The stories told here under the title of 'folk-tales' are such as do
not partake so much of the universal element which enters so largely
into Breton romance, but those which have a more national or even
local tinge and are yet not legendary. The homely flavour attached to
many stories of this kind is very apparent, and it is evident that
they have been put together in oral form by unknown 'makers,' some of
whom had either a natural or artistic aptitude for story-telling. In
the first of the following tales it is curious to note how the ancient
Breton theme has been put by its peasant narrator into almost a modern
dress.
_The Magic Rose_
An aged Breton couple had two sons, the elder of whom went to Paris to
seek his fortune, while the younger one was timid by nature and would
not leave the paternal roof. His mother, who felt the burden of her
age, wished the stay-at-home to marry. At first he would not hear of
the idea, but at last, persuaded by her, he took a wife. He had only
been married a few weeks, however, when his young bride sickened and
died. La Rose, for such was his name, was inconsolable. Every evening
he went to the cemetery where his wife was buried, and wept over her
tomb.
One night he was about to enter the graveyard on his sad errand when
he beheld a terrible phantom standing before him, which asked him in
awful tones what he did there.
"I am going to pray at the tomb of my wife," replied the terrified La
Rose.
"Do you wish that she were alive again?" asked the spirit.
"Ah, yes!" cried the sorrowing husband. "There is nothing that I would
not do in order that she might be restored to me."
"Hearken, then," said the phantom. "Return to this place to-morrow
night at the same hour. Provide yourself with a pick and you will see
what comes to pass."
On the following night the young widower was punctually at the
rendezvous. The phantom presented itself before him and said:
"Go to the tomb of your wife and strike it with your pick; the earth
will turn aside and you will behold her lying in her shroud. Take this
little silver box, which contains a rose; open it and pass it before
her nostrils three times, when she will awake as if from a deep
sleep."
La Rose hastened to the tomb of his wife, and everything happened as
the phantom had predicted. He placed the box containing the rose to
his wife's nostrils and she awoke with a sigh, saying: "Ah, I have
been asleep for a long time." Her husband provided her with clothes
which he had brought with him, and they returned to their house, much
to the joy of his parents.
Some time afterward La Rose's father died at a great age, and the
grief-stricken mother was not long in following him to the grave. La
Rose wrote to his brother in Paris to return to Brittany in order to
receive his portion of the paternal inheritance, but he was unable to
leave the capital, so La Rose had perforce to journey to Paris. He
promised his wife before leaving that he would write to her every
day, but on his arrival in the city he found his brother very ill, and
in the anxiety of nursing him back to health he quite forgot to send
his wife news of how he fared.
The weeks passed and La Rose's wife, without word of her husband,
began to dread that something untoward had happened to him. Day by day
she sat at her window weeping and watching for the courier who brought
letters from Paris. A regiment of dragoons chanced to be billeted in
the town, and the captain, who lodged at the inn directly opposite La
Rose's house, was greatly attracted by the young wife. He inquired of
the landlady who was the beautiful dame who sat constantly weeping at
her window, and learned the details of her history. He wrote a letter
to her purporting to come from La Rose's brother in Paris, telling her
that her husband had died in the capital, and some time after paid his
addresses to the supposed widow, who accepted him. They were married,
and when the regiment left the town the newly wedded pair accompanied
it.
Meanwhile La Rose's brother recovered from his illness, and the eager
husband hastened back to Brittany. But when he arrived at his home he
was surprised to find the doors closed, and was speedily informed of
what had occurred during his absence. For a while he was too
grief-stricken to act, but, recovering himself somewhat, he resolved
to enlist in the regiment of dragoons in which the false captain held
his commission. The beauty of his handwriting procured him the post of
secretary to one of the lieutenants, but although he frequently
attempted to gain sight of his wife he never succeeded in doing so.
One day the captain entered the lieutenant's office, observed the
writing of La Rose, and asked his brother officer if he would kindly
lend him his secretary for a few days to assist him with some
correspondence. While helping the captain La Rose beheld his wife, who
did not, however, recognize him. Greatly pleased with his work, the
captain invited him to dinner. During the repast a servant, who had
stolen a silver dish, fearing that it was about to be missed, slid it
into La Rose's pocket, and when it could not be found, accused the
secretary of the theft. La Rose was brought before a court-martial,
which condemned him to be shot.
While in prison awaiting his execution La Rose struck up an
acquaintance with an old veteran named Père La Chique, who brought him
his meals and seemed kindly disposed to him.
"Père La Chique," said La Rose one day, "I have two thousand francs;
if you will do as I ask you they shall be yours."
The veteran promised instantly, and La Rose requested that after he
was shot La Chique should go to the cemetery where he was buried and
resuscitate him with the magic rose, which he had carefully preserved.
On the appointed day La Rose was duly executed, but Père La Chique,
with his pockets full of money, went from inn to inn, drinking and
making merry. Whenever the thought of La Rose crossed his mind, he
muttered to himself in bibulous accents: "Poor fellow, poor fellow, he
is better dead. This is a weary world; why should I bring him back to
it?"
When Père La Chique had caroused with his comrades for some days the
two thousand francs had almost disappeared. Then remorse assailed him
and he made up his mind to do as La Rose had wished. Taking a pick
and an axe he went to the graveyard, but when he struck the grave with
his tools and the earth rolled back, disclosing the body of La Rose,
the old fellow was so terrified that he ran helter-skelter from the
spot. A draught of good wine brought back his failing courage,
however, and he returned and passed the rose three times under the
nostrils of his late acquaintance. Instantly La Rose sat up.
"By my faith, I've had a good sleep!" he said, rubbing his eyes.
"Where are my clothes?"
Père La Chique handed him his garments, and after he had donned them
they quitted the graveyard with all haste.
La Rose now found it necessary to cast about for a living. One day he
heard the sound of a drum in the street, and, following it, found that
it was beaten by a crier who promised in the King's name a large
reward to those who would enlist as sentinels to guard a chapel where
the King's daughter, who had been changed into a monster, was
imprisoned. La Rose accepted the offer, and then learned to his dismay
that the sentinel who guarded the place between the hours of eleven
and midnight was never seen again. On the very first night that he
took up his duties this perilous watch fell to his lot. He felt his
courage deserting him, and he was about to fly when he heard a voice
say: "La Rose, where are you?"
La Rose trembled. "What do you wish with me?" he asked.
"Hearken to me, and no evil will befall you," replied the voice. "Soon
a great and grisly beast will appear. Leave your musket by the side of
the sentry-box, climb on the top, and the beast will not touch you."
As eleven o'clock struck La Rose heard a noise and hastened to climb
on the top of the sentry-box. Soon a hideous monster came out of the
chapel, breathing flames and crying: "Sentinel of my father, where art
thou, that I may devour thee?" As it uttered these words, it fell
against the musket, which it seized between its teeth. Then the
creature disappeared into the chapel and La Rose descended from his
perch. He found the musket broken into a thousand pieces.
The old King was delighted to learn that his sentinel had not been
devoured, for in order that his daughter should be delivered from her
enchantment as a beast it was necessary that the same sentinel should
mount guard for three consecutive nights between the hours of eleven
and midnight.
On the following night La Rose was pacing up and down on guard, when
the same voice addressed him, telling him on this occasion to place
his musket before the door of the chapel. The beast issued as before,
seized the musket, broke it into small pieces, and returned to the
chapel. On the third night the voice advised him to throw open the
door of the chapel, and when the beast came out to run into the
building himself, where he would see a leaden shrine, behind which he
could take refuge, and where he would find a small bottle, with the
contents of which he was to sprinkle the beast's head. With its usual
dreadful roar the monster issued from the chapel. La Rose leapt past
it and ran for the leaden shrine. It followed him with hideous howls,
and he only reached the protective sanctuary in time. Seizing the
little bottle which lay there, he fearlessly fronted the beast and
sprinkled its contents over its head. Instantly it changed into a
beautiful princess, whom La Rose escorted to her delighted parents. La
Rose and the princess were betrothed and duly married, and shortly
afterward the King gave up his throne to his son-in-law.
One day the new King was inspecting the regiment of dragoons to which
he had once belonged.
"Colonel," he said, "I miss a man from your regiment."
"It is true, sire," replied the Colonel. "It is an old fellow called
Père La Chique, whom we have left at the barracks playing his violin,
the old good-for-nothing!"
"I wish to see him," said the King.
Père La Chique was brought forward trembling, and the King, tearing
the epaulettes from the shoulders of the captain who had stolen his
wife, placed them on those of Père La Chique. He then gave orders for
a great fire to be lit, in which were burned the wicked captain and
the wife who had so soon forgotten her husband.
La Rose and his Queen lived happily ever afterward--which is rather
odd, is it not, when one thinks of the treatment meted out to his
resuscitated spouse? But if the lights in folk-tale are bright, the
shadows are correspondingly heavy, and rarely does justice go hand in
hand with mercy in legend!
_Norouas, the North-west Wind_
Brittany has an entire cycle of folk-tales dealing with the subject of
the winds--which, indeed, play an extraordinary part in Breton
folk-lore. The fishermen of the north coast frequently address the
winds as if they were living beings, hurling opprobrious epithets at
them if the direction in which they blow does not suit their purpose,
shaking their fists at them in a most menacing manner the while. The
following story, the only wind-tale it is possible to give here, well
illustrates this personalization of the winds by the Breton folk.
There was once a goodman and his wife who had a little field on which
they grew flax. One season their patch yielded a particularly fine
crop, and after it had been cut they laid it out to dry. But Norouas,
the North-west Wind, came along and with one sweep of his mighty wings
tossed it as high as the tree-tops, so that it fell into the sea and
was lost.
When the goodman saw what had happened he began to swear at the Wind,
and, taking his stick, he set out to follow and slay Norouas, who had
spoiled his flax. So hasty had he been in setting forth that he had
taken no food or money with him, and when evening came he arrived at
an inn hungry and penniless. He explained his plight to the hostess,
who gave him a morsel of bread and permitted him to sleep in a corner
of the stable. In the morning he asked the dame the way to the abode
of Norouas, and she conducted him to the foot of a mountain, where she
said the Winds dwelt.
The goodman climbed the mountain, and at the top met with Surouas, the
South-west Wind.
"Are you he whom they call Norouas?" he asked.
"No, I am Surouas," said the South-west Wind.
"Where then is that villain Norouas?" cried the goodman.
"Hush!" said Surouas, "do not speak so loud, goodman, for if he hears
you he will toss you into the air like a straw."
At that moment Norouas arrived, whistling wildly and vigorously.
"Ah, thief of a Norouas," cried the goodman, "it was you who stole my
beautiful crop of flax!" But the Wind took no notice of him.
Nevertheless he did not cease to cry: "Norouas, Norouas, give me back
my flax!"
"Hush, hush!" cried Norouas. "Here is a napkin that will perhaps make
you keep quiet."
"With my crop of flax," howled the goodman, "I could have made a
hundred napkins such as this. Norouas, give me back my flax!"
"Be silent, fellow," said Norouas. "This is no common napkin which I
give you. You have only to say, 'Napkin, unfold thyself,' to have the
best spread table in the world standing before you."
The goodman took the napkin with a grumble, descended the mountain,
and there, only half believing what Norouas had said, placed the
napkin before him, saying, "Napkin, unfold thyself." Immediately a
table appeared spread with a princely repast. The odour of cunningly
cooked dishes arose, and rare wines sparkled in glittering vessels.
After he had feasted the table vanished, and the goodman folded up his
napkin and went back to the inn where he had slept the night before.
"Well, did you get any satisfaction out of Norouas?" asked the
hostess.
"Indeed I did," replied the goodman, producing the napkin. "Behold
this: Napkin, unfold thyself!" and as he spoke the magic table appeared
before their eyes. The hostess, struck dumb with astonishment, at
once became covetous and resolved to have the napkin for herself. So
that night she placed the goodman in a handsome apartment where
there was a beautiful bed with a soft feather mattress, on which he
slept more soundly than ever he had done in his life. When he was fast
asleep the cunning hostess entered the room and stole the napkin,
leaving one of similar appearance in its place.
In the morning the goodman set his face homeward, and duly arrived
at his little farm. His wife eagerly asked him if Norouas had made
good the damage done to the flax, to which her husband replied
affirmatively and drew the substituted napkin from his pocket.
"Why," quoth the dame, "we could have made two hundred napkins like
this out of the flax that was destroyed."
"Ah, but," said the goodman, "this napkin is not the same as others. I
have only to say, 'Napkin, unfold thyself,' and a table covered with a
most splendid feast appears. Napkin, unfold thyself--unfold thyself,
dost thou hear?"
"You are an old fool, goodman," said his wife when nothing happened.
Her husband's jaw dropped and he seized his stick.
"I have been sold by that rascal Norouas," he cried. "Well, I shall
not spare him this time," and without more ado he rushed out of the
house and took the road to the home of the Winds.
He slept as before at the inn, and next morning climbed the mountain.
He began at once to call loudly upon Norouas, who was whistling up
aloft, demanding that he should return him his crop of flax.
"Be quiet, down there!" cried Norouas.
"I shall not be quiet!" screamed the goodman, brandishing his
bludgeon. "You have made matters worse by cheating me with that napkin
of yours!"
"Well, well, then," replied Norouas, "here is an ass; you have only to
say 'Ass, make me some gold,' and it will fall from his tail."
The goodman, eager to test the value of the new gift, at once led the
ass to the foot of the mountain and said: "Ass, make me some gold."
The ass shook his tail, and a _rouleau_ of gold pieces fell to the
ground. The goodman hastened to the inn, where, as before, he
displayed the phenomenon to the hostess, who that night went into the
stable and exchanged for the magical animal another similar in
appearance to it. On the evening of the following day the goodman
returned home and acquainted his wife with his good luck, but when he
charged the ass to make gold and nothing happened, she railed at him
once more for a fool, and in a towering passion he again set out to
slay Norouas. Arrived at the mountain for the third time, he called
loudly on the North-west Wind, and when he came heaped insults and
reproaches upon him.
"Softly," replied Norouas; "I am not to blame for your misfortune. You
must know that it is the hostess at the inn where you slept who is the
guilty party, for she stole your napkin and your ass. Take this
cudgel. When you say to it, 'Strike, cudgel,' it will at once attack
your enemies, and when you want it to stop you have only to cry, '_Ora
pro nobis_.'"
The goodman, eager to test the efficacy of the cudgel, at once said to
it, "Strike, cudgel," whereupon it commenced to belabour him so
soundly that he yelled, "_Ora pro nobis!_" when it ceased.
Returning to the inn in a very stormy mood, he loudly demanded the
return of his napkin and his ass, whereupon the hostess threatened to
fetch the gendarmes.
"Strike, cudgel!" cried the goodman, and the stick immediately set
about the hostess in such vigorous style that she cried to the goodman
to call it off and she would at once return his ass and his napkin.
When his property had been returned to him the goodman lost no time in
making his way homeward, where he rejoiced his wife by the sight of
the treasures he brought with him. He rapidly grew rich, and his
neighbours, becoming suspicious at the sight of so much wealth, had
him arrested and brought before a magistrate on a charge of wholesale
murder and robbery. He was sentenced to death, and on the day of his
execution he was about to mount the scaffold, when he begged as a last
request that his old cudgel might be brought him. The boon was
granted, and no sooner had the stick been given into his hands than he
cried, "Strike, cudgel!"
And the cudgel _did_ strike. It belaboured judge, gendarmes, and
spectators in such a manner that they fled howling from the scene. It
demolished the scaffold and cracked the hangman's crown. A great cry
for mercy arose. The goodman was instantly pardoned, and was never
further molested in the enjoyment of the treasures the North-west Wind
had given him as compensation for his crop of flax.
_The Foster-Brother_
The weird tale which follows has many parallels in world folk-lore, but
is localized at Tréguier, an old cathedral town in the Côtes-du-Nord at
the junction of the Jaudy and the Guindy, famous for the beautiful
windows of its celebrated church, founded by St Tugdual.
Gwennolaïk was the most noble and beautiful maiden in Tréguier, but,
alas! she was almost friendless, for at an early age she had lost her
father, her mother, and her two sisters, and her sole remaining
relative was her stepmother. Pitiful it was to see her standing at the
door of her manor, weeping as if her heart would break. But although
she had none of her own blood to cherish she still nursed the hope
that her foster-brother, who had journeyed abroad for some years,
might one day return, and often would she stand gazing fixedly over
the sea as if in search of the vessel that would bring him home. They
had been playmates, and although six years had passed since he had
left the country, the time had gone quickly, and when Gwennolaïk
thought of the young man it was as the boy who had shared the games
and little amusements of her childhood. From these day-dreams she
would be rudely awakened by the harsh voice of her stepmother calling
to her: "Come here, my girl, and attend to the animals. I don't feed
you for loafing and doing nothing."
Poor Gwennolaïk had a sad life with her stepmother. Noble as she was
she was yet forced by the vindictive old woman to rise in the early
hours of the morning, even two or three hours before daylight in
winter, to light the fire and sweep the house and perform other menial
work. One evening as she was breaking the ice in the well in order to
draw water for the household she was interrupted by a cavalier
returning to Nantes.
"Good e'en to you, maiden. Are you affianced to anyone?"
The girl did not reply, but hung her head.
"Come, don't be afraid," said the handsome horseman, "but answer my
question."
She looked at him almost fearfully. "Saving your grace, I have never
been affianced to anyone."
"Good," replied the cavalier. "Take this gold ring and say to your
stepmother that you are now affianced to a cavalier of Nantes who
has been in a great battle and who has lost his squire in the
combat; and you may also add that he has been wounded in the side
by a sword-stroke. In three weeks and three days, when my wound is
healed, I will return and will take you to my manor with joy and
festival."
The maiden returned to the house and looked at the ring. It was the
same as her foster-brother used to wear on his left hand!
Three weeks ran by, but the cavalier did not return. Then the
stepmother said one morning: "It is time, daughter, that you should
marry, and I may tell you that I have found you a husband after my own
heart."
"Saving your grace, good stepmother, I do not wish to marry anyone
except my foster-brother, who has returned. He has given me a golden
wedding-ring, and has promised to come for me within a few days."
"A fig for your gold ring," cried the malignant hag. "_Bon gré, mal
gré_, you shall marry Job the Witless, the stable boy."
"Marry Job! Oh, horror! I should die of grief! Alas, my mother, were
you but here now to protect me!"
"If you must howl, pray do so in the courtyard. You may make as many
grimaces as you please, but in three days you shall be married for all
that."
* * * * *
The old gravedigger slowly patrolled the road, his bell in his hand,
carrying the news of those who had died from village to village. In
his doleful whine he cried: "Pray for the soul of a noble cavalier, a
worthy gentleman of a good heart, who was mortally wounded in the side
by the stroke of a sword in the battle near Nantes. He is to be buried
to-day in the White Church."
At the marriage feast the bride was all in tears. All the guests,
young and old, wept with her, all except her stepmother. She was
conducted to the place of honour at supper-time, but she only drank a
sip of water and ate a morsel of bread. By and by the dancing
commenced, but when it was proposed that the bride should join in the
revels she was not to be found; she had, indeed, escaped from the
house, her hair flying in disorder, and where she had gone no one
knew.
All the lights were out at the manor, every one slept profoundly. The
poor young woman alone lay concealed in the garden in the throes of a
fever. She heard a footstep close by. "Who is there?" she asked
fearfully.
"It is I, Nola, your foster-brother."
"Ah, is it you? You are truly welcome, my dear brother," cried
Gwennolaïk, rising in rapture.
"Come with me," he whispered, and swinging her on to the crupper of
his white horse he plunged madly into the night.
"We fly fast," she cried. "We must have ridden a hundred leagues, I
think. Ah, but I am happy with thee! I will never leave thee more."
The owl hooted and night noises came to her ears.
"Ah, but thy horse is swift," said she, "and thine armour, how
brilliant it is! How happy I am to have found thee, my foster-brother!
But are we near thy manor?"
[Illustration: GWENNOLAÏK AND NOLA]
"We shall arrive there in good time, my sister," he replied.
"Thy heart is cold, thy hair is wet! Ah, how chill are thy hands!"
"Listen, my sister; do you not hear the noise of the gay musicians who
shall play at our wedding?" He had not finished speaking when his
horse threw itself back on its haunches all at once, trembling and
whinnying loudly.
Gwennolaïk looked around, and found herself on an island where a crowd
of people were dancing. Lads and lasses, they danced most bravely
beneath the green trees heavy with apples, and the music to which they
tripped was as that of heaven.
Suddenly the sun rose above the eastern mountains and flooded this
strange new world with rich light, and there Gwennolaïk found her
mother and her two sisters, and there was nothing in her heart but
beauty and joy.
On the following morning, as the sun rose, the young women carried the
body of Gwennolaïk and laid it in the tomb of her foster-brother in
the White Church.
In this ballad--for the original from which we take the tale is cast
in ballad form--we are once more in touch with the Celtic Otherworld.
It is a thousand pities that this interesting piece breaks off where
it does, thus failing to provide us with a fuller account of that most
elusive realm. The short glimpse we do get of it, however, reminds us
very much of the descriptions of it we possess in Irish lore. We have
also once more the phenomenon of the dead lover who comes to claim the
living bride, the midnight gallop, and other circumstances
characteristic of ballad literature. There was a tradition in Lower
Brittany, however, that no soul might be admitted to the other world
which had not first received burial, but here, of course, we must look
for Christian influence.