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BRITTANY
* * * * *
OTHER VOLUMES
IN THIS SERIES BY
MORTIMER MENPES
EACH =20s.= NET
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
JAPAN
WORLD PICTURES
VENICE
INDIA
CHINA
PRICE =5s.= NET
PUBLISHED BY
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MARIE JEANNE]
BRITTANY
by
MORTIMER MENPES
Text by DOROTHY MENPES
Published by Adam & Charles Black
Soho Square
London · W · MCMXII.
Published July, 1905
Reprinted 1912
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. DOUARNÉNEZ 3
II. ROCHEFORT-EN-TERRE 15
III. VITRÉ 29
IV. VANNES 51
V. QUIMPER 77
VI. ST. BRIEUC 89
VII. PAIMPOL 99
VIII. GUINGAMP 107
IX. HUELGOAT 115
X. CONCARNEAU 123
XI. MORLAIX 129
XII. PONT-AVEN 137
XIII. QUIMPERLÉ 165
XIV. AURAY 175
XV. BELLE ISLE 183
XVI. ST. ANNE D'AURAY 197
XVII. ST. MALO 203
XVIII. MONT ST. MICHEL 211
XIX. CHÂTEAU DES ROCHERS 225
XX. CARNAC 235
XXI. A ROMANTIC LAND 241
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Marie Jeanne _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. Homeward Bound 4
3. Grandmère 6
4. Meditation 10
5. Minding the Babies 12
6. A Cottage in Rochefort-en-Terre 14
7. At Rochefort-en-Terre 18
8. Mid-day Rest 20
9. A Cottage Home 24
10. Mediæval Houses, Vitré 28
11. Preparing the Mid-day Meal 32
12. In Church 34
13. Père Louis 36
14. Idle Hours 40
15. La Vieille Mère Perot 44
16. A Vieillard 48
17. Place Henri Quatre, Vannes 52
18. Gossips 56
19. A Cattle Market 60
20. Bread Stalls 64
21. In a Breton Kitchen 68
22. A Rainy Day at the Fair 72
23. In the Porch of the Cathedral, Quimper 76
24. The Vegetable Market, Quimper 80
25. Outside the Cathedral, Quimper 84
26. By the Side of a Farm 88
27. On the Road to Bannalec 92
28. Débit de Boissons 94
29. Church of St. Mody 96
30. Reflections 100
31. A Sabot-Stall 104
32. La Vieillesse 108
33. A Beggar 112
34. A Wayside Shrine, Huelgoat 116
35. Fishing Boats, Concarneau 120
36. At the Fountain, Concarneau 122
37. Concarneau Harbour 124
38. The Sardine Fleet, Concarneau 126
39. Watching for the Fishing-fleet, Concarneau 128
40. Mediæval House at Morlaix 132
41. Outside the Smithy, Pont-Aven 136
42. In an Auberge, Pont-Aven 140
43. A Sand-Cart on the Quay, Pont-Aven 144
44. Playing on the 'Place,' Pont-Aven 148
45. On the Quay at Pont-Aven 152
46. On the Steps of the Mill House, Pont-Aven 154
47. The Bridge, Pont-Aven 158
48. The Village Forge, Pont-Aven 160
49. The Village Cobbler 164
50. The Blind Piper 168
51. At the Foire 174
52. Mid-day 176
53. A Little Mother 180
54. Curiosity 184
55. A Solitary Meal 188
56. In the Bois d'Amour 192
57. A Breton Farmer 198
58. In the Eye of the Sun 204
59. Sunday 206
60. The Cradle 210
61. Soupe Maigre 212
62. Déjeuner 216
63. A Farmhouse Kitchen 218
64. Marie 222
65. A Farm Labourer 224
66. A Little Water-Carrier 226
67. Weary 230
68. The Master of the House 232
69. In the Ingle Nook 234
70. A Blind Beggar 236
71. La Petite Marie 240
72. The Little Housewife 242
73. An Old Woman 246
74. A Pig-Market 248
75. Household Duties 252
CHAPTER I
DOUARNÉNEZ
The gray and somewhat uninteresting village of Douarnénez undergoes a
change when the fishing-boats come home. Even with your eyes shut, you
would soon know of the advent of the fishermen by the downward clatter
of myriads of sabots through the badly-paved steep streets, gathering
in volume and rapidity with each succeeding minute. The village has
been thoroughly wakened up. Douarnénez is the headquarters of the
sardine fishery, and the home-coming of the sardine boats is a matter
of no little importance. The 9,000 inhabitants of the place are all
given up to this industry. Prosperity, or adversity, depends upon the
faithfulness, or the fickleness, of the little silver fish in visiting
their shores. Not long ago the sardines forsook Douarnénez, and great
was the desolation and despair which settled upon the people.
However, the season this year is good, and the people are prosperous.
As one descends the tortuous street leading to the sea, when the tide
is in, everything and everyone you encounter seem to be in one way or
another connected with sardines. The white-faced houses are festooned
and hung with fine filmy fishing-nets of a pale cornflower hue, edged
with rows of deep russet-brown corks. Occasionally they are stretched
from house to house across the street, and one passes beneath
triumphal arches of really glorious gray-blue fishing-nets. This same
little street, which barely an hour ago was practically empty and
deserted, now swarms with big bronzed fishermen coming up straight
from the sea, laden with their dripping cargo of round brown baskets
half filled with glistening fish. They live differently from the
sleepy villagers--these strapping giants of the sea, with their
deep-toned faces, their hair made tawny by exposure, their blue eyes,
which somehow or other seem so very blue against the dark red-brown of
their complexion, their reckless, rollicking, yet graceful, sailor's
gait. A sailor always reminds me of a cat amongst a roomful of
crockery: he looks as if he will knock over something or trip
over something every moment as he swings along in his careless
fashion; yet he never does.
[Illustration: HOMEWARD BOUND]
What a contrast they are, these stalwart fishers of the deep, to the
somewhat pallid, dapper-looking, half-French hotel and shop keepers,
who are the only men to be seen in the village during the
daytime--these fishermen, with their russet-brown clothing faded by
the salt air into indescribably rich wallflower tones of gold and
orange and red! What pranks Mistress Sea plays with the simple
homespun garments of these men, staining and bleaching them into
glorious and unheard-of combinations of colour, such as would give a
clever London or Parisian dressmaker inspiration for a dozen gowns,
which, if properly adapted, would take the whole of the fashionable
world by storm! You see blue woollen jerseys faded into greens and
yellows, red _bérets_ wondrously shaded in tones of vermilion and
salmon. From almost every window tarpaulin and yellow oilskin trousers
hang drying; every woman in the place is busily employed.
Many a fascinating glimpse one catches at the doorways when passing,
subjects worthy of Peter de Hooch--a young girl in the white-winged
cap and red crossway shawl of Douarnénez cutting up squares of cork
against the rich dark background of her home, in which glistening
brass, polished oak, blue-and-white china, and a redly burning fire
can be faintly discerned. A soft buzzing noise, as of many people
singing, occasionally broken by a shrill treble, and a group of
loafing men, peering in at a doorway, attract your attention. You gaze
inquisitively within. It is a large shed or barn filled with hundreds
of young girls and women, with bare feet and skirts tucked up to their
knees, salting and sifting and drying and cooking sardines, singing
together the while as with one voice some Breton folk-song in a minor
key, as they busy themselves about their work.
It is impossible to describe one's feelings when, after descending the
steep cobbled street, one first catches sight of the sea at
Douarnénez. One can only stand stock-still for a moment and draw in a
deep breath of astonishment and fulfilment of hopes.
Before you lies a broad expanse of gray-blue. I can liken it to
nothing but the hue of faded cornflowers. Whether it is the time of
day or not I cannot tell, but sea and sky alike are flooded with this
same strange cornflower hue; the hills in the distance are of a deeper
cornflower; and clustered about the quay are many fishing-barques,
showing purply-black against the blue delicacy of the background.
[Illustration: GRANDMÈRE]
Over the gray-blue sea are scudding myriads of brown, double-winged
boats, all making for the little harbour--some in twos, some in
threes, others in flocks, like so many swallows. Close to the dark
cornflower hills is a patch of brilliant verdant green--so
yellow-green that it almost sets your teeth on edge.
Set down in mere words, this description can convey no impression of
the Bay of Douarnénez as I saw it that balmy autumn afternoon. My pen
is clogged; it refuses to interpret my thoughts. It was a scene that I
shall never forget. As the fishing-boats neared the shore the
gorgeously flaming brown-and-gold and vermilion sails were hauled
down, and in their places appeared the filmy gray-blue nets hung with
rows of brown corks. The rapidity with which these brown-sailed
workaday boats changed to gossamer, cornflower-decked, fairy-like
crafts was extraordinary. It was as if a flight of moths had by the
stroke of a fairy's wand been suddenly transformed to blue-winged
butterflies. In and about their boats the sailors are working, busy
with their day's haul, picturesque figures standing against the
luminous blue in their sea-toned garments.
On the quay the women are standing in groups, talking and knitting,
and keeping a sharp look-out for their own particular 'men.' Trim,
neat little figures these women, with their short dark-blue or red
skirts, their gaily-coloured shawls drawn down to a peak at the back,
their light-yellow sabots and their tightly-fitting lace caps, made to
show the brilliant black hair beneath and the pretty rounded shape of
their heads. Many a time when the cornflower-blue sea has turned to
sullen black, and the balmy air is alive with flying foam and roaring
winds, such women must wait in vain on the quay at Douarnénez for
their men-folk.
The sailor's life is a hard one in Brittany, exposed as he is in his
small boat to the fearful storms of the Atlantic. But danger and
trouble are far distant on this balmy autumn afternoon: the haul has
been an exceptional one, the little fishing-craft are filled high with
silver fish, fishermen fill the streets with laden baskets, and the
soft murmur of many women's voices singing at their work is wafted
through the open doorways of the sorting and counting-houses. Every
moment the boats on the horizon become more and more numerous, the
men being anxious to land their cargo before nightfall; the sea, in
fact, is dark with little brown craft racing in as if for a wager. At
one point the fleet splits up, and the greater portion enter an inlet
other than that at which we are standing.
Anxious to watch their incoming, we hurry round the cliffs, past quiet
bays. The black rocks against the blue sea, allspice-coloured sand,
and overhanging autumn-tinted trees almost reaching to the water's
edge, would afford many a fascinating subject for the painter of
seascapes. In descending a hill, the haven towards which the
fishing-boats are scudding is before us--a large bay with a
breakwater. On the near side of it are massed rows upon rows of
fishing-boats, now arrayed in their gossamer robes of blue. Everyone
is busy. You are reminded of a scene in a play--a comic opera at the
Gaiety. Boats are entering by the dozen every moment, and arranging
themselves in rows in the little harbour, like a pack of orderly
school-children, shuffling and fidgeting for a moment in their places
before dropping anchor and remaining stationary. Others are scudding
rapidly over the smooth blue sea, ruffling it up in white foam at
their bows. Scores of men in rich brown wallflower-hued clothes and
dark-blue _bérets_ are as busy as bees among the sails and cordage;
others are walking rapidly to and fro, with round brown baskets, full
of silver fish, slung over the arms. But before even the sardines are
unloaded the nets are taken down, bundles of blue net and brown corks,
and promptly carried off home to be dried. This is the sailors' first
consideration, for on the frail blue nets depends prosperity or
poverty. Such nets are most expensive: only one set can be bought in a
man's lifetime, and even then they must be paid for in instalments.
Above the quay, leaning over the stone parapet, are scores of girls,
come from their homes just as they were, some with their work and some
with their _goûté_ (bread and chocolate or an apple). They have come
to watch the entrance of the fishing fleet: comely, fresh-complexioned
women, in shawls and aprons of every colour--some blue, some maroon,
some checked--all with spotless white caps. The wives are
distinguished from the maids by the material of which their caps are
made: the wives' are of book-muslin and the maids' of fillet lace.
Some have brought their knitting, and work away busily, their hair
stuck full of bright steel knitting-needles. I was standing in what
seemed to be a "boulevard des jeunes filles." They were mostly
quite young girls; and handsome creatures they were too, all leaning
over the parapet and smiling down upon the men as they toiled up the
slope with their baskets full, and ran down again at a jog-trot with
the empties. The stalwart young men of the village were too much
preoccupied to find time for tender or friendly glances: it was only
later, when the bustle had subsided somewhat, and the coming and going
was not so active, that they condescended to pay any attention to the
fair.
[Illustration: MEDITATION]
The matrons were mostly engaged in haggling for cheap fish. The men,
tired after their day's work, generally gave way without much ado. It
was amusing to watch the triumph in which the old ladies carried off
their fish, washed and cleaned them in the sea, threaded them on
cords, and, slinging them on their shoulders, set off for home.
It seemed as if the busy scene would never end. Always fresh boats
were arriving, and still the horizon was black with fishing craft.
Reluctantly we left the scene--a forest of masts against the evening
sky, a jumble of blues and browns, rich wallflower shades and palest
cornflower, brown corks, and the white caps of the women.
Next morning the romantic and picturesque aspect of the town had
disappeared. Gone were the fishermen, and gone their dainty craft. The
only men remaining were loafers and good-for-nothings, besides the
tradesmen and inn-keepers. Two by two the children were tramping
through the steep gray streets on their way to school--small
dirty-faced cherubs, under tangled mops of fair hair (one sees the
loveliest red-gold and yellow-gold hair in Douarnénez), busily
munching their breakfasts of bread and apples, many of them just able
to toddle. 'Donne la main a ta soeur, George,' I heard a shrill
voice exclaim from a doorway to two little creatures in blue-checked
pinafores wending their weary way schoolwards. Who would have known
that one of them was a boy? They seemed exactly alike. Handsome young
girls in neat short skirts, pink worsted stockings, and yellow sabots,
were busy sweeping out the gutters. Little children's dresses and
pinafores had taken the place of nets and seamen's oilskins, now
hanging from the windows to be dried. The quay was silent and
desolate; the harbour empty of boats, save for a few battered hulks.
All the colour and romance had gone out to sea with the fishermen.
Only the smell of the sardines had been left behind.
[Illustration: MINDING THE BABIES]
[Illustration: A COTTAGE IN ROCHEFORT-EN-TERRE]