Questions to arouse interest. In what attitude are these peasants standing? What have they been doing? With what have they been working? What can you see in the background? From what direction does the light come? What time of day do you think it is? in what country? Why have they stopped their work? Who of you can tell what the Angelus is? What feeling does this picture give you—one of sadness, peace, quiet, noise prosperity, poverty, or happiness?

The story of the picture. Although our print is only black and white, we are made to feel the brightness of the sunset in this picture. The horizon, veiled in a haze, shows the church tower of the distant village faintly silhouetted against the sky, while the sinking sun casts its long shadows across the field. But our eyes do not dwell long on sky, church, or field, for the two figures draw our gaze. The bright rays from the setting sun fall directly upon the woman, who faces the west; the man, turning toward her, is partly in shadow.

No doubt these two peasants have been working in the fields, the man digging potatoes, as we may judge by those in the basket and the two well-filled bags on the wheelbarrow. As he digs them, the woman gathers them up in her basket and empties them into the sacks. Thus busily engaged, they suddenly hear the church bell; its great tone coming far across the field reminds them that it is the hour of prayer. So putting down the pitchfork and basket, they stand with bowed heads as they repeat the evening prayer.

The artist wished to paint a picture that would make us hear the bell sounding clearly across the deep stillness of the open field. He wished to make us feel, as do these peasants, the quiet solemnity of the hour.

Even as a little boy Millet was greatly impressed by the sound of the Angelus, or bell for prayers, which was rung each morning, noon, and night. One of his earliest remembrances was of a time when the villagers bought new bells for the church, and he went with his mother and a neighbor to see them before they were hung. It seems that two of the old bells had been used to make a cannon, the third was broken, and these new bells were in the church waiting to be baptized before they could be hung in the tower. They seemed immense to the small boy, and of course they must have been larger than he. Millet tells of the delight and awe he felt when the neighbor struck the bells with the great key to the church door, which she carried in her hand.

No wonder, then, that this picture was one of Millet’s favorites, for it reminded him of his boyhood home and brought back memories of the thoughts and experiences of his childhood. Grown to manhood, and himself a peasant, he, too, had heard the Angelus sounded forth from the village church tower, and had dropped his work to bow his head in prayer. The quiet and peace of such moments had left a deep impression which he wished to share with us.

The long stretch of field suggests the industry of the peasants; the distant church and their bowed heads against the bright sky tell us of their faith.

Can you not see them on their homeward journey, the man pushing the wheelbarrow with its heavy load, while the woman carries the basket? It looks as if it would be a long, tiresome tramp across the uneven field to the village so dimly visible in the distance.

This is the time of year when the peasants’ work is hardest, for during the winter there is little farm work to do. We are told that the women spend their winter days in spinning, weaving cloth, and making clothes, while the men weave baskets, make their garden tools, and do what little work there is to do.

The very simplicity of this landscape, with its lack of details, is part of its great charm. The quiet dignity of the man and woman, standing with bowed heads, the peace and quiet of the scene, and, above all, the sound of the sweet-toned Angelus, give us a feeling of restfulness and peace.

The horizon line is high in this picture, yet the sky space is large enough to contain the heads and shoulders of our two peasants. In this way we are made to feel that although they are bound to earth and are a part of it, their thoughts soar higher. There is another life besides the one of toil and privation.

At the time Millet painted this great picture he was wretchedly poor. He sent the picture to a friend in Paris, begging him to sell it and send the money as soon as possible. It sold for less than five hundred dollars. Yet not many years ago a French collector paid one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for this same picture.

Questions to help the pupil understand the picture. What time of day does this picture represent? What can you see in the distance? In what direction is the woman facing? How can you tell? What have these peasants been doing? Why have they stopped their work? Why is the picture called “The Angelus”? Tell about Millet and the new bells for the church. Tell something of the life of these peasants. How did the artist Millet know so much about their life? What can you say about the composition of this picture? What was the financial condition of the artist when he painted this picture? What did he do with this painting? About how much is it worth now?

The story of the artist. Let us try to imagine the artist, Jean FranÇois Millet, as a young man nineteen years old on his first visit to the great city of Paris. Brought up on a farm among the lowliest of the French peasants, he had met few except those with whom he labored in the fields or those who, poorer than they, were made welcome under the ever hospitable roof of the elder Millets. These neighbors and friends were mostly sailors or farmers, who looked upon the journey to Paris as a great event, as indeed it was. For weeks the kind old grandmother had kept her spinning wheel busy, spinning and weaving the cloth for his new suit of clothes. She was the tailor who cut, stitched, and pressed them. All her savings of years had been sewed into a belt and given to him for this journey. As he stood in the doorway, waiting for the old stagecoach which presently came rattling down the stone road of the village, he must have felt anew the great sacrifices they were all so willing to make to send him where he could study his beloved art.

In Paris, Millet presented an unusual appearance—six feet in height, slender, a downy beard on his face, his brown hair hanging to his shoulders. All his belongings were neatly packed in the sailor’s canvas bag which he carried over his shoulder. Is it any wonder that many did not see the straightforward, honest, manly look of the calm gray eyes? There was in that gaze and in the rude bearing a certain quiet confidence and strength which only the home folks recognized and valued. The boy could draw, and draw well they knew, and had not the drawing master of the village told them he would surely one day become a great artist?

Tired from the three days’ ride in the old stagecoach, jostled by the hurrying crowds, for it was evening and all were on their way home, he stood confused. A policeman, catching sight of the stupid-looking youth blocking the sidewalk with his great bag, asked him where he wanted to go. Is it any wonder that he answered, “Back to Gruchy”? We are told that he even inquired when the next coach left for Gruchy, but there was none until morning.

The policeman sent him to a boarding house of moderate prices, and the next morning he started out to find the great art gallery of the Louvre. He had attempted to inquire the way at the boarding house, but the boarders laughed at his Normandy accent and strange appearance and he did not wait for the answer. And so he wandered the streets for three days, not daring to ask the way for fear of being laughed at again, until at last he stood before the great gallery, recognizing it at once by the pictures he had seen of it.

In writing of it years later, Millet says: “My feelings were too great for words, and I closed my eyes lest I be dazzled by the sight, and then dared not open them lest I should find it all a dream. And if I ever reach Paradise I know my joy will be no greater than it was that first morning when I realized that I stood within the Louvre Palace.”

In the meantime he had found a room and place to board near by. The landlady having suggested that he had better not carry much money about with him, he immediately gave her all he had to keep for him; that was the last he saw of his money.

He spent a week just visiting the Louvre, and finally became acquainted with a student who was copying one of the paintings. This student took him to the artist Delaroche, who, after looking at his sketches, gladly admitted him as a pupil.

The other students were greatly amused at Millet’s awkward appearance and called him the “man of the woods.” It was almost impossible to persuade him to talk, and his answers to all questions were in monosyllables; but if pressed too hard he could use his fists effectively. They soon found out, too, that he could paint, and paint well. All idea of going home was given up, and Millet spent twelve years in Paris, enduring poverty and hunger but working faithfully and long. When he went back to his home for a visit he was so nearly starved that he fell fainting on the ground when he tried to work in the fields.

Millet painted landscapes, portraits, and signs, but fortune never seemed to smile on him long at a time. People said his pictures did not sell because he painted such common things and such poor people instead of choosing beautiful girls or fine gentlemen for his models.

But he painted the people he knew about and loved best—the French peasants—and as their lives were full of toil, he must represent them at their labor.

Returning to Paris, and finding his life there still one of continuous struggle with poverty, Millet with his wife and children went to live at Barbizon, a small village a day’s ride from Paris. Many descriptions have been written and pictures painted of the modest white stone cottage with its clinging vines and its thrifty gardens in which he spent the rest of his life.

It was not until the last few years of his life that he ceased to be wretchedly poor, for then at last his pictures were appreciated and he received the profit and honor that were his due.

He died at Barbizon, January 20, 1875.

Questions about the artist. Tell about Millet’s early training and the preparations made for his journey to Paris. How did he travel? Describe his first evening in Paris. How did he find the great gallery of the Louvre? Why did he not inquire the way? What became of his money? With whom did he study, and how did this happen? What did the other students call him? Why did they do this? How many years did he stay in Paris? What was his success there? Why did his pictures not sell? Where did he finally go to live? When were his paintings appreciated?