A ROMANTIC LAND
Brittany is essentially a romantic country. It is full of mysteries
and legends and superstitions. Romance plays a great part in the life
of the meanest peasant. Every stock and stone and wayside shrine in
his beloved country is invested with poetical superstition and
romance. A nurse that we children once had, nineteen years of age,
possessed an enormous stock of legends, which she had been brought up
to look upon as absolute truth. Some of the songs which she sang to
the baby at bedtime in a low minor key were beautiful in
composition--'Marie ta fille,' 'Le Biniou,' amongst others. The
village schoolmaster, who was our tutor, during our long afternoon
rambles would often make the woods ring as he sang ballads in his
rich, full voice. The theme changed according to his humour. Now the
song was a canticle, relating the legend of some saint, or a pious
chronicle; at another time it was of love he sang, generally ending
sadly. Then, there was the historical song, recounting some sombre, or
touching, or stirring event, when the little man worked himself up to
a high pitch of excitement, carrying us children open-mouthed to gory
battlefields and the palaces of sumptuous Kings. One quite forgot the
insignificant schoolmaster in the rush and swing of the music.
There are many Breton ballads. The lives of the people are reflected
truthfully in these compositions, which have as their themes human
weakness, or heartache, or happiness. The Breton bards are still a
large class. In almost every village there is someone who composes and
sings. Each one holds in his or her hand a small stick of white wood,
carved with notches and strange signs, which help towards remembering
the different verses. The Gauls called this stick, the use of which is
very ancient, the alphabet of the bards.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE HOUSEWIFE]
Mendicity is protected in Brittany. One meets beggars at all the
fairs, and often on the high-roads. They earn their living by songs
and ballads. They attend family fêtes, and, above all, marriage
ceremonies, composing songs in celebration. No Breton will refuse a
bard the best of his hospitality. Bards are honoured guests. 'Dieu
vous bénisse, gens de cette maison,' says one, announcing
himself. He is installed in the ingle-nook, the cosiest corner of a
Breton kitchen; and after having refreshed the inner man he rewards
his host with song after song, often giving him the last ballad of his
composition. When he takes his leave, a large bundle of food is slung
over his shoulder. Unless you live for years in the same village, as I
have done, sharing in the joys and sorrows of the people, you can gain
very little knowledge of the tales and songs and legends. The Breton
is reticent on the advent of the stranger: he fears ridicule.
Then, again, a child can always wriggle itself into the hearts and
homes of people. Setting aside all racial prejudices and difficulties
of language, a child will instal itself in a household, and become
familiar with the little foibles of each inmate in a single day,
whereas a grown-up person may strive in vain for years. I, as a child,
had a Breton _bonne_, and used to spend most of my days at her home, a
farm some distance from the village, playing on the cottage floor with
her little brothers and sisters, helping to milk the cows, and poking
the fat pigs. This, I think, Mother could scarcely have been aware of;
for she had forbidden Marie to allow me to associate with dirty
children, and these were certainly not too clean. One day I was
playing at dolls with a village girl under the balcony of Mother's
room. Suddenly, on looking up, I found her gazing at me reproachfully.
'O Mother,' I hastened to explain, pulling the child forward by the
pinafore, 'she are clean.' We children were familiar with everyone in
the village, even bosom friends with all, from stout Batiste, the
butcher, to Lucia the little seamstress, and Leontine her sister, who
lived by the bridge. If a child died we attended the funeral, all
dressed in white, holding lighted tapers in our hands, and feeling
important and impressive. If one was born, we graciously condescended
to be present at the baptismal service and receive the boxes of
dragées always presented to guests on such occasions. At all village
processions we figured prominently.
When I returned to Brittany, at the age of ten, I found things very
little changed. My friends were a trifle older; but they remembered me
and welcomed me, receiving me into their midst as before. My sister
and I took part in all the _pardons_ of the surrounding villages. We
learnt the quaint Breton dances, and would pace up and down the dusty
roads in the full glare of the summer sun hour after hour, dressed in
the beautiful costume of the country--black broadcloth skirts, white
winged caps, and sabots. Often we would go with our _bonne_ and our
respective partners into some neighbouring _débits de boissons_ and
drink _syrops_ in true Breton fashion. At one _pardon_ we won the
_ruban d'honneur_--a broad bright-blue ribbon with silver tassels worn
across the shoulder, and presented to the best dancer.
The Breton gavotte is a strange dance of religious origin. The dancers
hold hands in a long line, advancing and retiring rhythmically to
long-drawn-out music. Underneath an awning sit the two professional
biniou-players, blowing with all their might into their instruments
and beating time with their feet to the measure. The _sonneur de
biniou_ is blind, and quite wrapped up in his art; he lives, as it
were, in a world apart. The _joueur de biniou_, the principal figure,
reminding one of a Highland piper, presses his elbow on the large
leather air-bag, playing the air, with its many variations, clear and
sweet, on the reed pipe.
Brittany is the land of _pardons_. During the summer these local
festivities are taking place daily in one village or another. The
_pardon_ is a thing apart; it resembles neither the Flemish
_kermesse_ nor the Parisian _foire_. Unlike the _foires_ of Paris,
created for the gay world, for the men and women who delight in
turning night into day, the _pardon_ has inspiration from high
sources: it is the fête of the soul. The people gather together from
far and near, not only to amuse themselves, but also to pray. They
pass long hours before the images of the saints; they make the tour of
the 'Chemin de la Croix,' kneeling on the granite floor.
Still, it is a joyous festival. The air is filled with shouts and
laughter. For example, in Quimper, at the Feast of the Assumption, the
Place St. Corentin is crowded. People have come from the surrounding
towns, all dressed in the characteristic costume of their vicinities.
Pont-Aven, Pont L'Abbé, Concarmeau, Fouesnant, Quimperlé--all are
represented. You see the tight lace wide-winged cap of the Douarnénez
women, hats bound with coloured chenile of the men of Carhaix, white
flannel coats bordered with black velvet of the peasants of Guéméné,
the flowered waistcoats of Pleavé; the women of Quimper have
pyramidical coifs of transparent lace, showing the pink or blue ribbon
beneath, with two long floating ends.
[Illustration: AN OLD WOMAN]
The great square in front of the cathedral is a jumble of gold
and silver, embroidery, ribbons, muslin, and lace--a joyous feast of
colour in the sun. The crowd moves slowly, forming into groups by the
porch and round the stalls, with much gossip. The square and the
neighbouring streets are bordered by stalls trading in fabrics and
faiences, gingerbread, sweets, lotteries, cider, and fancy-work of all
kinds. Young men and girls stop in couples to buy mirrors or coloured
pins, surmounted with gold, that jingle, to fasten in their caps or in
their bodices. Others gather round the lotteries, and watch with
anxious eyes the wheel with the rod of metal that clicks all the way
round on its spokes, and stops at a certain number. 'C'est vingt-deux
qui gagne!' cries the proprietor. A pretty little peasant woman has
won. She hesitates, wavering between a ball of golden glass and a vase
painted with attractive flowers. The peasants laugh loudly.
There are all kinds of attractions and festivities at the
_pardons_--hurdy-gurdies, swing-boats, voyages to the moon, on which
you get your full and terrible money's worth of bumps and alarms; for
not only are you jerked up hill and down dale in a car, but also, when
you reach the moon, you are whirled round and round at a tremendous
rate and return backwards. There are side-shows in which are
exhibited fat women, headless men, and bodiless girls, distorted thus
by mirrors, the deception of which even we children saw through
plainly. There are jugglers and snake-charmers. A cobra was fed on
rabbits. We children haunted that tent at feeding-times, and used to
watch with fascination the little dead bunnies disappearing, fur and
all, afterwards noticing with glee the strange bumps they formed in
the animal's smooth and shiny coils. How bloodthirsty children are at
heart!
It is not always in large towns like Quimperlé that _pardons_ are
held. More often they are to be witnessed in the country, perhaps
miles away from any town, whence the people flock on foot. There you
see no grand cathedral, no magnificent basilicas and superb
architecture, but some simple little gray church with moss-grown walls
and trees growing thickly about it. The rustic charm of the _pardons_
it is impossible to describe. Round you are immense woods and flowered
prairies; in the woods the birds are singing; a mystic vapour of
incense fills the air. Peasants gather round this modest house of
prayer, which possesses nothing to attract the casual passer-by. The
saints that they have come to venerate have no speciality: they
heal all troubles, assuage all griefs: they are infallible and
all-powerful. Inside the church it is very dim and dark. Not a single
candle is alight on the altar; only the lamp of the sanctuary shines
out with red gleam like an ever-seeing eye. In the gray darkness of
the choir the silent priests cross themselves. They look like ghosts
of the faithful. The bells ring out in noisy peals, filling the air
with vibrations. Over the fields the people hurry--girls in their
smartest clothes, accompanied by their gallants; children brought by
their mothers in their beautiful new suits to attend service and to
have their faces bathed in the fountain, which cures them of all
diseases, and makes them beautiful for ever; old men come to
contemplate the joy of the young people, to be peaceful, and to ask
forgiveness before leaving this world and the short life over which
their own particular saint has watched. The bells peal so loudly that
one is afraid they will crack under the efforts of the ringers. Still
the people swarm over the fields and into the church, until at last
the little edifice is full, and men and women and children are
compelled to kneel outside on the hard earth; but the doors are
opened, and those outside follow the service with great attention.
[Illustration: A PIG-MARKET]
One must be a Breton born and cradled in the country in order to
realize the important place that the _pardon_ of his parish occupies
in the peasant's mind. It is a religious festival of great
significance: it is the day above all others on which he confesses his
sins to God and receives absolution. Throughout his life his dearest
and sweetest thoughts cling round this house of prayer and pardon.
Here it is generally that he betroths himself. He and the girl stroll
home together when the sun has set, walking side by side over the
fields, holding each other by the little finger, as is the Breton
custom. A sweet serenity envelops the countryside; darkness falls; the
stars appear. The man is shy; but the girl is at ease. When nearing
home, to announce their arrival at the farm, they begin to sing a song
that they have heard from the bards during the day. Other couples in
the distance, hearing them, take up the refrain; and soon from all
parts of the country swells up into the night air a kind of alternate
song, in which the high trebles and the deep basses mingle
harmoniously. As the darkness deepens the figures disappear and the
sounds die away in the distance.
The Saturday before the first Sunday in July is a fête-day in most
towns. Pilgrims fill the towns, which are packed with stalls for the
fair. There are sellers of cider and cakes, amulets, and rosaries. A
statue of the Madonna surrounded by archangels against a background of
blue is situated at the church door to receive the homage of faithful
pilgrims. When night falls the door of the porch is flung open, and a
long procession of girls, like an army of phantoms, advances, each
penitent holding in her hand a lighted torch, slowly swinging her
rosary and repeating a Latin prayer. The statue of the Virgin is
solemnly carried out on the open square, where bonfires are lit and
young folk dance to the accompaniment of the biniou.
In some places the dances are prolonged for three or four days. The
Bretons like songs and dances and representations; they like the heavy
pomp of pilgrimages; they believe in prayer, and never lose their
respect for the Cross. They are a fine people, especially the men who
live by the sea, sailors and fishermen--well-made, high-strung men,
their faces bronzed and stained like sculptures out of old chestnut,
with eyes of clear blue, full of the sadness of the sea. They have an
air of robustness and vitality; but under their fierce exterior they
hide a great sweetness of nature. They are kind hosts; they are frank,
brave, and chaste. They have, it is true, a weakness: on fair
days--market-days especially--they abuse the terrible and brutalizing
_vin du feu_. Then, the Bretons are not a very clean people. The
interiors of the cottages are dignified, with great beds made of dark
chestnut and long, narrow tables, stretching the whole length of the
rooms, polished and beeswaxed until you can see your face mirrored on
the surface; but pigs will repose on the stone floor, which waves up
and down with indentations and deep holes. The more well-to-do Bretons
have their clothes washed only once in six months. The soiled linen is
kept above in an attic protected from the rats by a rope with broken
bottles strung on it, on which the rats, as they come to gnaw the
clothes, commit involuntary suicide.
The poorer families have better habits. They wash their few
possessions regularly and out of doors in large pools constructed for
the purpose, where hundreds of women congregate, kneeling on the
flagstones around the pond, beating their linen energetically on
boards, with a flat wooden tool, to economize soap. This I consider a
far cleaner method than that of our British cottagers, who wash
their clothes in their one living-room, inhaling impure steam.
[Illustration: HOUSEHOLD DUTIES]
In spite of the winds and the tempests which desolate it, the Bretons
love their country. They live in liberty; they are their own masters.
The past holds profound and tenacious root in the hearts of these men
of granite, and the attachment to old beliefs is strong. The people
still believe in miracles, in sorcery, and in the evil eye. The land,
rich with memories of many kinds,--with its menhirs, its old
cathedrals, its pilgrimages, its _pardons_--sleeps peacefully in this
century of innovations. In Brittany everything seems to have been
designed long ago. Wherever one goes one comes across a strange and
ancient Druidical monument, menhirs, and dolmens of fabulous
antiquity, an exquisite legend, a ruined château, ancient stone
crosses, _calvaires_, and carvings. It is a country full of signs and
meanings. The poetical superstitions and legends have been left intact
in their primitive simplicity. Nowhere do you see finer peasantry;
nowhere more dignity and nobility in the features of the men and women
who work in the fields; nowhere such quaint houses and costumes;
hardly anywhere more magnificent scenery. You have verdant islands,
ancient forests, villages nestling in the mountains, country as wild
and beautiful as the moors of Scotland, fields and pasture-lands as
highly cultivated as those of Lincolnshire.
Brittany is especially inspiring to the painter. You find villages in
which the people still wear the national dress. Perhaps, however, the
time is not far distant when new customs will arise and the old
beliefs will be only a remembrance. Little by little the influence of
modern times begins to show itself upon the language, the costume, and
the poetic superstitions. The iron and undecorative hand of the
twentieth century is closing down upon the country.
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
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Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.