McClures Magazine, Vol. VI., No. 6, May, 1896 | Page 5

on her brood, which, if I remember rightly,
already counted a grandchild or more: as pleasant a sight as one could
readily see. Later, in the autumn evenings, a lamplit replica of the same
picture presented itself. Or, if the dinner was cleared away, one would
see Madame Millet busy with her needle, the children at their lessons,
and the painter, whom even then tradition painted a sad and cheerless
misanthrope, contentedly playing at dominoes with one of the children,
or his honest Norman face wreathed in smiles as the conversation took
an amusing turn. This, it is true, was when the master of the house was
free from his terrible enemy, the headache, which laid him low so often,
and which in these days became more and more frequent.
[Illustration: FIRST STEPS. FROM A PASTEL BY JEAN
FRANÇOIS MILLET.
Reproduced by permission of Braun, Clement & Co. As Sensier
remarks, Millet, with nine children, had abundant opportunity to study
them. This charming drawing was one of the collection of Millet's

pastels formed by M. Gavet, which was unfortunately dispersed by
auction soon after the artist's death.]
The house, to resume the description of Millet's home, went back at
right angles from the street, and contained the various apartments of the
family, many of them on the ground floor, and all of the most modest
character. It was a source of wonder how so large a family could
inhabit so small a house. The garden lay in front, and extended back of
the house. A high wall with a little door, painted green, by which you
entered, ran along the street, and ended at the studio, which was, like
the dining-room, on the street. The garden was pleasant with flowers
and trees, the kitchen garden being at the rear. But a few short years
ago, within its walls Madame Millet plucked a red rose, and gave it to
me, saying: "My husband planted this." Outside the little green door, on
either hand, were stone benches set against the wall, on which the
painter's children sometimes sat and played; but it is somewhat strange
that I never remember Millet at his door or on the village street. He
walked a great deal, but always went out of the garden to the fields
back of the house, and from there gained the forest or the plain. Among
the young painters who frequented Barbizon in those days (which were,
however, long after the time when the men of Millet's age established
themselves there), there were, strange as it may seem, few who cared
for Millet's work, and many who knew little or nothing of it. The
prejudices of the average art student are many and indurated. His
horizon is apt to be bounded by his master's work or the last Salon
success, and as Millet had no pupils, and had ceased to exhibit at the
Salon, he was little known to most of the youths who, as I look back,
must have made Barbizon a most undesirable place for a quiet family to
live in. An accident which made me acquainted with Millet's eldest son,
a painter of talent, seemed for a time to bring me no nearer to knowing
the father until one day some remark of mine which showed at least a
sincere admiration for his work made the son suggest that I should
come and see a recently completed picture.
If the crowd of young painters who frequented the village were
indifferent to Millet, such was not the case with people from other
places. The "personally conducted" were then newly invented, and I
have seen a wagon load of tourists, who had been driven to different
points in the forest, draw up before Millet's modest door and express

indignation in a variety of languages when they were refused
admittance. There were many in those days who tried with little or no
excuse to break in on the work of a man whose working days were
already counted, and who was seldom free from his old enemy
migraine. I was to learn this when--I hope after having had the grace to
make it plain that, though I greatly desired to know Millet, I felt no
desire to intrude--the son had arranged for a day when, at last, I was
admitted to the studio.
Millet did not make his appearance at once; and when he came, and the
son had said a few kindly words of presentation, he seemed so
evidently in pain that I managed, in a French which must have been
distinguished by a pure New York accent and a vocabulary more than
limited, to express a fear that he was suffering, and suggested that my
visit had better be deferred.
"No, it will pass," was his answer; and going to his