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

easel he placed,
with the help of his son, picture after picture, for my delectation.
It was Millet's habit to commence a great number of pictures. On some
of them he would work as long, according to his own expression, as he
saw the scene in nature before him; for, at least at this epoch, he never
painted directly from nature. For a picture which I saw the following
summer, where three great hay-stacks project their mass against a
heavy storm cloud, the shepherd seeking shelter from the impending
rain, and the sheep erring here and there, affected by the changing
weather--for this picture, conveying, as it did, the most intense
impression of nature, Millet showed me (in answer to my inquiry and
in explanation of his method of work) in a little sketch-book, so small
that it would slip into a waistcoat pocket, the pencilled outline of the
three hay-stacks. "It was a stormy day," he said, "and on my return
home I sat down and commenced the picture, but of direct
studies--voila tout." Of another picture, now in the Boston Museum of
Fine Arts, of a young girl, life size, with a distaff, seated on a hillock,
her head shaded by a great straw hat relieved against the sky, he told
me that the only direct painting from nature on the canvas was in a
bunch of grass in the foreground, which he had plucked in the fields
and brought into his studio.
[Illustration: THE SOWER. FROM A PAINTING BY JEAN
FRANÇOIS MILLET.

From the original painting, now in the collection of Mrs. W.H.
Vanderbilt; reproduced by permission of Braun, Clement & Co. In his
criticism of the Salon of 1850, where the picture was first exhibited,
Théophile Gautier thus described it: "The sower advances with
rhythmic step, casting the seed into the furrowed land; sombre rags
cover him; a formless hat is drawn down over his brow; he is gaunt,
cadaverous, and thin under his livery of misery; and yet life is
contained in his large hand, as with a superb gesture he who has
nothing scatters broadcast on the earth the bread of the future."]
On this first day, it would be difficult to say how many pictures in
various states of advancement I saw. The master would occasionally
say, reflectively: "It is six months since I looked at that, and I must get
to work at it," as some new canvas was placed on the easel. At first,
fearing that he was too ill to have me stay, I made one or two motions
to leave. But each time, with a kindly smile, I was bidden to stay, with
the assurance that the headache was "going better." After a time I quite
forgot everything in enthusiasm at what I saw and the sense that I was
enjoying the privilege of a lifetime. The life of the fields seemed to be
unrolled before me like some vast panorama. Millet's comments were
short and descriptive of what he aimed to represent, seldom or never
concerning the method of his work. "Women in my country," meaning
Lower Normandy, of course, "carry jars of milk in that way," he said,
indicating the woman crossing the fields with the milk-can supported
by a strap on her shoulder. "When I was a boy there were great flights
of wild pigeons which settled in the trees at night, when we used to go
with torches, and the birds, blinded by the light, could be killed by the
hundred with clubs," was his explanation of another scene full of the
confusion of lights and the whirr of the bewildered pigeons.
[Illustration: CHURNING. FROM A PASTEL BY JEAN FRANÇOIS
MILLET, IN THE LUXEMBOURG GALLERY, PARIS.
Delightful for a sense of air through the cool and spacious room, and
for the sculpturesque solidity of the group composed of the woman, the
churn, and the cat.]
"And you have not seen it since you were a boy?" I asked.
"No; but it all comes back to me as I work," was his answer.
From picture to picture, from question to kindly answer, the afternoon
sped, and at length, in response to a question as to the relative

importance of subject, the painter sent his son into the house whence he
returned with a panel a few inches square. The father took it, wiped the
dust from it, absent-mindedly, on his sleeve, with a half caressing
movement, and placed it on the easel. "_Voila!_ (There!)" was all he
said. The panel represented three golden juicy pears, their fat sides
relieved one against the other, forming a compact group which, through
the magic of color, told of autumn sun, and almost gave the odor of
ripened fruit. It was a lovely bit of painting, and much interested, I said:
"Pardon