extending almost the entire height of the house, was scarcely a mark of distinction in studio-crowded Barbizon; just as, probably, during Millet’s lifetime, his poverty and troubles, and failure to make both ends meet, were matters of course among the hard-working villagers.—And yet this humble cottage is already better known and honoured as a place of pilgrimage in the artistic world, than the palaces that crown Campden Hill and cluster around Palace Gate, Kensington; even as the works that came from it will be remembered when the pictures painted within the palace-studios have long since been forgotten.—We did not ask to go into the house. I believe visitors are admitted; but it seems almost cruel to treat it as a mere museum for curious tourists, while the Millet family is still in charge. So we rested in the pleasant shade, looking over to the unassuming grey cottage where one or two plaster-casts showed through the window, the branches of a tall tree waved over the chimney, and an elder-bush, beneath the weight of its berries, bent far over the garden wall, on the other side of which Millet so often walked and stood to watch the west and the setting sun.—No one was to be seen but two or three children, who examined the tricycle as they talked in whispers. But we could hear near voices and the clatter of dishes. And then the wind would come in great gusts from over the forest, shaking down the leaves on its way, and drowning all other noises.
We felt the great contrast when we went from the little house where life was always sad, to Siron’s, “that excellent artist’s barrack, managed upon easy principles.”—Its cheerfulness was proclaimed by its large sign representing a jolly landlord holding a pig’s head on a dish, while a young lady and gentleman, apparently in an ecstasy of content at the prospect of a good meal, lay prostrate before it, one on either side, and an appreciative dog sniffed at it from the foreground.—It seemed more eloquent in its way than the sign before the other village inn, whereon a young lady sat at her easel, and two or three young men peeped over her shoulder, and he who painted it for his dinner was no poor artist in one sense of the word.
Often enough at Siron’s, as at the Maison Millet, there has been the difficulty of making both ends meet. But at the inn it has been turned into comedy rather than tragedy, and if money has not been forthcoming at once, Siron has been willing to wait, knowing that it would in the end.—Men of other professions, if they lived together in communities, as artists often do, could hardly show so fair a record. For all the talk and definitions of so-called Bohemianism, an artist is never in debt longer than he can help.—It would be fortunate for tradespeople if the same could be said of all men.
A waiter in a dress-coat, which was certainly not what we had come to Barbizon to see, showed us into the “high inn-chamber panelled” with sketches, where we took great pleasure in noting that the best were by Americans.—We next ordered groseille, for which it was our privilege to pay double the price asked elsewhere. I hope the charges for artists living in Barbizon are not the same as those for an artist passing through, disguised as a tricycler.—But Siron’s, with its elegant waiter and prices, and its Exhibition open to the public, was not the Siron’s we had expected. We had thought to find a true artists’ inn, like certain Venetian and Florentine dens we knew of;—we had come instead to a show for the tourist.—And indeed all Barbizon, with its picture galleries and studios to let, and posing peasants, seemed no better than a convenient stopping-place, to which drivers from Fontainebleau could bring travellers, and allow them to spend their francs for the benefit of Barbizonians.—Thus, from Millet’s misery the people have reaped a golden harvest.
Stranger still is the fact, that the country where Millet could see but suffering humanity, with a forest or open landscape in harmony with it, is now recommended as a place in which to learn mirth and vivacious contentment.—Millet’s portion in Barbizon was headache and heartache, so that now and then, in his despair, he cried out to his friends that, physically and morally, he was going down hill. Over the way at Siron’s other men stayed on in the village, because near the forest they were sure of physical and moral good health, air, light, perfumes, and the shapes of things concording for them in happy harmony.——
“There is no place,” says Mr. Stevenson, “where the young are more gladly conscious of their youth, or the old better contented with their age.”
IN THE FOREST.
THE waiter having overcharged us for the groseille, we thought it only fair he should give us information for nothing. He told us the forest was just around the corner, which we could see for ourselves, and he directed us on our way with such care that we forgot his directions the next minute.
The forest is still “horrid and solitary,” as Evelyn has it, just as when he rode through it and between its “hideous rocks.” We do not know to this day in what part we were, nor what roads we followed. We made no effort to go out of our direct course in search of the placarded places which it is the tourist’s duty to visit.—We did think something of looking for the rock with the plaques set up on it, in memory of Millet and Rousseau. In telling us how to find it the waiter’s words had been many and explicit. But when we tried to recall them we could not; nor were we more successful in our endeavours to find the rock for ourselves. However, I do not think it mattered much. It was enough to know the way was beautiful and the road good.—No such perfect afternoon had come to us since our departure from Calais; and one reason of its perfection was, that our pleasure in the loveliness of the place was so great, we cared little or not at all for names and famous sights. If we return at some future day to Fontainebleau, we shall probably explore its valleys and rocks, its groves and thickets. But even were we never to go back, we should not wish that one ride to have been in any way different.