ROCHEFORT-EN-TERRE
During our month's tour in Brittany we had not met one English or
American traveller; but at Rochefort-en-Terre there was said to be a
colony of artists. On arriving at the little railway-station, we found
that the only conveyance available was a diligence which would not
start until the next train, an hour thence, had come in. There was
nothing for it, therefore, but to sit in the stuffy little diligence
or to pace up and down the broad country road in the moonlight. There
is something strangely weird and eerie about arriving at a place, the
very name of which is unfamiliar, by moonlight.
After a long hour's wait, the diligence, with its full complement of
passengers, a party of young girls returned from a day's shopping in a
neighbouring town, started. It was a long, cold drive, and the air
seemed to be growing clearer and sharper as we ascended. At length
Rochefort-en-Terre was reached, and, after paying the modest sum of
fifty centimes for the two of us, we were set down at the door of the
hotel. We were greeted with great kindness and hospitality by two
maiden ladies in the costume of the country, joint proprietors of the
hotel, who made us exceedingly comfortable. To our surprise, we
discovered that the colony of painters had been reduced to one lady
artist; but it was evident, from the pictures on the panels of the
_salle-à-manger_, that many artists had stayed in the hotel during the
summer.
Rochefort by morning light was quite a surprise. The hotel, with a few
surrounding houses, was evidently situated on a high hill; the rest of
the village lay below, wreathed, for the time being, in a white mist.
It was a balmy autumn morning; the sunlight was clear and radiant; and
I was filled with impatience to be out and at work. The market-place
was just outside our hotel, and the streets were alive with people. A
strange smell pervaded the place--something between cider apples and
burning wood--and whenever I think of Rochefort that smell comes back
to me, bringing with it vivid memories of the quaint little town as I
saw it that day.
There is nothing modern about Rochefort. The very air is suggestive
of antiquity. Few villages in Brittany have retained their old
simplicity of character; but Rochefort is one of them. Untouched and
unspoilt by the march of modernity, she has stood still while most of
her neighbours have been whirled into the vortex of civilization.
Rochefort, like the Sleeping Beauty's palace, has lain as it was and
unrepaired for years. Moss has sprung up between the cobble-stones of
her streets; ferns and lichen grow on the broken-down walls; Nature
and men's handiwork have been allowed their own sweet way--and a very
sweet way they have in Rochefort. To enter the village one must
descend a flight of stone steps between two high walls, green and dark
with ivy and small green ferns growing in the niches. Very old walls
they are, with here and there ancient carved doorways breaking the
straight monotony. On one side is a garden, and over the time-worn
stone-work tomato-coloured asters nod and wistaria throws her thick
festoons of green, for the flowering season is past. Everything is
dark and damp and moss-grown, and very silent. An old woman, with a
terra-cotta pitcher full of water poised on her head, is toiling up
the steps, the shortest way to the town, which, save for the singing
of the birds in the old château garden, the bleating of lambs on the
hillside, and the chopping of a wood-cutter, is absolutely silent. One
descends into a valley shut in by rugged blue-gray mountains, for all
the world like a little Alpine village, or, rather, a Breton village
in an Alpine setting. The mountains in parts are rocky and rugged,
purple in aspect, and in parts overgrown with gray-green pines. There
are stretches of wooded land, of golden-brown and russet trees, and
great slopes of grass, the greenest I have ever seen. It is quite a
little Swiss pastoral picture, such as one finds in children's
story-books. On the mountain-side a woman, taking advantage of the
sun, is busy drying her day's washing, and a little girl is driving
some fat black-and-white cows into a field; while a sparkling river
runs tumbling in white foam over boulders and fallen trees at the
base. But Rochefort is a typically Breton village. Nowhere in
Switzerland does one see such ancient walls, such gnarled old
apple-trees, laden and bowed down to the earth with their weight of
golden red fruit. Nowhere in Switzerland, I am sure, do you see such
fine relics of architecture. Nearly every house in the village has
something noble or beautiful in its construction. Renovation has not
laid her desecrating hands on Rochefort. Here you see a house
that was once a lordly dwelling; for there are remains of some fine
sculpture round about the windows, remnants of magnificent mouldings
over the door, a griffin's head jutting from the gray walls. There you
see a double flight of rounded stone steps, with a balustrade leading
up to a massive oak door. On the ancient steps chickens perch now, and
over the doorway hang a bunch of withered mistletoe and the words
'Debit de Boisson.'
[Illustration: AT ROCHEFORT-EN-TERRE]
The village is full of surprises. Everywhere you may go in that little
place you will see all about you pictures such as would drive most
artists wild with joy. Everything in Rochefort seems to be more or
less overgrown. Even in this late October you will see flowers and
vines and all kinds of greenery growing rampant everywhere. You will
see a white house almost covered with red rambling roses and yellowing
vines, oleanders and cactus plants standing in tubs on either side of
the door. There is not a wall over which masses of greenery do not
pour, and not a window that does not hold its pot of red and pink
geraniums. Two cats are licking their paws in two different windows.
The sun has come out from the mists which enveloped it, and shines in
all its glory, hot and strong on your back, as it would in August. It
is market day, and everyone is light-hearted and happy. The men
whistle gaily on their way; the women's tongues wag briskly over their
purchases; even the birds, forgetful of the coming winter, are
bursting their throats with song. In the château garden the birds sing
loudest of all, and the flowers bloom their best. It is a beautiful
old place, the château of Rochefort. Very little of the ruin is left
standing; but the grounds occupy an immense area, and are enclosed by
great high walls. Where the old kitchen once stood an American has
built a house out of the old bricks, using many of the ornamentations
and stone gargoyles found about the place. It is an ingeniously
designed building; yet one cannot but feel that a modern house is
somewhat incongruous amid such historic surroundings. The old avenue
leading to the front door still exists; also there are some
apple-trees and ancient farm-buildings. The château has been built in
the most beautiful situation possible, high above the town, on a kind
of tableland, from which one can look down to the valley and the
encircling hills.
[Illustration: MID-DAY REST]
Set up in a prominent position in the village, where two roads
meet, is a gaudy crucifix, very large and newly painted. It is a
realistic presentation of our Saviour on the cross, with the blood
flowing redly from His side, the piercing of every thorn plainly
demonstrated, and the drawn lines of agony in His face and limbs very
much accentuated. Every market woman as she passes shifts her basket
to the other arm, that she may make the sign of the cross and murmur
her prayers; every man, woman, child, stops before the cross to make
obeisance, some kneeling down in the dust for a few moments before
passing on their way.
Who is to say that the image of that patient, suffering Saviour is not
an influence for good in the village? Who is to say that the
adoration, no matter how fleeting, does not soften, does not help,
does not control, those humble peasant folk who bow before Him?
Religion has an immense hold over the peasants of Brittany. It is the
one thing of which they stand in dread. These images, you say, are
dolls; but they are very realistic dolls. They teach the people their
Bible history in a thorough, splendid way. They stand ever before them
as something tangible to cling to, to believe in. And the images in
the churches--do you mean to say that they have no influence for good
on the people? St. Stanislaus, the monk, for example, with cowl and
shaven head--what an influence such a statue must have on the hearts
of children! There is in his face a world of tender fatherly feeling
for the little child in the white robe and golden girdle who is
resting his head so wearily on the saint's shoulder, clasping a branch
of faded lilies in his hand. Children look at this statue, and they
picture St. Stanislaus in their minds always thus: they know what the
saint looked like, what he did. He is not only a misty, dim, uncertain
figure in the history of the Bible, but a tangible, living, vibrating
reality, taking active part in their daily lives. For older children,
boys especially, there is St. Antoine to admire and imitate--St.
Antoine the hermit, with his staff and his book, the man with the
strong, good face. Françoise d'Amboise, a pure, sweet saint in the
habit of a nun, her arms full of lilies, appeals to the hearts and
imaginations of all young girls. I believe in the efficacy of these
figures and pictures. The peasants' brains are not of a sufficiently
fine calibre to believe in a vague Christ, a vague Virgin, vague
saints interpreted to them by the priests. If it were not for the
images, men and women would not come to church, as they do at all
hours of the day, bringing their market baskets and their tools with
them. They would not come in this way, spontaneously, joyfully, two or
three times a day, to an empty church with only an altar. Church-going
would then become a bare duty, forced and unreal, to be gradually
dropped and discontinued. These people are able to see the sufferings
of our Saviour on the cross, and everything that He had to undergo for
us; also, there is something infinitely comforting in the Divine
Figure, surrounded by myriads of candles and white flowers, with hands
outstretched, bidding all who are weary and heavy-laden to come unto
Him. The peasants contribute their few sous' worth of candles, and
light them, and feel somehow or other that they have indeed rid
themselves of sins and troubles.
The country round Rochefort is truly beautiful. The village lies in a
hollow; but it is delightful to take one of the mountain-paths, and go
up the rocky way into the pines and gorse and heather. As one sits on
the hillside, looking down upon the village, it is absolutely still
save for the cawing of some birds. You are out of the world up here.
The quaint little gray hamlet lies far below. Between it and you is
the fertile valley, with green fields and groves of bushy trees. The
country is quite cultivated for Brittany, where cabbage-fields and
pasture-lands are rare. The mountains encircling the valley are of
gray slate; growing here and there amongst the slate are yellow gorse
and purple heather.
It is a gray, dull day; not a breath stirs the air, which is heavy and
ominous. Evening is drawing on as one walks down the mountain-path
towards home, and a haze is settling on the village; the sun has been
feebly trying to shine all day through the thick clouds that cover it.
The green pines, with their purple stems, are very beautiful against
the deeper purple of the mountains; pretty, too, the homesteads on the
hills, with their fields of cabbages and little plantations of
flowers. There is a sweet smell of gorse and pine-needles and decaying
bracken, and always one hears the caw of rooks.
In such a country as this, on such a day, amid such sights and sounds,
you feel glad to be alive. You swing down the mountain-side quickly,
and the beauty of it all enters into your soul, filling you with a
nameless longing and yearning for you know not what, as Nature in her
grandest moods always does. What rich colouring there is round about
everywhere on this autumn afternoon! The mountain-path leads, let
us say, through a pine-wood. The leaves are far above your head; you
seem to be walking in a forest of stems--long, slim, silver stems,
purple in the shadows. On the ground is a carpet of salmon and brown
leaves, with here and there a bracken-leaf which is absolutely the
colour of pure gold.
[Illustration: A COTTAGE HOME]
There is no sound in the forest but your own footsteps and the rustle
of the dry leaves as your dress brushes them. You emerge from the
pine-forest on to a bare piece of mountain land, grayish purple, with
patches of black. Then you dive into a chestnut-grove, where the
leaves are green and brown and gold, and the earth is a rich brown.
And so down the path into the village wrapped in a blue haze. The
women in their cottages are bending busily over copper pots and pans
on great open fireplaces of blazing logs. Little coloured bowls have
been laid out on long polished tables for the evening meal, and the
bright pewter plates have been brought down from the dresser. Lulu has
been sent out to bring home bread for supper. 'Va, ma petite Lulu,'
says her mother, 'dépêche toi.' And the small fat bundle in the check
pinafore toddles hastily down the stone steps on chubby legs.
On the stone settles outside almost every house in the village
families are sitting--the mothers and withered old grandmothers
knitting or peeling potatoes, and the children munching apples and
hunches of bread-and-butter. An old woman is washing her fresh green
lettuce at the pump. As we mount the hill leading to the hotel and
look back, night is fast descending on the village. The mountains have
taken on a deeper purple; blue smoke rises from every cottage; the
gray sky is changing to a faint citron yellow; the few slim pine-trees
on the hills stand out against it jet-black, like sentinels.
[Illustration: MEDIÆVAL HOUSES, VITRÉ]