of The Woman Feeding Hens. It is a common enough little house which
we see, built of stone, plastered over, in the fashion of the French
provinces, and very low. In the long wall from the door to the garden
gate is only one small high window. But time and nature have done much
to beautify the spot. In the cracks of the roof, thatched or tiled,
whichever it may be, many a vagrant seed has found lodgment. The weeds
have grown up in profusion to cover the bare little place with
leaf and flower. Indeed, there is here a genuine roof garden of the
prettiest sort, and it extends along the stone wall separating the
dooryard from the garden. Some one who has seen these vine-fringed
walls in Barbizon describes them as gay with "purple orris, stonecrop,
and pellitory."
A young wife presides in the little cottage home and rules her side
of the dooryard with gentle sway. She has a curly-haired baby boy who
creeps after her as she goes about her work. His inquiring mind is at
this age investigating all the corners of the house, and before long
he will be the young master of the dooryard.
The housewife boasts a small brood of hens. Early in the morning the
voice of the chanticleer is heard greeting the dawn. Presently
he leads his family forth to begin their day's scratching in the
dooryard. Here and there they wander with contented clucks, as they
find now and then a worm or grub for a titbit. But it is only a poor
living which is to be earned by scratching. The thrifty housewife sees
to it that her brood are well fed. At regular times she comes out of
the house to feed them with grain, as she is doing now.
[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. John Andrew
& Son, Sc. THE WOMAN FEEDING HENS]
The baby hears the mother's voice saying, in what is the French
equivalent, "Here chick-chick-chick," and creeps swiftly to the door.
He, too, tries to call "chick-chick." He watches the odd creatures
eagerly as they gobble up the seed. They stand about in a circle,
heads all together in the centre, bobbing up and down as long as any
food remains. Chanticleer holds back with true gallantry, and with an
air of masculine superiority. The belated members of the brood come
running up as fast as they can. The apron holds a generous supply, so
that there is enough for all, but the housewife doles it out prudently
by the handful, that none may suffer through the greediness of the
others.
As we study the lines of the picture a little, they teach us some
important lessons in composition. We note first the series of
perpendicular lines at regular intervals across the width of the
picture. These counterbalance the effect of the long perspective which
is so skilfully indicated in the drawing of the house and the garden
walk. The perspective is secured chiefly by three converging lines,
the roof and ground lines of the house, and the line of the garden
walk. These lines if extended would meet at a single point.
Once more let us recall Ruskin's teaching in regard to enclosed
spaces.[1] The artist is unhappy if shut in by impenetrable barriers.
There must always be, he says, some way of escape, it matters not by
how narrow a path, so that the imagination may have its liberty.
This is the principle which our painter has applied in his picture.
He wisely gives us a glimpse of the sky above, and shows us the shady
vista of the garden walk leading to the great world beyond.
Our illustration is from a charcoal drawing, which, like the Knitting
Lesson, is matched by a corresponding painting.
[Footnote 1: In _Modern Painters_ in the chapter on "Infinity."]
VII
THE ANGELUS
The early twilight of autumn has overtaken two peasants at the close
of a day's work in the field. They are gathering the potato harvest.
The dried plants are first pulled up, and the potatoes carefully dug
out of the holes. Then the vegetables are taken from the furrows by
the basketful, and poured into brown linen sacks to be carried home
on the wheelbarrow. One of these sacks is not yet quite full, and the
work has been prolonged after sunset.
The field is a long way from the village, but in the still air sounds
are carried far across the plain. Suddenly the bell of the village
church peals forth. The man stops digging and plunges his fork into
the earth, and the woman hastily rises from her stooping posture. The
Angelus bell is ringing, and it calls them to prayer.
Three times each day, at sunrise, midday, and sunset, this bell
reminds the world of the birth of Jesus Christ. The strokes are rung
in three groups, corresponding to the three parts of The Angelus,
which are recited in turn. The first word gives the bell its
name,--Angelus, the Latin for angel.
"The angel of the Lord announced to Mary,
And she conceived of the Holy Spirit.
"Behold the handmaid of the Lord,
Be it done unto me according to thy word.
"And the word was made flesh
And dwelt among us."
Thus run the words of the translation in the three couplets into which
they are separated, and then this prayer is added: "We beseech thee, O
Lord, pour forth thy grace into our hearts; that as we have known the
incarnation of thy Son Jesus Christ by the message of an angel, so
by his cross and passion we may be brought into the glory of his
resurrection, through the same Jesus Christ our Lord."
Besides this, after each couplet of the Angelus, is recited that
short hymn of praise, beginning with the words which the angel of the
annunciation addressed to Mary,[1] "Ave Maria." This is why the hour
after sunset is so often called the hour of Ave Maria. The English
poet Byron has written of this solemn moment:--
"Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer."
[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. John Andrew
& Son, Sc. THE ANGELUS]
The atmosphere of prayer pervades the picture. The woman stands with
bowed head and hands clasped over her breast. Her whole body sways
slightly forward in the intensity of her devotion. Her husband has
bared his head and holds his hat before him. Though he may seem
somewhat awkward, he is not less sincerely reverent.
The sunset light shines on the woman's blue apron, gilds the potato
sacks in the wheelbarrow, and gleams along the furrows. Farther away,
the withered plants are heaped in rows of little piles. Beyond, the
level plain stretches to meet the glowing sky, and, outlined on the
horizon, is the spire of the church where the bells are ringing.
As the meaning of the picture grows upon us, we can almost hear the
ringing of the bells. Indeed, to those familiar with such scenes in
actual life, the impression is very vivid. The friend to whom Millet
first showed his painting immediately exclaimed, "It is the Angelus."
"Then you can hear the bells," said the artist, and was content.
The solemn influence of the picture is deepened by the effects of the
twilight on the plains. A wide outlook across a level country, like
a view of the sea, is always impressive, but it has peculiar power
in the vague light which follows the sunset. Many poetic natures have
felt this mystic spell of the gloaming as it descends upon the plain.
Robert Louis Stevenson was one of these, and upon visiting Barbizon he
described vividly his feelings at such an hour. We are told also
that Millet loved to walk abroad at nightfall and note the mysterious
effects of the twilight. "It is astonishing," he once said to his
brother in such a walk, "how grand everything on the plain appears,
towards the approach of night, especially when we see the figures
thrown out against the sky. Then they look like giants."
In nearly all of Millet's pictures people are busy doing something.
Either hands or feet, and sometimes both hands and feet, are in
motion. They are pictures of action. In the Angelus, however, people
are resting from labor; it is a picture of repose. The busy hands
cease their work a moment, and the spirit rises in prayer. We have
already seen, in other pictures, how labor may be lightened by love.
Here we see labor glorified by piety.
The painting of the Angelus has had a remarkable history. The patron
for whom it was first intended was disappointed with the picture when
finished, and Millet had no little difficulty in finding a purchaser.
In the course of time it became one of the most popular works of the
painter, and is probably better known in our country than any other of
his pictures. In 1889 it was bought by an American, and was carried
on an exhibition tour through most of the large cities of the
United States. Finally it returned to France, where it is now in the
collection of M. Chauchard.
The Angelus is one of the few of Millet's works which have changed
with time. The color has grown dark and the canvas has cracked
somewhat, owing to the use of bitumen in the painting.
[Footnote 1: "Hail Mary"; see St. Luke, chapter i., verse 28.]
VIII
FILLING THE WATER-BOTTLES
The artist Millet loved to draw as well as to paint. Black and white
pictures had their charm for him as truly as those in color. Indeed,
he once said that "tone," which is the most important part of color,
can be perfectly expressed in black and white. It is therefore not
strange that he made many drawings. Some of these, like the Knitting
Lesson and the Woman Feeding Hens, were, as we have seen, studies for
paintings. The picture called Filling the Water-Bottles was, on the
other hand, a charcoal drawing, corresponding to no similar painting.
It is in itself a finished work of art.
It is a typical French river scene which we see here, and it gives
us an idea how large a part a river may take in the life of French
country people. Sometimes it is the sole source of water for a
village. Then it is not only the common village laundry, in which all
clothing is washed, but it is also the great village fountain, from
which all drinking-water is drawn.
The women in our picture have come to the bank with big earthen jars
to fill. It is in the cool of early morning, and the mist still lies
thick over the marshes bordering the river. The sun, seen through the
mist, looks like a round ball. On the farther bank, where a group of
poplars grow, some horsemen ride up to ford the stream. They, too, are
setting forth early on their day's work. One is already half across.
The women have picked out, along the marshy bank, a point of land
jutting into the river like a miniature promontory, and seemingly of
firm soil. It is only large enough to hold one at a time, so they take
turns. One is now filling a bottle, while the other waits, standing
beside two jars.
The first woman kneels on the ground, and supporting herself firmly
by placing one hand on the edge of the bank, she grasps the jar by
the handle, with her free right hand, and swings it well out over the
water. Experience has taught her the most scientific way of filling
the jar with least muscular strain. She does not try to plunge it down
into the water, but holding it on its side, slightly tipped, draws it
along with the mouth half under the surface, sucking in the water as
it moves. We see what hard, firm muscles she has to hold the arm out
so tensely. Her arm acts like a compass describing the arc of a circle
through the water with the jar. As we look, we can almost see her
completing the circle, and drawing up the full jar upon the bank.
[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. FILLING THE
WATER-BOTTLES John Andrew & Son, Sc.]
The woman who waits her turn is capable of the same feat. There is
power in every line of her figure as she stands in what has been well
described by a critic as a "majestic pose." She straightens back
to rest, with her arms on her hips, quite unconscious that there is
anything fine in her appearance.
Look a minute and you will see that she is the woman of the Angelus.
As we saw her in the other picture, with head bowed and hands clasped
on her breast, we did not realize how grand and strong she was. But
raising her head, throwing back her chest, and putting her arms on her
sides, she shows us now her full power.
Both women are dressed alike in the clothing which is now familiar
to us from the other pictures,--coarse gowns made with scanty skirts,
long aprons reaching nearly to the bottom of the dress, kerchiefs
fastened snugly about their heads, and wooden sabots. We could not
imagine anything that would become them better. It is part of the
French nature to understand the art of dressing, and this art is
found just as truly among the peasants of the provinces as in the
fashionable world at Paris.
The picture is a study in black and white which any one who cares for
drawing will wish to examine attentively. He was indeed a master who
could, with a single bit of charcoal, make us feel the witchery of
this early morning hour by the river-side. We note the many different
"tones" of the picture,--the faint soft mist of the distant atmosphere
over the marshes, growing darker on the poplars and the hilly bank in
the middle distance; the shadow of the bank in the river; the gleam of
the sunlight on the calm water mid-stream; the ripples about the jar;
the sharply defined figures of the women, dark on the side turned
from the sun; and the quivering shadow of the kneeling woman in the
ripple-broken water in front.
Among primitive peoples the hour of sunrise was a sacred time, when
hymns were sung and sacrifices were offered to the life-giving sun.
The painter Millet has expressed something of the mystic solemnity of
the hour in this picture. The sun has awakened the world to work, and
in its strength men and women go forth to labor.[1]
[Footnote 1: A fine passage on the morning occurs in Thoreau's second
chapter of _Walden_.]
IX
FEEDING HER BIRDS
As we have already seen in the picture of the Woman Feeding Hens, the
dooryard in French village homes is so shut in by walls, that it
has the privacy of a family living-room. This was the arrangement in
Millet's own home at Barbizon. The painter was among the fortunate
ones who had a garden beyond the dooryard. At the other end of this
was his studio, where he worked many hours of the day. It is said
that he used to leave the door open that he might hear the children's
voices at their play. Sometimes, indeed, he would call them in to
look at his pictures, and was always much pleased when they seemed to
understand and like them. We may be sure that he often looked across
the garden to the dooryard where the family life was going on, and
at such times he must have caught many a pretty picture. Perhaps our
picture of this mother feeding her children was suggested in this way.
Three healthy, happy children have been playing about in the yard,--a
girl of six, her younger sister, and a brother still younger. They are
dressed simply, so as to enjoy themselves thoroughly without fear
of injuring any fine clothes. All three wear long aprons and wooden
sabots. The little girls have their flying hair confined in close
bonnet caps tied under the chin. The boy rejoices in a round cap
ornamented on top with a button. The sisters take great care of their
little brother.
The toys are of a very rude sort and evidently of home manufacture. A
cart is constructed of a board set on clumsy wheels. A doll is roughly
shaped of wood and wrapped in a hood and blanket. There is a basket
besides, in which one can gather bits of treasure picked up here and
there in the yard.
By and by the play is interrupted by a familiar voice. The children
look up and see their mother standing smiling in the doorway. A bowl
which she has in her hand is still steaming, and an appetizing odor
reminds them that they are hungry. The basket and the cart are hastily
dropped, but not the doll, and they all run to the doorstep. The
brother is placed in the middle and the sisters seat themselves
on either side. The elder girl still holds her doll with maternal
solicitude; the other two children clasp hands, and the sister's arm
is put around the boy's neck.
[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. John Andrew
& Son, Sc. FEEDING HER BIRDS]
Meanwhile the mother has seated herself directly in front of them, on
a low stool such as is used by country people as a milking-stool. She
tips it a little as she leans over to feed the children in turn from a
long-handled wooden spoon. Of course the first taste is for the little
brother, and he stretches out his neck eagerly, opening his mouth wide
so as not to lose a drop. The sisters look on eagerly, the younger one
opening her own mouth a little, quite unconsciously. An inquisitive
hen runs up to see what good things there are to eat. In the garden
beyond, the father works busily at his spading.
The name which Millet gave to this picture is the French word
_Becquée_, which cannot be translated into any corresponding word in
English. It means a _beakful_, that is, the food which the mother bird
holds in her beak to give to the nestlings.
The painter had in mind, you see, a nestful of birds being fed. The
similarity between the family and the bird life is closely carried
out in the picture. The children sit together as snugly as birds in
a nest. The mother bends toward them in a brooding attitude which
is like the bird mother's. Her extended hand suggests a bird's beak,
tapering to a sharp point at the end of the spoon. The young bird's
mouth is wide open, and in pops the nice spoonful of broth! The
house itself is made to look like a cosy little nest by the vine that
embowers it. The sturdy stem runs up close by the doorstep and sends
out over door and window its broad branches of beautiful green leaves.
And just as the father bird watches the nest from his perch on some
branch of the tree, the father at work in the garden can look from
time to time at the little family circle in the doorway. As in the
picture of the Woman Feeding Hens, the house is built of stone covered
with plaster. The door casing is of large ill-matched blocks of stone.
The dooryard is made to appear much larger by the glimpse of the
orchard we get through the gateway. No out-of-door picture is complete
which does not show something of the beauty of nature. The dooryard
itself would be a bare place but for the shady garden beyond.
X
THE CHURCH AT GRÉVILLE
The village-commune of Gréville has nothing to make it famous except
that it was the birthplace of the painter Millet. It is at the tip
of Cape La Hague, which juts abruptly from the French coast into the
English channel. The cape is a steep headland bristling with granite
rocks and needles, and very desolate seen from the sea. Inland it is
pleasant and fruitful, with apple orchards and green meadows.
The village life centres about the church, for the inhabitants of
Grenville are a serious and God-fearing people. The church is the spot
around which cluster the most sacred associations of life. Here the
babies are baptized, and the youths and maidens confirmed; here
the young people are married, and from here young and old alike are
carried to their last resting-place. The building is hallowed by the
memories of many generations of pious ancestors.
The Millet family lived in an outlying hamlet (Gruchy) of Grenville,
and were somewhat far from the church. Yet they had even more
associations with it than other village families. Here our painter's
father had early shown his talent for music at the head of the choir
of boys who sang at the Sunday service. Here at one time his old
uncle priest, Charles Millet, held the office of vicar and went every
morning to say mass.
Among the earliest recollections of Jean François was a visit to the
church of Gréville at a time when some new bells had just been bought.
They were first to be baptized, as was the custom, before being hung
in the tower, and it was while they still stood on the ground that the
mother brought her little boy to see them. "I well remember how much
I was impressed," he afterwards said, "at finding myself in so vast a
place as the church, which seemed even more immense than our barn, and
how the beauty of the big windows, with their lozenge-shaped panes,
struck my imagination."
At the age of twelve the boy went to be confirmed at the church
of Gréville, and thenceforth had another memorable experience to
associate with the place. The vicar, who questioned him, found him so
intelligent that he offered to teach him Latin. The lessons led to the
poems of Virgil, which opened a new world to him.
[Illustration: From a carbon print by Braun, Clément & Co. John Andrew
& Son, Sc. THE CHURCH AT GRÉVILLE]
Years passed; the boy became a man and the man became a famous artist.
But the path to fame had been a toilsome one, and as Millet pressed on
his way he was able to return but seldom to the spots he had loved
in his youth, and then only on sad errands. At length the time
came (1871) when the artist brought his entire family to his native
Grenville to spend a long summer holiday. Millet made many sketches
of familiar scenes which gave him material for work for the next three
years. One of these pictures was that of the village church, which
he began to paint sitting at one of the windows of the inn where the
family were staying.
If the building had lost the grandeur it possessed for his childish
imagination, it was still full of artistic possibilities for a
beautiful picture.
It is a solid structure, and we fancy that the builders did not have
far to bring the stone of which it is composed. The great granite
cliffs which rise from the sea must be an inexhaustible quarry.
The building is low and broad, to withstand the bleak winds. A less
substantial structure, perched on this plateau, would be swept over
the cliffs into the sea. There is something about it suggestive of the
sturdy character of the Norman peasants themselves, strong, patient,
and enduring. It is very old; the passing years have covered the walls
with moss, and nature seems to have made the place her own. It is as
if, instead of being built with hands, it were a portion of the old
cliffs themselves.
The grassy hillock against which the church nestles is filled with
graves, a cross here and there marking the place where some more
important personage is buried. Here is the sacred spot where Millet's
saintly old grandmother was laid to rest. A rough stone wall surrounds
the churchyard, as old and moss-grown as the building itself. Some
stone steps leading into the yard are hollowed by the feet of many
generations of worshippers. In the rear is a low stone house embowered
in trees.
The square bell-tower lifts a weather-vane against the sky, and the
birds flock about it as about an old home. The rather steep roof is
slightly depressed, as if beginning to sink in.
With a painter's instinct Millet chose the point of view from which
all the lines of the church would be most beautiful and whence we may
see to the best advantage the quaint outlines of the tower. Beside
this, he took for his work the day and hour when that great artist,
the sun, could lend most effective help. So we see the simple little
building at its best. The sky makes a glorious background, with fleecy
clouds delicately veiling its brilliancy. The bright light throws
a shadow of the tower across the roof, breaking the monotony of its
length. The bareness of the big barn-like end is softened by the
shadow in which it is seen. The plain side is decorated with the
shadows of the buttresses and window embrasures.
The sheep are as much at home here as the birds. They nibble
contentedly in the road by the wall, and are undisturbed by the
approach of a villager. Beyond, at the left, is a glimpse of the level
stretch of the sea. This is a spot where earth and sky and water meet,
where the fishermen from the sea and the ploughmen from the fields
come to worship God.
XI
THE SOWER
It is nightfall, and the sky is cloudy save where the last rays of the
setting sun illumine a spot on the horizon. While the light lasts,
the Sower still holds to his task of sowing the seed. A large sack of
grain is fastened about his body and hangs at his left side, where one
end of it is grasped firmly in the left hand lest any of the precious
seed be spilled. Into this bag he plunges his right hand from time to
time, and draws out a handful of grain which he flings into the furrow
as he walks along.
The Sower's task ended, a series of strange transformations begins in
the life of the seed. The winter rain softens and swells it, and when
spring comes it pushes its way up in a tiny shoot. Soon the slender
blades appear in close lines; by and by the stalks grow tall and
strong, and the field is full of the beautiful green grain.