“You live in Paris and you've never been to its most famous museum? Quite possibly
the
most famous in the world.”

She felt utterly humiliated. She wanted to tell him that she had been exposed to art, that she had even been the sometime subject of his very own master's celebrated paintings, clearly something he didn't know. But she sensed that he would not have been the least bit impressed.

“I am just a lady's maid after all,” she snapped. “I know nothing except how to repair lace collars, polish boots, replace ribbons on bonnets, and run the bath for my mistress. I have no time for your precious paintings or famous museums.” And with that she turned on her heel and, fighting back tears, rushed out of the room. Even as she left, she felt she had made this embarrassing exit one too many times.

O
N ONE OF
B
ERTHE'S RARE DAYS OFF SHE VISITED THE
L
OUVRE
for the first time. If Armand had a favorite painting of Titian's she wanted to see it, to try to understand him better. His derisive “You've never been to Paris's most famous museum?” echoed in her thoughts.
I'll show you; I'm not a complete dolt
. She waited nervously outside for the Louvre to open in the Palais Royal; she untied and retied the ribbons of her bonnet so tightly that she had difficulty swallowing.

Are we all doomed to go through life desiring what we can never have?
She pictured Armand working from his scaffold—literally above her, completely out of reach. How she admired the fact that he still held on to the dream of creating his own work instead of copying the work of others. She could see that this passion drove him. What exactly was driving her?

In 1852 Napoléon III had proclaimed himself Emperor of all of France. And wasting no time, he immediately turned his substantial energies to the “Nouveau Louvre.” Over the next fifteen
years, he would raze the last city structures within the Louvre-Tuileries precincts and finish the north gallery, effectively enclosing the Tuileries and Carrousel gardens. Later, at great expense, the imperial architects Louis Visconti and Hector Lefuel doubled the size of the wings of what was originally called the
Cour Napoléon
. This was the imposing structure that Berthe entered that day.

She felt as if she had suddenly been dropped in the middle of a foreign country where she didn't speak the language or understand the customs. But she refused to let her intimidation stop her. She was on a mission.

She walked quickly past one elaborate, gilt-framed painting and tall, imposing sculpture after another, until at the end of the long hall she came to an abrupt halt. A huge white marble sculpture of an armless woman stood in front of her. She gazed up at it, her mouth open. Where were her arms? Without arms she was unable to cover her breasts or reach down and grasp the drape that seemed to be slipping off her hips. Even though she was half clothed, she seemed more naked than naked. She appeared powerless and at the same time, incredibly powerful.

“She is something,
n'est-ce pas
?” a voice behind her said. Berthe turned to see a uniformed museum guard. He smiled, twirling the ends of his mustache as if he were a dandy about to ask either Berthe, or the statue, to honor him with the next dance.

“What happened to her arms?” Berthe asked.

The guard chuckled. “Ah, that is always the question. You're not the first person to ask.” He cleared his throat and said, “In 1820 the beautiful lady was discovered on the island of Melos by a Greek farmer who found her while plowing a field. She was in two pieces. In her left hand was an apple, while her right hand held her robe from slipping further. Both hands were badly damaged,
as was her
petit nez
, as you can see. A few days later the farmer told a French naval officer, a Monsieur d'Urville, about the statue. But the officer's captain wasn't interested in old pieces of marble. D'Urville, obviously an art lover, made sketches and upon arriving in Constantinople showed his sketches to the French ambassador, the marquis de Rivière, who sent a ship to buy it for his country. However, after fetching the lost lady there was a scuffle between the French sailors and some Greek bandits, who had suddenly decided the statue must be worth something. In the midst of the fight the statue was dragged across rocks to the ship, breaking off both arms. The sailors refused to go back and search for the pieces. And
voilà
, there you have it: the most famous armless woman in the world.”

She tore her eyes away from the statue.

“Can you tell me where I may find the work of Titian?” she asked.

“Go down that hall,” he said, pointing. “Turn right and keep walking for several miles until you get to the end of the long corridor, then turn left.”

Berthe stood some distance away from Titian's
Venus and Adonis
and studied it for a long time. Unlike the romantic Venus and Cupid mural that Armand was replicating on the Rappelais ceiling, there was something about this work that made her feel as if she were intruding on a private scene. She recognized the figure of Venus, who was, as seemed usual in the world of art, totally naked. But it was Adonis who dominated the painting. Dressed in a rich orange tunic and holding on to three enormous hunting dogs and a staff, he looked as if he was far too busy to be bothered with the naked figure who clung to him. Venus was clearly begging him not to go hunting, to stay with her, to do with her whatever he had in his close-cropped curly head to do.
The sun streamed down through thick clouds onto the far-off hills. In the background, asleep under a tree, was a very plump Cupid. His bow and arrow hung high off an adjacent tree. Was that why Venus was unable to entice Adonis to stay with her instead of following his dogs? Berthe wondered. Was it because Cupid was asleep on the job? The expression on Adonis's face was not one of love but impatience.
Leave me alone, let me be
, he seemed to be saying.
I have dogs to hunt with, things to slay. I cannot be bothered with this naked, fleshy, needy woman
.

She walked on, studying one painting after another, trying to understand what made each one worthy of being hung in this great museum. By the end of the day she felt both exhausted by the intensity of the works and inspired by the potential of art to provoke thought and emotion. On her way out of the Louvre she stopped by another guard and asked, “Which way to the paintings of Monsieur Jean Millet?”

“Millet?” He scratched his head. “I've never heard of him. Is he dead?”

“Oh, no. He's still very much alive and painting.”

“He has to be dead a long time before his paintings will be considered great enough to hang in the Louvre, mademoiselle.”

“But people pay a lot for his paintings,” she said.

“That may well be. But it is a pittance compared to what the works that hang here are valued at. By the time an artist arrives at the Louvre no one can afford to buy his paintings.”

Berthe wondered if Armand was aware of the economics of art. Probably he hoped to achieve the same level of success as Millet, who could sell his paintings for enough to keep his large family happy, comfortable, well fed, and clothed. But even Millet was nowhere near achieving museum status, being a healthy man still in his forties.

She had a sudden insight. In art, fame meant money and
money meant one was free to follow one's passion and make even more money. But the point was, you had to have the passion in the first place. And then it hit her: She
did
have the passion. She knew it. Bolts and bolts of beautifully designed fabrics, dress after exquisite dress hung in the showroom of her mind. She realized she was back in a fantasy, but she didn't care. Because without a dream, she was without hope, and without hope she was dead. And death had no value except perhaps to the mausoleum builders, and museums. Success was possible only if fueled by passion. You just had to make sure you stayed alive to enjoy it.

Berthe burst into the ballroom. Catching her breath, she stood just inside the doorway and watched Armand paint. He lay on his back on the scaffolding, adding touches of purple to the dark sky. “I saw the
Venus de Milo
and
Venus and Adonis
, and wall after wall of beautiful paintings and statues. Why is Venus such a much-painted figure?” she asked breathlessly. Armand said nothing.

She could barely contain herself. She turned in circles, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.

“Why does one have to wait to die before you can become a famous artist? Why are there so many paintings of people fighting and horses being stabbed and women being dragged off to goodness knows where by their hair?” She was fairly bouncing up and down waiting for him to respond.

He sat up, gathered his brushes, and climbed down from the scaffolding. He studied the mural for a long time and then finally turned to look at her.

“So many questions. I gather you enjoyed the Louvre?”

“It was wonderful.” She sighed happily. “I never imagined such beauty. Perhaps one day your art will hang there.”

He frowned. “Not at the rate I'm going,” he said, staring up at his unfinished work. “Besides, I am still just a student. I have much to learn. My dream is to go to Italy to study more.”

Berthe's stomach twisted. “Why Italy? France is filled with artists.”

“Italy understands and appreciates artists in a way France never has. Besides, the light is better in Italy. And who knows? Perhaps I could find my own Lorenzo de' Medici there.”

He cleaned his brushes and rolled them up in a clean cloth, setting them inside an old leather case. Two minutes passed while both of them maintained their silence as they gazed at the mural. Finally, she couldn't stand it any longer and she said, “Do you think Monsieur Titian would be pleased with your work?”

“As long as Madame Rappelais is pleased that's all that matters, isn't it?” he said.

“You don't care one way or the other? You have no—what does Monsieur Millet call it—artistic integrity?”

“What do you, or Millet for that matter, know about artistic integrity?” he snorted, wiping his hands on a rag and throwing it on the floor.

“I suppose I know nothing since I am but an ignorant maid, but I thought you must have great respect for Monsieur Millet. Why else would you be an apprentice to him?” She felt her ears grow hot.

There was a long silence. And when he did finally speak she couldn't have been more surprised by his words.

“I'm sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “Please forgive me. I have spent so much of my life copying other people's art, especially Monsieur Millet's, that I suppose I have developed a resentment. Call it jealousy, if you will. I want so desperately to do my own work. I envy these great artists for being able to perfect
their technique, to pursue their artistic visions. The luxury of being able to be original is one I fear I will never experience.” He ran his hands through his hair and looked straight into Berthe's eyes.

“But they all had to start somewhere. The great masters must have been poor artists at the beginning.”

“Poor artists with rich patrons or wealthy wives to support them. No, the painter's life is not for the lowly born.” He walked over to one of the tall windows and looked out.

“Then what made you pick this profession?” She stared at his back.

He turned and laughed. She thought she had never seen anything quite so beautiful as the sight of his smile. It was like the sun coming out after many days of bad weather.

“I didn't pick it,” he said ruefully. “It picked me. Once I started drawing as a young boy I was powerless to stop. I had my first paying customers when I was only eight years old. So, you see, it was my profession before I was old enough to realize what I was getting into.”

“You started selling your art at such a young age?” she said, not quite believing him.

“I had a very particular subject matter, and what one might refer to as a built-in clientele.” He smiled, and she felt brave enough to walk over and join him by the window. Standing next to him she noticed for the first time how much taller than her he was. Her head came only to his shoulder.

“My mother was a young and beautiful girl,” he continued. “Too young and too beautiful and too ignorant in the ways of city men, having been brought up in the country. She came to Paris to work in the shops, was discovered by the wealthy son of a wine merchant, got pregnant, had me, and went into ‘the profession'
as the only way of supporting us.” He recited this as if it had all happened to a character in a novel and not his own mother.

“The profession?” repeated Berthe.

“She was lucky enough to find a place in one of the city's better houses of prostitution. Only the most elite clientele frequented Madame Tourneau's establishment—men of great standing and considerable wealth. So I grew up surrounded by beautiful, half-clothed women. And they were my first subject matter.” He turned and looked at her. Berthe had never seen such sadness in anyone's eyes.

“Many of the gentlemen who saw my drawings encouraged me and went so far as to commission certain poses for their own private collections. Even with Madame Tourneau taking her rather substantial cut I was able to earn enough to pay my way through art school. Madame bought several of my drawings herself and had them framed; as far as I know, they still hang on the walls of her brothel. They are considered, by those in the know, to be very fine pornography. You see, I benefited from an early and unusually intensive training in life drawing.”

“Oh” was all Berthe could think to say. She turned her face from the window.

“Are you blushing, mademoiselle?” he asked, peering closely at her.

“I wasn't,” she said, “but if you keep looking at me like that I am afraid I will start.”