Jana Harris
Rue Rumford, Paris 1846, Rosa Bonheur, b. 1822
[from Parte III: Provenance, Paris 1842-49]
It wasn’t too late for me,
a cover for every pot, she said.
With my artistic bent-of-mind,
she’d have no trouble teaching
me to cook crème patisseries
and baba au rhum. I should
spend my coins on almonds
and vanilla beans instead
of another sketching pencil.
Mamiche had no idea
how hard life had been
for my mother—Sophie,
her name as soft
as the memory of her cheek.
Loud-mouthed Tomboy.
My hair! A different hat, perhaps.
I was too independent,
what would my life be like,
elderly and friendless?
Since my mother died at 36, I never
thought of getting old.
Milliner’s assistant, governess;
I needed something to fall back on
when Auguste surpassed me,
his portraits supporting the family.
Could I eat paper, canvas,
or plaster-of-Paris?
Mamiche had the same advice
for my friend, Natalie,
whose mother turned a deaf ear.
Sophie would have sold her hair
to feed us, if it hadn’t
displeased my father. Instead
she gave music lessons,
sewed piecework, stretched
a wormy cabbage
into broth to feed us, until
she was too ill
to get out of bed. When I
told Mamiche, she
girded her face with her hands
as if I had struck her. So
much darkness, she said,
think only pleasant thoughts.
On that we could agree.
Mamiche paired Auguste
with her niece, my sister with her son;
military service would make
diminutive ‘Dodore more robust.
But me? My short stature,
tiny hands coquettish if only
my nails weren’t stained
and I didn’t give off a manly scent
of Venice turpentine and charcoal.
It wasn’t that I was unattractive,
like Natalie, with a ferret nose
and no chin. It wasn’t that
I was witless, just the opposite.
My hair such a lovely auburn,
why shear it like a sheep?
I had Sophie’s hair,
everyone said so. I recalled
how Mere twirled my forelock
into a curl, carefully each morning
unraveling every snarl.
Natalie’s long well-shaped fingers
kept alive the memory
of Mere’s feathery touch.
Mamiche turned her eyes to heaven:
Think of my wedding night,
my husband running
a reassuring hand through
the waves at the nape
of my neck. She went rapturous
while I remembered Mere pressing
her wet cheek into mine,
pleading with Pere not to forsake her
for the purple tunic of the monastery.
When Mamiche took me
to meet her people in Auvergne—
five days from Paris
by horse-drawn carriage—
I suspected she had in mind
a suitor: the innkeeper, or
a herdsman, what better match
for a girl who drew animals
unceasingly?
I wrote Mlle. Micas:
the Clermont air, the green
chain of volcanic hills,
the Puy de Dome, I shall
bring you to this place, Natalie,
I have a plan; I cannot enjoy pleasure
without you. I kiss you;
I kiss you as I love you.
I exhaust myself sketching,
not a single detail of the landscape
escapes me. Mademoiselle,
I see you so clearly from afar.
Do not trouble yourself
to write to me here, it is
harder than you think
to receive mail.
Write to me here.
“The Matchmaker” is from The Horse Fair, poems on the life and art of Rosa Bonheur (1822-99) by Jana Harris. Part psycho-biography, part speculation and intuition, these linked dramatic monologues probe themes of gender, class, and artistic genius against the background of 19th century Paris and environs.
Jana Harris
Jana Harris teaches creative writing at the University of Washington and at the Writer’s Workshop in Seattle. She is editor and founder of Switched-on Gutenberg. Most recent publications: “You Haven’t Asked About My Wedding or What I Wore; Poems of Courtship on the American Frontier” (University of Alaska Press) and the memoir, Horses Never Lie About Love (Simon & Schuster).