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would have nothing to do with the peasants, though he stood up for their rights in both church and local matters. He successfully opposed my schemes when I wanted to close up some of the many paths to the forest through the plain, and that is why we ceased to be friends. In painting he used the peasants merely as manikins on which to express himself. Nor would he have anything to do with the crowd of artists who swarmed to Barbison every summer, and brought bedlam with them. Art life there, as everywhere else, was a cheap affair, and Barbison, with its gossip, noise, and wrangles, has always been a notorious example. I am glad I left the place.

Simply as delineations, I began to draw peasants long before Millet, though in Barbison we both painted them, and I quickly sold all I could make, though not by any means for high prices; but Millet painted them like a genius. He posed as a pontiff, a patriarch. He knew he was superior to most of us, and he showed it. He would walk out into the fields, with arms folded and head down, and, to the astonishment of the peasants, all at once he would start up in ecstasy and exclaim, with rolling eyes, "What nature!" Then he would run to his studio as if possessed, and pretend to paint what he had seen. His sensitiveness to impressions could not be overrated: a cowslip would make his heart beat, he prostrated himself before a daisy, and looked at a tulip as if it were a goddess.

I used to advise him how to sell his things, but he would never listen. He wanted to have his own way. He had it, and he paid for it; but he will have fame when we are all forgotten. One could do nothing with him after he became successful.

He was very particular about making friends, and his diseased sensitiveness made it difficult to get on with him without friction. Rousseau was a fine and generous man, but it took him some time to get close to Millet, and even then they had a slight misunderstanding. Millet was a beautiful talker,-like an archangel,-and in his art understood himself and trusted himself. In his dealings with men and things in and outside of his art he had no moral courage, no sensitiveness whatever; but in art he was a giant. Outside of his

art he was utterly defenseless, though in it no one knew so well as he what his own interests were. Every one who was so disposed took advantage of him. If Millet had been strong, he would have had nothing to do with an agent who paid the greatest attention to the newspapers. Every good and favorable word was preserved, and copies were made and sent wherever that man thought they would do needed service. Friendly editors and writers were encouraged to continue the beginning of good-will. Every person who bought a sketch, drawing, or picture was kept track of, and carefully nursed for possible future purchases. In fact, it would tax the liveliest imagination to conceive of any means to make money out of Millet not tried by his tireless collaborator, the painter continually helping him to write his articles for the press. Poor Millet! Not only did he work like a galley-slave to get his things ready to sell, but he was obliged to help advertise them and explain their merits, as well as to point out why they were not of the common herd. And this not only to an ignorant public, but to critics, men who pose as knowing all about art. One needs to think awhile in order to appreciate what all this means, and then one may get some idea of what art intelligence was in Paris from 1850 onward. The hourly repeated antics of the itinerant Saltimbanques were his life and joy, but what Millet had to go through to keep out of the poorhouse was a saltimbanque martyrdom. I said that his sensitiveness as an artist and what he believed was due him as such was extreme; I ought to say it and what he had to live through are incredible facts.

If any art-dealer or amateur, in Paris or out of it, wanted to buy directly from the painter, his agent objected. He had a gold-mine in Millet, as he knew; and he worked it successfully. Then he wrote a book in which he exploited his own selfsacrificing efforts and the sufferings of Millet, taking good care, however, not to mention what remuneration he had gained for all that he had done. His sale, mostly of Millet's things, did not surprise any of us who knew the facts concerning his relations with the artist. It is one of the many strange anomalies of gullible human nature that such a story should be believed.

I sold Sensier a quantity of Millet's

sketches, and this is how I got them. I went into his studio one morning and found the servant making a fire with pieces of paper that looked as if they had pencilmarks on them. I examined them more closely and, seeing that they were the painter's sketches, began to upbraid her for what she was doing; but she very coolly told me that her master had told her to burn up the papers. I could hardly contain myself with astonishment, when in came Millet, and I began to reproach him for the destruction of what I knew would sooner or later bring money. To all of which he calmly replied:

"Oh, they are good for nothing. I have got out of them all I want." Just then I noticed a pile of paper in the corner, and I looked it over and found that it consisted of sketches.

"What will you take for the lot?" I asked.

"Anything you have a mind to give," said Millet.

"Will 300 francs be enough?"

"Oh, yes.”

I handed him the money, and took the sketches home, and counted 800! Soon after I sold them to Sensier, who mounted them carefully, and set to work to sell them. From this one can get some idea of the endless preliminary study Millet gave to the preparation of a picture.

I think Sensier's zeal injured Millet at first with a certain class of buyers who won't be instructed, men of good judgment who feel more than they know and have an instinct for a genuine work of art. These men seem to know in advance the eventual worth and fame of a serious mind. This is the class that are on the lookout for such men as Barye, Millet, and Corot, and it is they who buy on their own judgment, quite regardless of any exterior influence. We have a few of that class in Paris, and it is one of our distinc-. tions as art-lovers. Curiously enough, they are by no means all people of wealth or station, but often are middle-class and humble working-people. One of the first to buy Barye's paper-weights was a tailor in a small way, and as he became well off, he bought the sculptor's best things. This leads me to say that our art riches are not all housed in museums. I know a stonemason who has the best collection of Daumier's lithographs and Corot's early pic

tures; a plaster-molder who owns a large number of Flamand's original terra-cotta models of babies.

Of the men about Millet, Diaz was also not averse to business dicker or to using friends for what he could make out of them; but he usually evened up by kindly and generous actions. He tried it on Millet.

I do not pretend to sum up Millet; he had a strange nature. I never quite understood him, and I doubt if any one did. Perhaps he did not understand himself; few men do. Such men do not live in our world. He will never get justice. No one gets it, nor any give it. In the first place, Millet's work was of a kind that the mass of men, who are so many fools, could not like and ought not to like. I used to think that the people were the correct judges of what was good, but I soon learned better. I could sell my work at fair prices when Millet could hardly sell at all. The writers were but little clearer-sighted, for they spoke of Jules Breton and the like in the same breath and with the same words that they did of Millet. Yet there is a world between them. When Breton saw Millet for the first time, he ingratiatingly said, "M. Millet, I paint in your style."

"Not by a blank sight!" replied the Norman. "I paint in my style, and you paint in yours."

No writer as far as I know has showed any discrimination between an ant-hill and a mountain. It took many years before even Castagnary, a real art-lover, could begin to see and understand the Barbison recluse, and even then Millet helped him out through Sensier. Our critics use fine words and speak with authority, but not one of them, not even my good friend Claretie, has ever seriously studied art, nor are they likely to. It 's too hard work, and words are easy. Gautier put on no end of airs, but he was so near-sighted that he used his nose more than he did his eyes. Imagine him fumbling over one of Millet's moonlight effects-"The Gleaners," and so on! Yet this is the kind of intelligence that dared to pronounce upon men like Corot and Millet, and the crowd followed. But time is always on the side of masterpieces, and the scribblers are forgotten. My plan was to help the critics to be happy by judicious attention. An artist who must have their favor must nod

familiarly, must see them often. But Millet had no capacity for such conciliation. His conciliation was with nature.

Those who adore Millet because they believe he was engaged in elevating the dirty peasant-and they are mostly sentimental old women-show that they do not understand him any better than those who hated him at first; but they insult. him by regarding him as no more than a commonplace illustrator like Breton. It was not the dirtiness or the cleanliness of the peasant that fertilized the mind of Millet, but the movements and attitudes of these creatures in their debased relation with the earth; and these movements and attitudes he transcribed, as they struck him, into a dignity, and often a pathos and a grace, never before approached. Yet how few see it! He added something to them that they did not have. If Millet had lived among American savages or with the Greeks, he would have treated them in his own way. His individuality was obstinate to blindness; his instinct, like an animal's, direct and spontaneous. People forget this in trying to make him a pretty man, a peasant missionary. In fact, some of his figures are purely savage: the "Man with a Hoe" and "Peasant at Rest," are examples. These subjects as such are beneath savagery; but the style of executing

them is great art, and that is the point to be kept in mind. Dirty people see dirt everywhere. Not all peasants are dirty, and some of Millet's representations of them are not only spotlessly clean, but they stand or sit with most beautiful ease, dignity, and simplicity. See the "Woman Spinning" and some of the shepherdesses.

One needs to consider the material that Millet was obliged to work with in order to gage the degree of taste, judgment, and general comprehension he displayed. He dug jewels out of the deepest earth. You need to see and know the stiff, awkward, and lumbering movements of the peasant in order to realize how uninspiring they are to the ordinary eye.

After all, Millet is best in his relation to pure nature, and you can see that in his expression of an incomparable, luminous sense. Note the "Shepherd Driving his Sheep into their Fold by Moonlight," as well as many of his pictures of early evening. No one has used more wisely than Millet purely natural effects to help out the framing of a picture. Furthermore, he had, like Daumier, a great style of constructive drawing and a wonderful breadth of treatment. The uncomplaining, hardworking life he led is one of the greatest things you can say of him. He came of a great race. Yes, he was a great artist.

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NNE EASTAND had sat through

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the earlier evening with the photograph in her lap; but as the shadows of the room increased, she rose, and carried it to the western windows, where over the ledge-boxes of daffodils the light still slanted. She pushed back the straight folds of the curtains, her gaze dwelling with endearment on the small, dark face of the picture, with its full, tranquil mouth, and its heapy hair.

In the quiet eyes of the photograph there was no concealment, but a look of extraordinary lucidity. Yet they were not empty, those candid eyes. Rather, or so Anne Eastand thought, they were like the eyes of one who is not fully awake.

"O Elizabeth! Elizabeth, you are dead when you have never lived!" she cried; and dropping the picture among the daffodils, she leaned against the casement, blinking at the western sky, which spread like a royal banderole beyond the city's roofs and chimney-tops.

A cablegram had just announced her friend's sudden death in Sicily, where she had been for the winter. Elizabeth Norbury dead! Blooming, full-blooded, evenpulsed Elizabeth, who, passing beyond her first girlhood, had not yet passed into life.

"You might have had your happiness,

if you 'd only have taken it. Why did n't you?" she demanded, speaking with outworn patience, as she had so often done to the girl herself.

And as plainly as if it came from the shadows she heard Elizabeth's whimsical retort: "It never hurts a healthy heart to hibernate. Mine will rouse, like a dormouse, when summer comes.'

Ah, but death had come before summer! To Anne, whose one great star shone ever faithfully, the empty sky of the other girl had always been a mystery. Elizabeth's emotional nonage had puzzled and provoked her. Experiences, adventures, conquests, happinesses, were every woman's due, she argued, were essentially Elizabeth's, by right of her delicious autocracy; yet she had only the staleness of a workaday existence, the unillumined, uneventful round of the most ordinary woman-she who might so easily have established her court and ruled in such charming suzerainty.

A classroom, incoming and outgoing tides of girls, Latin and Greek all the winter through, and the summer spent as unexcitingly, so far as any one knew, in quiet, unheard-of corners of the world. This, when she might have had life! What unquickened pulse was answerable?

A bell rang softly through the apart

ment at the moment, and Anne made a little sound of pity in the throat.

"John Kibbie come for comfort from me, when Elizabeth left him not a crumb of it!" she exclaimed, lifting the picture from the flowers and brushing it with her quivering lips. "You little gray dove, "You little gray dove, you!" she whispered, "you poor little gray dove!"

The man who entered dropped down in silence before her hearth, shivering as he did so.

"Wait!" she cried, and kneeling on the hearth, she lighted the piñon branches there, though the breeze blew warm over the daffodils.

John Kibbie was a grave, unemotional man, quiet in times of happiness, quieter in sorrow. He did not speak now, and she, continuing to kneel, fanned the fire in silence, and warmed herself by it.

"Anne," he brought forth at last, "I'm not wholly bereft."

Her amazed eyes questioned him.
"She loved me," he said.

'She told you so?" she asked in her direct fashion.

"Not in words; in ways-Elizabeth's ways." His mouth quivered. "For a year she has been letting me see it."

"I never saw it," she exclaimed.

He looked at her with a smile that went to her heart. "You were not watching for it as I was. Oh, I was n't mistaken! A man always knows. I've that, at least -that year to relive to the end of time."

He went on to speak extenuatingly, tenderly of Elizabeth's caprices, of her dalliance, her apparent coldness. But he was glad, he said, for her very indecision, since it made him the more certain of her. She was like a wilful child that has been overtaken as it runs away-half sorry, still half defiant, but wholly tired, and ready to be carried home.

"If she had lived, she would have been my wife," he ended with simple conviction.

"I'm blaming her for nothing," she declared honestly. It is a bewildering thing to find that, instead of having lived in communion with your friend, you have lived in muteness.

When he had gone, she sat with heavy brows before the piñon ash. Who had failed in the relationship? Had the fault been all Elizabeth's? What was friendship, if it were not intuition? She should have divined. have divined. Small wonder Elizabeth had not pried open her blind and stupid eyes. Small wonder she had not proclaimed the happiness which should have needed no telling.

She did not dwell long on that part of it, however. The fact that Elizabeth had come into her happiness, after all, filled her.

She was rejoicing over it when young Kent appeared. He was a boy whom she and Elizabeth had known for years. He sat down in the chair John Kibbie had sat in, and he looked at her with the same eyes of sorrow that John Kibbie had turned upon her, and her heart tightened with startling premonition.

"I had to come," he said brokenly. "You can't bear a thing like this alone." He became suddenly aware of her startled eyes.

"You must have seen how things were between us, Anne," he cried. "She was so elusive, so whimsical, there was n't any pinning her down; but-she loved me. I'm sure of that."

His head dropped to his hands and he sobbed wretchedly, while she waited numb and cold.

"She would n't take the attentions other girls took, you know," he went on presently, when the first storm of his grief was over. "She would n't let a fellow do any of the things he wanted to do for her. It seemed to suit her better to slip along in her quiet little way by herself. I think she hated the clatter of tongues, maybe— hated anything that bound her. But she

Anne bent and threw another bough showed me, for all her seeming indifferupon the fire.

"How are we to do without her?" he asked, turning upon her with sweeping bitterness.

"She was mine, so much, no more," she paraphrased.

"You 're blaming her for her concealment! O Anne!"

ence, that she cared. She showed it in so many little ways, as a girl can, you know."

His eyes entreated her to believe.

He rose presently and threshed nervously about the room, his hands deep in his pockets, his boyish face drawn and white. He talked on and on, while she

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