PONT-AVEN
Pont-Aven is associated with agreeable memories. This village in the
South of Finistère draws men and women from all over Europe, summer
after summer. Many of them stay there throughout the winter, content
to be shut off from the world, allowing the sweet and gentle lassitude
of the place to lull their cares and troubles. Is it climatic--this
soothing influence--or is it the outcome of a spell woven over
beautiful Pont-Aven by some good-natured fairy long ago? I have often
wondered. Certain it is that intelligent men, many of them painters,
have been content to spend years in Pont-Aven. Some time ago Mother
and Father, touring in Brittany, came to this delightful spot, and
determined to spend three weeks there. They stayed three years.
All my life I have heard stories of this wonderful place, and of their
first visit. It was when my father had only just begun his career as a
painter. The experience, he says, was a great education. There he
found himself in an amazing nest of French and American painters, all
the newer lights of the French school. He was free to work at whatever
he liked, yet with unlimited chances of widening, by daily argument,
his knowledge of technical problems. For the three years that he
remained on this battlefield of creeds conflicts of opinion raged
constantly. Everyone was frantically devoted to one or another of the
dominating principles of the moderns. There was a bevy of schools
there.
One, called the Stripists, painted in stripes, with vivid colour as
nearly prismatic as possible, all the scenery around. Then, there were
the Dottists, who painted in a series of dots. There were also the
Spottists--a sect of the Dottists, whose differentiation was too
subtle to be understood. Men there were who had a theory that you must
ruin your digestion before you could paint a masterpiece. No
physically healthy person, they declared, could hope to do fine work.
They used to try to bring about indigestion.
One man, celebrated for his painting of pure saints with blue dresses,
over which Paris would go crazy, never attempted to paint a saint
until he had drunk three glasses of absinthe and bathed his face in
ether. Another decided that he was going to have, in Paris, an
exhibition of merry-go-rounds which should startle France. He had a
theory that the only way to get at the soul of a thing was to paint
when drunk. He maintained that the merry-go-rounds whirled faster
then. One day my father went to his studio. He was dazed. He did not
know whether he was standing on his head or his heels. It was
impossible to see 'Black Bess' or any of the pet horses he knew so
well. The pictures were one giddy whirl.
Then, there was the Bitumen school, a group of artists who never
painted anything but white sunlit houses with bitumen shadows. A year
or two afterwards a terrible thing invariably happened. Without any
warning whatsoever, the pictures would suddenly slide from off their
canvases to the floor. The bitumen had melted.
The Primitives afforded joy. Their distinctive mark was a
walking-stick, carved by a New Zealand Maori, which they carried about
with them. It gave them inspiration. So powerful was the influence of
these sticks that even the head of a Breton peasant assumed the rugged
aspect of the primitive carvings in their paintings. The most
enthusiastic disciple of the sect was a youth who was continually
receiving marvellous inspirations. Once, after having shut himself up
for three days, he appeared looking haggard and ravenous. Without a
word, he sat down heavily near a table, called for absinthe, and,
groaning, dropped his head in his hands, and murmured, 'Ah, me! Ah,
me!' All beholders were in a fever to know what the mystery was. After
some minutes of dead silence the young man rose majestically from his
chair, stretched forth one arm, and, with a far-away look in his eyes,
said, 'Friends, last night, when you were all asleep, a beautiful
creature came to me in spirit form, and taught me the secret of
drawing; and I drew this.' Then he brought out a picture. It was far
above his usual style, and the more credulous envied his good fortune.
Some weeks afterwards, however, it was discovered by a painter with
detective instincts that the marvellous vision was in reality a
_chambre au clair_--that is to say, a prism through which objects are
reflected on paper, enabling one to trace them with great facility.
[Illustration: IN AN AUBERGE, PONT-AVEN]
Such are the extraordinary people among whom Mother and Father found
themselves on their first visit to Pont-Aven--geniuses some of them,
mere daubers others, all of them strange and rough and weird.
More like wild beasts they looked than human beings, Mother told me;
for very few women came to Pont-Aven in the early days, and those were
Bohemians. The artists allowed their hair and beards to grow long. Day
after day they wore the same old paint-stained suits of corduroys,
battered wide-brimmed hats, loose flannel shirts, and coarse wooden
sabots stuffed with straw.
Mother, who was very young at the time, has often told me that she
will never forget their arrival at the little Hôtel Gleanec. They were
shown into a _salle à manger_, where rough men sat on either side of a
long table, serving themselves out of a common dish, and dipping great
slices of bread into their plates.
Mother was received with great courtesy by them. She found it very
amusing to watch the gradual change in their appearance day by
day--the donning of linen collars and cuffs and the general smartening
up. Many of the men who were then struggling with the alphabet of art
have reached the highest rungs of the ladder of fame, and their names
have become almost household words; others have sunk into oblivion,
and are still amateurs.
The chief hotel in the village was the Hôtel des Voyageurs, to which
Mother and Father soon migrated. It was kept by a wonderful woman,
called Julia. Originally a peasant girl, she had by untiring energy
become the proprietress of the great establishment. Her fame as
hostess and manager was bruited all over France. Everyone seemed to
know of Julia, and year after year artists and their families came
back regularly to stay with her. She is a woman with a strong
individuality. She gathered a large custom among artists, who flocked
to the Hôtel des Voyageurs as much because of the charm of Mdlle.
Julia, and the comfort of her house, as for the beauty of the scenery.
There was a delightful intimacy among the guests, most of whom were
very intelligent. Mdlle. Julia took a sincere interest in the career
of each. All went to her with their troubles and their joys, certain
of sympathy and encouragement. Many are the young struggling painters
she has helped substantially, often allowing them to live on in the
hotel for next to nothing. Many are the unpaid bills of long standing
on the books of this generous woman. I fear that she has never made
the hotel pay very well, for the elaborate menu and good accommodation
are out of all proportion to her charges. A strong woman is Mdlle.
Julia. She has been known to lift a full-grown man and carry him out
of doors, landing him ignominiously in the mud.
There was one man, a retired military officer, whom no one else could
manage. He had come to stay in Pont-Aven because he could live there
for a few francs a day and drink the rest. He suffered from
hallucinations, and took great pleasure in chasing timid artists over
the countryside, challenging them to duels, and insulting them in
every way possible. He was the terror of the village. He had a house
on the quay, and early one morning when the snow was thick upon the
ground, just because a small vessel came into the river and began
blowing a trumpet, or making a noise of some kind, he sprang out of
bed in a towering rage, rushed in his nightshirt into the street, and
began sharpening his sword on a rock, shouting to the ship's captain
to come out and be killed if he dared. The captain did not dare. The
only person of whom this extraordinary person stood in awe was Mdlle.
Julia. Her he would obey without a murmur. No one knew why. Perhaps
there had been some contest between them. At any rate, they understood
each other.
The friends of Mdlle. Julia ranged from the Mayor of the town to
Batiste, the butcher, who sat outside his door all day and watched her
every movement.
'If I want to remember where I have been, and what I did at a certain
hour, I have only to ask Batiste,' she was wont to say.
All the artists worshipped the ground she trod upon; and well they
might, for they would never have a better friend than she. Her _salle
à manger_ and _grand salon_ were panelled with pictures, some of which
are very valuable to-day. Tender-hearted she was, and strong-minded,
with no respect for persons. Mother told me that once when my brother
and sister, babies of three and four years old, were posing for Father
on the beach with only their linen sunbonnets on, their limbs were
somewhat sunburnt and blistered. When they returned to the hotel,
Mdlle. Julia applied sweet oil and cold cream to the tender skin, and
rated my parents soundly between her tears of compassion for the
little ones. It was of no use explaining that it was in the cause of
art. She bade them in unmeasured terms to send art to the Devil, and
scolded them as if they were children. I doubt not she would have
reprimanded the King of England with as little compunction.
[Illustration: A SAND-CART ON THE QUAY, PONT-AVEN]
Mdlle. Julia made the reputation of Pont-Aven by her own overpowering
individuality. If she went to Paris or elsewhither for a few days,
everyone in the village felt her absence. Things were not the same.
Pont-Aven seemed momentarily to have lost its charm. The meals were
badly cooked and worse served; the _bonnes_ were neglectful. All
missed the ringing laugh and cheery presence of Julia. How soon one
knew when she had returned! What a flutter there was among the
_bonnes_! What a commotion! How everyone flew hither and thither at
her command! She seemed to fill the hotel with her presence.
I went to Pont-Aven when I was ten years old, and I remember well how
Mdlle. Julia came to meet us, driving twenty miles through the deep
snow. What happy days those were in the dear little village! We lived
as wild things, and enjoyed life to the full. M. Grenier, the
schoolmaster, acted as tutor to us. He was lenient. We spent our time
mainly in rambling over the countryside, making chocolate in Mdlle.
Julia's wood, bird-nesting, and apple-stealing. M. Grenier taught us
to row, and we learnt all the various intricate currents and dangerous
sandbanks so thoroughly that after a time we could almost have
steered through that complicated river blindfold. We learnt how to
make boats out of wood, and how to carve our names in a professional
manner on trees. We became acquainted with a large selection of Breton
ballads and a good deal of rough botany. More advanced lessons have
faded from my mind. Of actual book-learning we accomplished very
little. Many a time M. Grenier pulled himself together, brought us new
copybooks, fine pens, his French grammar and readers, and settled us
down in the salon to work; but gradually the task would pall on both
master and scholars, and before the morning was half over we would be
out in the fields and woods again, 'just for a breath of fresh air.'
Children have the power of making themselves at home in a foreign
country. Within a week my brother and I knew everyone in the village.
We became acquainted with all their family affairs and troubles. In
many households we were welcome at any time of the day. There was the
sabot-maker, whom we never tired of watching as he cleverly and
rapidly transformed a square block of wood into a rounded, shapely
sabot. He was always busy, and sometimes turned out a dozen pairs in
a day. To my great joy, he presented me with a beautiful little pair,
which I wore painfully, but with much pride. Although when you become
accustomed to them sabots are comfortable and sensible gear, at first
they are extremely awkward. Of course, you can kick them off before
you enter a house, and run about in the soft woollen _chausson_ with a
leather sole which is always worn underneath. Round the hotel doorway
there is always a collection of sabots awaiting their owners. In a
country such as Brittany, where it rains a good deal, and the roads
are often deep in mud, they are the only possible wear. The sabot is a
product of evolution. In that respect it is like the hansom cab which
is a thing of beauty simply because it has been thought out with
regard to its usefulness and comfort alone.
Batiste, the butcher, was a great friend of ours. With morbid
fascination we witnessed his slaughter of pigs and cows. Then, soon we
knew where to get the best _crêpes_. These are pancakes of a kind, so
thin that you can see through them, made on a round piece of metal
over a blazing fire. Eaten hot, with plenty of butter and sugar, they
are equal to anything in our English cookery. There was one particular
old lady living down by the bridge who made _crêpes_. We saw her
mixing the ingredients, mostly flour and water, and spreading the
dough over the round piece of metal. It became hard in an instant, and
curled up brown and crisp, as thin as a lace handkerchief. Likewise,
we knew where to buy bowls of milk thick with cream for one sou. We
had to tramp over several fields and to scale several fences before we
found ourselves in the kitchen of a large farm, where the housewife
was busy pouring milk into large copper vessels. Seated at the
polished mahogany table, we drank from dainty blue bowls.
I went back to Pont-Aven recently, and found it very little changed.
We travelled by diligence from Concarneau; but, as the conveyance left
only once a day, we had several hours to while away. The Concarneau
and Pont-Aven diligence is quaint and primitive, devoid of springs,
and fitted with extremely narrow and hard seats. We passed through
villages in which every house seemed to be either a _buvette_ or a
_débit de boisson_. At these our driver--a man in a blue blouse and a
black felt hat--had to deliver endless parcels, for which he dived
continually under the seat on which we were sitting. For discharging
each commission he received several glasses of cider and wine. He
stopped at every place to drink and talk with the host, quite
oblivious of his passengers. With every mile he became more
uproarious.
[Illustration: PLAYING ON THE 'PLACE,' PONT-AVEN]
Our only travelling companion was an old woman in the costume of the
country, with a yellow and wrinkled face. On her arm she carried a
large basket and a loaf of bread two yards long. Ruthlessly she trod
on our toes with her thick black sabots in getting in. Although I
helped her with her basket and her bread, she never volunteered a word
of thanks, but merely snatched them from my hands. Many Bretons are
scarcely of higher intelligence than the livestock of the farms. They
live in the depths of the country with their animals, sleeping in the
same room with them, rarely leaving their own few acres of ground. The
women work as hard as the men, digging in the fields and toiling in
the forests from early morning until night.
At one of the villages where the diligence stopped, a blacksmith, a
young giant, handsome, dark, came out from the smithy with his dog,
which he was sending to some gentleman with hunting proclivities in
Pont-Aven. The animal--what is called a _chien de la chasse_--was
attached by a long chain to the step, and the diligence started off.
The blacksmith stood in the door of his smithy, and watched the dog
disappear with wistful eyes. The Bretons have a soft spot in their
hearts for animals. The dog itself was the picture of misery. His
moans and howls wrung one's heart. I never saw an animal more wily. He
tried every conceivable method of slipping his collar. He pulled at
the chain, and wriggled from one side to another. Once he contrived to
work his ear under the collar, and my fingers itched to help him. Had
the truant escaped, I could not have informed the driver. Strange that
one's sympathies are always with the weakest! In novels, an escaping
convict, no matter how terrible his guilt, always has my sympathy, and
I am hostile to the pursuing warder.
As we drew near to Pont-Aven the scenery became more and more
beautiful. On either side of the road stretched miles and miles of
brilliant mustard-yellow gorse, mingled with patches of dried reddish
bracken, and bordered by rows of blue-green pines. Here and there one
saw great rocks half-covered with the velvet-green of mosses thrown
hither and thither in happy disorder. Sometimes ivy takes root in the
crevices of the rocks where a little earth has gathered, and creeps
closely round about them, as if anxious to convey life and warmth to
the cold stone. The sun, like a red ball, was setting behind the
hills, leaving the sky flecked with clouds of the palest mauves and
pinks, resembling the fine piece of marbling one sometimes sees inside
the covers of modern well-bound books. Now and then we passed a little
ruined chapel--consecrated, no doubt, to some very ancient saint (it
was impossible to make out the name), a saint whose cult was evidently
lost, for the little shrine was tumbling to ruins. We saw by the
wayside little niches sheltering sacred fountains, the waters of which
cure certain diseases; and passed peasants on the roadside, sometimes
on horseback, sometimes walking--large, well-proportioned,
fine-featured men of proud bearing. In Brittany the poorest peasant is
a free and independent man. He salutes you out of politeness and good
nature; but he does not cringe as if recognising himself to be lower
in the social scale. The Breton, howsoever poor, is no less dignified
under his blue blouse than his ancestors were under their steel
armour.
A long straight road leads from Concarneau to Pont-Aven, and at the
end of it lies the pretty village among hills of woods and of rocks
bathed in a light mist. One could almost imagine that it was a Swiss
village in miniature. By the time we arrived it was night. We could
only discern clean white houses on either side, and water rushing
under a bridge over which we passed. The Hôtel des Voyageurs looked
much the same as ever, except that over the way a large building had
been added to the _annexe_. To our great disappointment, we discovered
that Mdlle. Julia had gone to Paris; but we recognised several of the
_bonnes_ and a hoary veteran called Joseph, who had been in Julia's
service for over twenty years.
Gladly I rushed out next morning. There is nothing more delightful
than to visit a place where one has been happy for years as a child,
especially such a place as Pont-Aven, which changes little. My first
thought was to see the Bois d'Amour. I found it quite unchanged. To be
sure, I had some difficulty in finding the old pathway which led to
the wood, so many strange houses and roadways had been built since we
were there; but at length we found it--that old steep path with the
high walls on either side, on which the blackberries grew in
profusion. There are two paths in the forest--one, low down, which
leads by the stream, and the other above, carpeted with silver
leaves. A wonderful wood it is--a joyous harmony in green and gold.
Giant chestnuts fill the air with their perfumed leaves, forming an
inextricable lattice-work overhead, one branch entwining with the
other, the golden rays of the sun filtering through. The ground is
carpeted with silver and salmon leaves left from last autumn; the
pines shed thousands of brown cones, and streams of resin flow down
their trunks. It is well-named the Bois d'Amour. Below runs a little
stream. Now it foams and bounds, beating itself against a series of
obstacles; now it flows calmly, as if taking breath, clear, silver,
and limpid, past little green islands covered with flowers, and into
bays dark with the black mud beneath. Low-growing trees and bushes
flourish on the banks, some throwing themselves across the stream as
barricades, over which the laughing water bounds and leaps
unheedingly, scattering diamonds and topaz in the sunlight. Everything
in the Bois d'Amour seems to join in the joyous song of Nature. The
little stream sings; the trees murmur and rustle in the wind; and the
big black mill-wheel, glistening with crystal drops, makes music with
the water.
[Illustration: ON THE QUAY AT PONT-AVEN]
By the riverside, women are washing their clothes on square slabs of
stone, which stretch across the water. It was on these stepping-stones,
I remember, that my brother and I lost our shoes and stockings. At one
place the stream is hidden from sight by thick bushes, and you find
yourself in a narrow green lane, a green alley, walled on either side
and roofed overhead by masses of trees and bushes, through which the
sun filters occasionally in golden patches. Whenever I walk down that
lane, I think of the song that my bonne Marie taught me there one day;
it comes back as freshly now as if it had been but yesterday. The
refrain begins, 'Et mon coeur vol, vol et vol, et vol, vers les
cieux.'
One meets the river constantly during this walk, and every mile or so
you come across a little black mill. The mills in Pont-Aven are
endless, and this saying is an old one: 'Pont-Aven ville de renom,
quatorze moulins, quinze maisons.'
Picturesque little mills they are. The jet-black wheels form a
delightful contrast to the vivid green round about; and small bridges
of stones, loosely put together and moss-grown here and there, cross
the river at intervals.
[Illustration: ON THE STEPS OF THE MILL HOUSE, PONT-AVEN]
I love this rough, wild country. How variable it is! You may sit
in a wood with the stream at your feet, and all about you will be
great hills half-covered with gorse and bracken, and here and there
huge blocks of granite, which seem ready to fall any moment.
The Bois d'Amour is a happy hunting-ground of artists. This particular
view of the mill at which I gazed so long has been a stock-subject
with painters for many years. You never pass without seeing at least
one or two men with canvases spread and easels erected, vainly trying
to reproduce the beautiful scene. Artists are plentiful in this
country. Wherever you may wander within a radius of fifteen miles, you
cannot stop at some attractive prospect without hearing an impatient
cough behind you, and, turning, find yourself obstructing the view of
a person in corduroys and flannel shirt, with a large felt hat,
working, pipe aglow, at an enormous canvas. The artists, who are
mostly English, are thought very little of by the people about. I once
heard a commercial traveller talking of Pont-Aven.
'Pshaw!' he said, 'they are all English and Americans there.
Everything is done for the English. At the Hôtel des Voyageurs even
the cuisine is English. It is unbearable! At the table the men wear
clothes of inconceivable colour and cut. They talk without gestures,
very quickly and loudly, and they eat enormously. The young _mecs_ are
flat-faced, with long chins, white eye-lashes, and fair hair. Many are
taciturn, morose, and dreamy. Occasionally they make jokes, but
without energy. They mostly eat without interruption.'
This is the French view, and it is natural. Pont-Aven does not have
the right atmosphere for the Frenchman: the Bretons and the English
are supreme.
Nothing is more delightful than to spend a summer there. You find
yourself in a colony of intelligent men, many of them very clever, as
well as pretty young English and American girls, and University
students on 'cramming' tours. Picnics and river-parties are organized
by the inimitable Mdlle. Julia every day during the summer, and in the
evening there is always dancing in the big salon. The hotel is full to
overflowing from garret to cellar. Within the last few years Mdlle.
Julia has opened another hotel at Porte Manec, by the sea, to which
the visitors may transfer themselves whenever they choose, going
either by river or by Mdlle. Julia's own omnibus. It is built on the
same lines as Mme. Bernhardt's house at Belle Isle, and is situated on
a breezy promontory.
The river lies between Pont-Aven and Porte Manec, which is at the
mouth of the sea. How beautiful this river is--the dear old
browny-gray, moleskin-coloured river, edged with great rocks on which
the seaweed clings! On the banks are stretches of gray-green grass
bordered by holly-bushes. The scenery changes constantly. Sometimes it
is rugged and rocky, now sloping up, now down, now covered with green
gorse or a sprinkling of bushes, now with a wilderness of trees. Here
and there you will see a cleft in the mountain-side, a little leafy
dell which one might fancy the abode of fairies. Silver streams
trickle musically over the bare brown rocks, and large red toadstools
grow in profusion, the silver cobwebs sparkling with dew in the gorse.
It is delightful in the marvellous autumn weather to take the narrow
river-path winding in and out of the very twisty Aven, and wander
onwards to your heart's content, with the steep hillside at the back
of you and the river running at your feet. You feel as if you could
walk on for ever over this mountainous ground, where the heather
grows in great purple bunches among huge granite rocks, which, they
say, were placed there by the Druids. Down below flows the river--a
mere silver ribbon now, in wastes of pinky-purple mud, for it is ebb
tide; and now and then you see the battered hulk of a boat lying on
its side in the mud. On the hill are lines of fir-trees standing black
and straight against the horizon.
Night falls in a bluish haze on the hills and on the river, confusing
the outline of things. At the foot of the mountains it is almost dark.
Through the open windows and doors of the cottages as one passes one
can see groups round the tables under the yellow light of candles. One
smells the good soup which is cooking; the noise of spoons and plates
mingles with the voices of the people. Pewter and brass gleam from the
walls. It is a picture worthy of Rembrandt. The end of the room is
hidden in smoky shadow, now and then lit up by a flame escaping from
the fireplace, showing an old woman knitting in the ingle-nook, and an
old white-haired peasant drinking cider out of a blue mug. It is
strange to think of these people living in their humble homes year
after year--a happy little people who have no history.
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE, PONT-AVEN]
Not far from Pont-Aven is the ruined château of Rustephan. One
approaches it through a wood of silver birches, under great old trees;
cherry-trees and apple-trees remain in what must once have been a
flourishing orchard. The castle itself has fallen to decay. The wall
which joined the two towers has broken down, and the steps of the
grand spiral staircase, up which we used to climb, have crumbled; only
the main column, built of granite sparkling with silver particles,
which will not fall for many a day, stands stout and sturdy. One of
the stately old doorways remains; but it is only that which leads to
the castle keep--the main entrance must have fallen with the walls
centuries ago. Bits of the old dining-hall are still to be seen--a
huge fireplace, arch-shaped, and a little shrine-like stone erection
in the wall, worn smooth in parts; one can imagine that it was once a
sink for washing dishes in.
It is a drowsy morning; the sun shines hotly on the back of the neck;
and as one sits on a mound of earth in the middle of what was once the
dining-hall, one cannot resist dreaming of the romantic history of
Geneviève de Rustephan, the beautiful lady who lived here long ago. Up
in one of the great rounded towers spotted with orange lichen and
encircled with ivy is a room which must have been her bedchamber. An
ancient chimney-stack rears itself tall and stately, and where once
gray smoke curled and wreathed, proceeding from the well-regulated
kitchen, long feathery grasses grow. All round the castle, in what
must have been the pleasure-gardens, the smooth lawns and the
bowling-green, my lady's rose-garden, etc., are now mounds of earth,
covered with straggling grass, bracken, and blackberry-bushes, and
loose typical Breton stone walls enclosing fields. Horrible to relate,
in the lordly dining-hall, where once the dainty Geneviève sat, is a
fat pig, nozzling in the earth.
Naturally, Rustephan is haunted. If anyone were brave enough to
penetrate the large hall towards midnight (so the peasants say), a
terrible spectacle would be met--a bier covered with a white cloth
carried by priests bearing lighted tapers. On clear moonlight nights,
say the ancients, on the crumbling old terrace, a beautiful girl is to
be seen, pale-faced, and dressed in green satin flowered with gold,
singing sad songs, sobbing and crying. On one occasion the peasants
were dancing on the green turf in front of the towers, and in the
middle of the most animated part of the feast there appeared behind
the crossbars of a window an old priest with shaven head and eyes
as brilliant as diamonds. Terrified, the men and the girls fled, and
never again danced in these haunted regions.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE FORGE, PONT-AVEN]
One feels miserable on leaving Pont-Aven. It seems as if you had been
in a quiet and beautiful backwater for a time, and were suddenly going
out into the glare and the noise and the flaunting airs of a
fashionable regatta. I can describe the sensation in no other way.
There is something in the air of Pont-Aven that makes it like no other
place in the world.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE COBBLER]