VANNES
A dear old-world, typically Breton town is Vannes. We arrived at
night, and gazed expectantly from our window on the moonlit square. We
plied with questions the man who carried up our boxes. His only answer
was that we should see everything on the morrow.
That was market-day, and the town was unusually busy. Steering for
what we thought the oldest part of Vannes, we took a turning which led
past ancient and crazy-looking houses. Very old houses indeed they
were, with projecting upper stories, beams, and scaly roofs slanting
at all angles. At Morlaix some of the streets are ancient; but I have
never seen such eccentric broken lines as at Vannes. At one corner the
houses leant forward across the street, and literally rested one on
the top of the other. These were only the upper stories; below were
up-to-date jewellers and _pâtisseries_, with newly-painted signs in
black and gold. In the middle of these houses, cramped and crowded
and hustled by them, stood the cathedral. Inside it was a dim, lofty
edifice, with faintly burning lamps. Hither the market-women come with
their baskets, stuffed to the full with fresh green salad and apples,
laying them down on the floor that they may kneel on praying-chairs,
cross their arms, and raise their eyes to the high-altar, pouring out
trouble or joy to God. It was delightful to see rough men with their
clean market-day blue linen blouses kneeling on the stone floor, hats
in hand and heads bowed, repeating their morning prayers.
The people were heavily laden on this bright autumn morning, either
with baskets or with sacks or dead fowls, all clattering through the
cobbled streets on their way to market. Following the crowd, we
emerged on a triangular-shaped market-place, wherein a most
dramatic-looking _mairie_ or town-hall figured prominently, a large
building with two flights of steps leading up to it, culminating in a
nail-studded door, with the arms of Morbihan inscribed above it.
[Illustration: PLACE HENRI QUATRE, VANNES]
One can well imagine such a market-place, let us say, in the days of
the Revolution: how some orator would stand on these steps, with
his back to that door, haranguing the crowd, holding them all
enthralled by the force of rhetoric. Now nothing so histrionic
happens. There is merely a buzzing throng of white-capped women,
haggling and bargaining as though their lives depended on it, with
eyes and hearts and minds for nothing but their business. Here and
there we saw knots of blue-bloused men, with whips hung over their
shoulders and straws in their mouths, more or less loafing and
watching their womenfolk. The square was filled with little wooden
stalls, where meat was sold--stringy-looking meat, and slabs of
purple-hued beef. How these peasant women bargained! I saw one old
lady arguing for quite a quarter of an hour over a piece of beef not
longer than your finger. Chestnuts were for sale in large quantities,
and housewives were buying their stocks for the winter. The men of the
family had been pressed into the service to carry up sack after sack
of fine brown glossy nuts, which were especially plentiful. No one
seemed over-anxious to sell; no one cried his wares: it was the
purchasers who appeared to do most of the talking and haggling.
There were more Frenchwomen here than I have seen in any other town;
but they were not fine ladies by any means. They did not detract from
the picturesqueness of the scene. They went round with their great
baskets, getting them filled with apples or chestnuts, or other
things. Most of the saleswomen were wrinkled old bodies; but one
woman, selling chestnuts and baskets of pears, was pretty and quite
young, with a mauve apron and a black cross-over shawl, and a mouth
like iron. I watched her with amusement. I had never seen so young and
comely a person so stern and businesslike. Not a single centime would
she budge from her stated price. She was pestered by women of all
kinds--old and young, peasants and modern French ladies, all attracted
by the beauty of her pears and the glossiness of her chestnuts. Hers
were the finest wares in the market, and she was fully conscious of
it, pricing her pears and chestnuts a sou more a sieveful than anyone
else. The customers haggled with her, upbraided her, tried every
feminine tactic. They sneered at her chestnuts and railed at her
pears; they scoffed one with the other. Eventually they gave up a
centime themselves; but the hard mouth did not relax, and the pretty
head in the snow-white coif was shaken vigorously. At this, with
snorts of disgust, her customers turned up their noses and left. Ere
long a smartly-dressed woman came along, and all unsuspectingly
bought a sieveful of chestnuts, emptying them into her basket. When
she came to pay for them, she discovered they were a sou more than she
had expected, and emptied them promptly back into the market-woman's
sack. I began to be afraid that my pretty peasant would have to
dismount from her high horse or go home penniless; but this was not
the case. Several women gathered round and began to talk among
themselves, nudging one another and pointing. At last one capitulated,
hoisted the white flag, and bought a few pears. Instantly all the
other women laid down their bags and baskets and began to buy her
pears and chestnuts. Very soon this stall became the most popular in
the market-place, and the young woman and her assistant were kept busy
the whole day. The hard-mouthed girl had conquered!
'Sept sous la demi-douzaine! Sept sous la demi-douzaine!' cried a
shrill-voiced vendor. It was a man from Paris with a great boxful of
shiny tablespoons, wrapped in blue tissue-paper in bundles of six, which
he was offering for the ridiculous sum of seven sous--that is, threepence
halfpenny. Naturally, with such bargains to offer, he was selling
rapidly. Directly he cried his 'Sept sous la demi-douzaine--six pour
sept sous!' he was literally surrounded. Men and women came up one
after the other; men's hands flew to their pockets under their blouses,
and women's to their capacious leather purses. It was amusing to watch
these people--they were so guileless, so childlike, so much pleased
with their bargains. Still, it would break my heart if these spoons
doubled up and cracked or proved worthless, for seven sous is a great
deal of money to the Breton peasants. I never saw merchandise
disappear so quickly. 'Solide, solide, solide!' cried the merchant,
until you would think he must grow hoarse. 'This is the chance of a
lifetime,' he declared: 'a beautiful half-dozen like this. C'est tout
ce qu'il y a de plus joli et solide. Voyez la beauté et la qualité de
cette merchandise. C'est une occasion que vous ne verrez pas tous les
jours.'
The people became more and more excited; the man was much pressed, and
selling the spoons like wildfire. Then, there were umbrellas over
which the women lost their heads--glossy umbrellas with fanciful
handles and flowers and birds round the edge. First the merchant took
up an umbrella and twisted it round, then the spoons, and clattered
them invitingly, until people grew rash and bought both umbrellas and
spoons.
[Illustration: GOSSIPS]
There is nothing more amusing than to spend a morning thus, wandering
through the market-place, watching the peasants transact their little
business, which, though apparently trivial, is serious to them. I
never knew any people quite so thrifty as these Bretons. You see them
selling and buying, not only old clothes, but also bits of old
clothes--a sleeve from a soldier's coat, a leg from a pair of
trousers; and even then the stuff will be patched. In this
market-place you see stalls of odds and ends, such as even the poorest
of the poor in England would not hesitate to throw on the rubbish
heap--old iron, leaking bottles, legs of chairs and tables.
A wonderful sight is the market on a morning such as this. The sun
shines full on myriads of white-capped women thronging through the
streets, and on lines of brown-faced vegetable vendors sitting close
to the ground among their broad open baskets of carrots and apples and
cabbages. There are stalls of all kinds--butchers' stalls, forming
notes of colour with their vivid red meat; haberdashery stalls,
offering everything from a toothbrush or a boot-lace to the most
excruciatingly brilliant woollen socks; stalls where clothes are
sold--such as children's checked pinafores and babies' caps fit for
dolls. Most brilliant of all are the material booths, where every kind
of material is sold--from calico to velvet. They congregate especially
in a certain corner of the market-square, and even the houses round
about are draped with lengths of material stretching from the windows
down to the ground--glorious sweeps of checks and stripes and flowered
patterns, and pink and blue flannelette. It is amusing to watch a
Breton woman buying a length of cloth. She will pull it, and drag it,
and smell it, and almost eat it; she will ask her husband's advice,
and the advice of her husband's relations, and the advice of her own
relations.
In this market I was much amused to watch two men selling. I perceived
what a great deal more there is in the individuality of the man who
sells and in the manner of his selling than in the actual quality of
the merchandise. One man, a dull, foolish fellow, with bales and bales
of material, never had occasion to unwrap one: he never sold a thing.
Another man, a born salesman, with the same wares to offer, talked
volubly in a high-pitched voice. He called the people to him; he
called them by name--whether it was the right one or not did not
matter: it was sufficient to arrest their attention. 'Dépêchons nous.
Here, Lucien; here, Jeanne; here, Babette; here, my pigeon. Dépêchons
nous, dépêchons nous!' he cried. 'Que est ce qu'il y a? personne en
veux plus? Mais c'est épatant. Je suis honteux de vous en dire le
prix. Flannel! the very thing for your head, madam,--nothing softer,
nothing finer. How many yards?--one, two, three? There we are!' and,
with a flash of the scissors and a toss of the stuff, the flannel is
cut off, wrapped up and under the woman's arm, before the gaping
salesman opposite has time to close his mouth.
The stall was arranged in a kind of semicircle, and very soon this
extraordinary person had gathered a crowd of people, all eager to buy;
and the way in which he appeared to attend to everyone at once was
simply marvellous.
'What for you, madam?' he would ask, turning to a young Breton woman.
'Pink flannel? Here you are--a superb article, the very thing for
nightgowns.' Then to a man: 'Trousering, my lord? Certainly. Touchez
moi ça. Isn't that marvellous? Isn't that quality if you like? Ah! but
I am ashamed to tell you the price. You will be indeed beautiful in
this to-morrow.'
As business became slack for the moment, he would take up some cheap
print and slap it on his knee, crying:
'One sou--one sou the yard! Figure yourself dancing with an apron like
that at one sou the yard!'
And so the man would continue throughout the day, shouting, screaming,
always inventing new jokes, selling his wares very quickly, and always
gathering more and more people round him. Once he looked across at his
unfortunate rival, who was listening to his nonsense with a sneering
expression.
'Yes: you may sneer, my friend; but I am selling, and you are not,' he
retorted.
Endless--absolutely endless--are the peeps of human nature one gains
on a market-day such as this in an old-world Breton town. I spent the
time wandering among the people, and not once did I weary. At every
turn I saw something to marvel at, something to admire. We had chanced
on a particularly interesting day, when the whole town was turned into
a great market. Wherever we went there was a market of some sort--a
pig market, or a horse market, or an old-clothes market; almost every
street was lined with booths and barrows.
[Illustration: A CATTLE-MARKET]
Outside almost every drinking-house, or Café Breton, lay a fat
pig sleeping contentedly on the pavement, and tied to a string in the
wall, built there for that purpose. He would be waiting while his
master drank--for often men come in to Vannes from miles away, and
walk back with their purchases. I saw an old woman who had just bought
a pig trying to take it home. She had the most terrible time with that
animal. First he raced along the road with her at great speed, almost
pulling her arms out of the sockets, and making the old lady run as
doubtless she had never run before; then he walked at a sedate pace,
persistently between her feet, so that either she must ride him
straddle-legs or not get on at all; lastly, the pig wound himself and
the string round and round her until neither could move a step. A
drunken man reeled along, and, seeing the hopeless muddle of the old
lady and the pig, stopped in front of them and tried to be of some
assistance. He took off his hat and scratched his head; then he poked
the pig with his cane, and moved round the woman and pig, giving
advice; finally, he flew into a violent rage because he could not
solve the mystery, and the old lady waved him aside with an impatient
gesture. The air was filled with grunts and groans and blood-curdling
squeaks.
Everyone seemed to possess a pig: either he or she had just bought one
or had one for sale. You saw bunches of the great fat pink animals
tied to railings while the old women gossiped; you saw pigs, attached
to carts, comfortably sleeping in the mud; you saw them being led
along the streets like dogs by neatly-dressed dames, holding them by
their tails, and giving them a twist every time they were rebellious.
Vannes is the most beautiful old town imaginable. Everywhere one goes
one sees fine old archways of gray stone, ancient and lofty--relics of
a bygone age--with the arms of Brittany below and a saint with arms
extended in blessing above. When once you reach the outskirts of the
town you realize that at one time Vannes must have been enclosed by
walls: there are gateways remaining still, and little bits of
broken-down brickwork, old and blackened, and half-overgrown with moss
and grasses. There is a moat running all round--it is inky black and
dank now--on the banks of which a series of sloping slate sheds and
washhouses have been built, where the women wash their clothes,
kneeling on the square flat stones. How anything could emerge clean
and white from such pitch-black water is a marvel. Seen from outside
the gates, this town is very beautiful--the black water of the moat,
the huddled figures of the women, with their white caps and snowy
piles of linen, and beyond that green grass and apple-trees and
flowers, and at the back the old grayish-pink walls, with carved
buttresses.
There is hardly a town in the whole of Brittany so ancient as Vannes.
These walls speak for themselves. They speak of the time when Vannes
was the capital of the rude Venetes who made great Cæsar hesitate, and
retarded him in his conquest of the Gauls. They speak of the
twenty-one emigrants, escaped from the Battle of Quiberon, who were
shot on the promenade of the Garenne, under the great trees where the
children play to-day. What marvellous walls these are! With what care
they have been built--so stout, so thick, so colossal! It must have
taken men of great strength to build such walls as these--men who
resented all newcomers with a bitter hatred, and built as if for their
very lives, determined to erect something which should be impregnable.
Still they stand, gray and battered, with here and there remains of
their former grandeur in carved parapets, projecting turrets, and
massive sculptured doorways. At one time the town must have been well
within the walls; but now it has encroached. The white and pink and
yellow-faced tall houses perch on the top of, lean against and cluster
round, the old gray walls.
It seems strange to live in a town where the custom of _couvre-feu_ is
still observed by the inhabitants--in a town where no sooner does the
clock strike nine than all lights are out, all shutters closed, and
all shops shut. This is the custom in Vannes. It is characteristic of
the people. The Vanntais take a pride in being faithful to old usages.
They are a sturdy, grave, pensive race, hiding indomitable energy and
hearts of fire under the calmest demeanour. The women are fine
creatures. I shall never forget seeing an old woman chopping wood. All
day long she worked steadily in the open place, wielding an immensely
heavy hatchet, and chopping great branches of trees into bundles of
sticks. There she stood in her red-and-black checked petticoat, her
dress tucked up, swinging her hatchet, and holding the branches with
her feet. She seemed an Amazon.
[Illustration: BREAD STALLS]
In Vannes, as in any part of Brittany, one always knows when there is
anything of importance happening, by the clatter of the sabots on the
cobble stones. On the afternoon when we were there the noise was
deafening. We heard it through the closed windows while we were at
luncheon--big sabots, little sabots, men's nail-studded sabots,
women's light ones, little children's persistent clump, clump, clump,
all moving in the same direction. It was the Foire des Oignons,
observed the waiter. I had imagined that there had been a _foire_ of
everything conceivable that day; but onions scarcely entered into my
calculations. I should not have thought them worthy of a _foire_ all
to themselves. The waiter spoiled my meal completely. I could no
longer be interested in the very attractive menu. Onions were my one
and only thought. I lived and had my being but for onions. Mother and
I sacrificed ourselves immediately on the altar of onions. We rushed
from the room, much to the astonishment of several rotund French
officers, who were eating, as usual, more than was good for them.
Everybody was concerned with onions. We drew up in the rear of a large
onion-seeking crowd. It was interesting to watch the back views of
these peasants as they mounted the hill. There were all kinds of
backs--fat backs, thin backs, glossy black backs, and faded green
ones; backs of men with floating ribbons and velveteen coats; plump
backs of girls with neat pointed shawls--some mauve, some purple,
some pink, some saffron.
At the top of the hill was the market-square--a busy scene. The square
was packed, and everyone was talking volubly in the roughest Breton
dialect. Now and then a country cart painted blue, the horse hung
round the neck with shaggy black fur and harnessed with the rough
wooden gear so general in Brittany, would push through the crowd of
busily-talking men and women. Everything conceivable was for sale. At
certain stalls there were sweets of all colours, yet all tasting the
same and made of the worst sugar. I saw the same man still selling his
spoons and umbrellas; but he was fat and comfortable now. He had had
his _déjeuner_, and was not nearly so excited and amusing. Fried
sardines were sold with long rolls of bread; also sausages. They cook
the sardines on iron grills, and a mixed smell of sausages, sardines,
and chestnuts filled the air. Everyone was a little excited and a
little drunk. Long tables had been brought out into the place where
the men sat in their blue blouses and black velvet hats,--their whips
over their shoulders, drinking cider and wine out of cups,--discussing
cows and horses.
There was a cattle market there that day. This was soon manifest, for
men in charge of cows and pigs pushed their way among the crowd. On
feeling a weight at your back now and then, you discovered a cow or a
pig leaning against you for support. A great many more animals were
assembled on a large square--pigs and cows and calves and horses. One
could stay for days and watch a cattle market: it is intensely
interesting. The way the people bargain is very strange. I saw a man
and a woman buying a cow from a young Breton. The man opened its
eyelids wide with his finger and thumb; he gazed in the gentle brown
eyes; he stroked her soft gray neck; he felt her ribs, and poked his
fingers in her side; he lifted one foot after the other; he punched
and probed her for quite a quarter of an hour; and the cow stood there
patiently. The woman looked on with a hard, knowing expression,
applauding at every poke, and talking volubly the while. She drew into
the discussion a friend passing by, and asked her opinion constantly,
yet never took it. All the while the owner stood stroking his cow's
back, without uttering a word.
He was a handsome young man, as Bretons often are--tall and slim, with
a face like an antique bronze, dark and classic;--he wore a short
black coat trimmed with shabby velvet, tightly-fitting trousers, and
a black hat with velvet streamers. The stateliness of the youth struck
me: he held himself like an emperor. These Bretons look like kings,
with their fine brown classic features; they hold themselves so
haughtily, they remind one of figure-heads on old Roman coins. They
seem men born to command; yet they command nothing, and live like pigs
with the cows and hogs. The Breton peasant is full of dirt and
dignity, living on coarse food, and rarely changing his clothes; yet
nowhere will you meet with such fine bearing, charm of manner, and
nobility of feature as among the peasants of Brittany.
On entering the poorest cottage, you are received with old-world
courtesy by the man of the house, who comes forward to meet you in his
working garments, with dirt thick upon his hands, but with dignity and
stateliness, begging that you will honour his humble dwelling with
your presence. He sets the best he has in the house before you. It may
be only black bread and cider; but he bids you partake of it with a
regal wave of his hand which transforms the humble fare.
[Illustration: IN A BRETON KITCHEN]
These peasants remind me very much of Sir Henry Irving. Some of the
finest types are curiously like him in feature: they have the
same magnificent profile and well-shaped head. It is quite startling
to come across Sir Henry in black gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, and long
hair streaming in the wind, ploughing in the dark-brown fields, or
chasing a pig, or, dressed in gorgeous holiday attire, perspiring
manfully through a village gavotte. Surely none but a Breton could
chase a pig without losing self-respect, or count the teeth in a cow's
mouth and look dignified at the same time. No one else could dance up
and down in the broiling sunshine for an hour and preserve a composed
demeanour. The Breton peasant is a person quite apart from the rest of
the world. One feels, whether at a pig market or a wayside shrine,
that these people are dreamers living in a romantic past. Unchanged
and unpolished by the outside world, they cling to their own
traditions; every stone in their beloved country is invested by them
with poetic and heroic associations. Brittany looks as if it must have
always been as it is now, even in the days of the Phoenicians; and
it seems impossible to imagine the country inhabited by any but
medieval people.
There were many fine figures of men in this cattle market, all busy at
the game of buying and selling. A Frenchman and his wife were
strolling round the square, intent on buying a pony. The man evidently
knew nothing about horses--very few Frenchmen do;--and it was
ridiculous to watch the way in which he felt the animal's legs and
stroked its mane, with a wise expression, while his wife looked on
admiringly. Bretons take a long time over their bargains: sometimes
they will spend a whole day arguing over two sous, and then end by not
buying the pig or the cow, whatever it is, at all. The horses looked
tired and bored with the endless bargains, as they leant their heads
against one another. Now and then one was taken out and trotted up and
down the square; then two men clasped hands once, and went off to a
café to drink. If they clasp hands a third time the bargain will be
closed.
Market-day in Vannes is an excuse for frivolity. We came upon a great
crowd round two men under a red umbrella, telling fortunes. One man's
eyes were blindfolded. He was the medium. The people were listening to
his words with guileless attention and seriousness. Then a man and a
woman, both drunk, were singing songs about the Japanese and Russian
War, dragging in 'France' and 'la gloire,' and selling the words,
forcing young Frenchmen and soldiers to buy sheets of nonsense for
which they had no use. There were stalls of imitation flowers--roses
and poppies and chrysanthemums of most impossible colours--gazed at
with covetous eyes by the more well-to-do housewives.
Hats were sold in great numbers at the Foire des Oignons. It seemed to
be fashionable to buy a black felt hat on that day. The fair is held
only once a year, and farmers and their families flock to it from
miles round. It is the custom, when a good bargain is made, to buy new
hats for the entire family. Probably there will be no opportunity of
seeing a shop again during the rest of the year. The trade in hats is
very lively. Women from Auray, in three-cornered shawls and wide
white-winged caps, sit all day long sewing broad bands of velvet
ribbon on black beaver hats, stretching it round the crown and leaving
it to fall in two long streamers at the back. They sew quickly, for
they have more work than they can possibly accomplish during the day.
It is amusing to watch the customers. I sat on the stone balustrade
which runs round the open square of the Hôtel de Ville, whither all
the townswomen come as to a circus, bringing their families, and
eating their meals in the open air, that they may watch the strangers
coming and going about their business, either on foot or in carts. It
was as good as a play. A young man, accompanied by another man, an old
lady, and three young girls, had come shyly up to the stall. It was
obvious that he was coming quite against his will and at the
instigation of his companions. He hummed and hawed, fidgeted, blushed,
and looked as wretched and awkward as a young man could. One hat after
another was tried on his head; but none of them would fit. He was the
object of all eyes. The townswomen hooted at him, and his own friends
laughed. He could stand it no longer. He dashed down his money, picked
up the hat nearest to him, and went off in a rage. I often thought of
that young man afterwards--of his chagrin during the rest of the year,
when every Sunday and high day and holiday he would have to wear that
ill-fitting hat as a penalty for his bad temper. These great strapping
Breton men are very childish, and dislike above all things to be made
to appear foolish. Towards evening, when three-quarters drunk, they
are easily gulled and cheated by the gentle-faced needle-women.
Without their own womenfolk they are completely at sea, and are
made to buy whatever is offered. They look so foolish, pawing one
another and trying on hats at rakish angles. It is ridiculous to see
an intoxicated man trying to look at his own reflection in a
hand-glass. He follows it round and round, looking very serious; holds
it now up and now down; and eventually buys something he does not
want, paying for it out of a great purse which he solemnly draws from
under his blouse.
[Illustration: A RAINY DAY AT THE FAIR]
I saw a man and a child come to buy a hat. The boy was the very image
of his father--black hat, blue blouse, tight trousers and all--only
that the hat was very shabby and brown and old, and had evidently seen
many a ducking in the river and held many a load of nuts and cherries.
His father was in the act of buying him a new one. The little pale lad
smiled and looked faintly interested as hat after hat was tried on his
head; but he was not overjoyed, for he knew quite well that, once home
and in his mother's careful hands, that hat would be seen only on rare
occasions.
Another boy who came with his father to buy a hat quite won my heart.
He was a straight-limbed, fair-haired, thoroughly English-looking boy.
A black felt hat was not for him--only a red tam-o'-shanter;--and he
stood beaming with pride as cap after cap was slapped on his head and
as quickly whisked off again.
Women came to purchase bonnets for their babies; but, alas! instead of
buying the tight-lace caps threaded with pink and blue ribbons
characteristic of the country, they bought hard, round, blue-and-white
sailor affairs, with mangy-looking ostrich feathers in them--atrocities
enough to make the most beautiful child appear hideous.
The sun was fading fast. Horses and cows and pigs, drunken men and
empty cider barrels, women with heavy baskets and dragging tired
children, their pockets full of hot chestnuts--all were starting on
their long walk home. When the moon rose, the square was empty.
[Illustration: IN THE PORCH OF THE CATHEDRAL, QUIMPER]