A BRETON WEDDING.
Tankeru was both blacksmith and wheelwright. After having long resided
at Vannes with his mother and daughter, he moved with them and settled
down in an isolated house situated about a league outside of Mezlean in
a hollow, at the crossing of two roads one of which skirted the forest
of Mezlean. Several reasons had combined to determine Tankeru's choice
of the lonesome locality. The first was that the house stood at the foot
of two bluffs which rose over a granite soil, rough, rocky and uneven,
where the horses and oxen that drew the heavy wagons over the road could
not choose but lose some nails of their shoes as they climbed the steep
ascent; the blacksmith would be on the spot ready to repair the damage.
In the second place, Tankeru counted upon indulging in the hunt in the
forest of Mezlean, a sport to which he was passionately addicted. In the
teeth of all the punishments decreed against illegal hunting--the
prison, the whipping post, the galley, even the gallows--Tankeru gave a
loose to his controlling passion in full security of conscience,
claiming that the wandering beasts of the forests belonged to the best
marksman, and that, moreover, it was a good office to keep down the
number of wild beasts. Game belongs to all--to the villein as to the
nobleman.
On this day there was great animation in Tankeru's home. His smithy and
wheelwright shop were full of relatives, friends and vassals of the
neighborhood--a pale and haggard crowd, pinched by privation, all
dressed in their best rags, and, for a moment, oblivious of their misery
as they came to rejoice over the wedding of Tina and Nominoe. They
emptied the pots of cider, ate the bacon from the salt-tub, and the
cakes of black bread. The daughters and wives of the invited guests,
congregated in the upstairs room of the house, were lending a hand in
the last touches of the bride's toilet. Tankeru was a man of about forty
years of age, of an open and resolute face, tall of stature, and endowed
with an athletic strength that often won for him the prize in the
wrestling matches at the rustic festivals. The host was fulfilling at
his best the duties of hospitality.
"Friends," said the blacksmith, "let us empty the barrel, the salt-tub
and the bread-bin. Whatever is eaten and drunk escapes the clutches of
the King's men, the seigneurs and the clergy!" And Tankeru added
sardonically: "Fire and flames! The devil take the armed troopers and
the tonsured gentry! Comrades, we are honest folks, may Satan take the
Pope!"
"If we are honest folks, Tankeru, we are also poor folks!" replied a
white-haired peasant. "Very poor folks! The royal taxes, the seigniorial
imposts, the tithes of the church are ever on the increase--and still I
hear rumors of fresh taxes. Why, they took almost everything away from
us. If they take still more, what will be left to us?"
"Why, our skin will be left to us--and who knows but they may want that
also to turn it into hose for themselves!" put in Tankeru. "Listen, by
force of forging, shoeing, mending wagons and saving from my daily bread
for twenty years and more, I laid by a little sum for my daughter's
dower. In less than twenty months three-fourths of the sum has passed
into the bag of the tax collectors. Fire and flames! We are honest
folks! Let us empty the barrel, the salt-tub and the bread-bin! What has
been drunk and eaten is not seized! The devil take the tonsured
fraternity and the troopers!"
"Tankeru, you are always saying--'We are honest folks,'" again put in
the old peasant. "You mean by that, I suppose, that we are a lot of
fools to allow ourselves to be plucked to the quick. But what would you
have us do, otherwise than repeat with you--'The devil take the troopers
and the tonsured fraternity!'"
Tankeru's eyes fell upon a yoke used for oxen. Its nails had fallen out,
and it stood against the wall. He took it up, showed it to the vassals,
broke it over his knees, and throwing the pieces at his feet said: "The
devil take the tonsured fraternity and the troopers! That's what's to be
done!"
These short words, together with the energetic expression of the
blacksmith's countenance, produced upon the vassals an instantaneous
effect. They all rose simultaneously, clenched their fists
threateningly, and some of them stamped angrily with their heels upon
the fragments of the yoke that Tankeru had broken. Desirous that his
guests remain under the sway of the thoughts that the incident had
awakened in their minds, Tankeru said to them:
"I am going upstairs to see whether my daughter is ready with her
toilet. It will not be long before her bridegroom will be here."
Tina, the betrothed of Nominoe, surrounded with her friends and
relatives who joined her grandmother in prinking up the girl, was seated
in their midst in the old dame's bedroom. It would be hard to depict to
oneself a more charming and dainty girl than "Little Tina," as she was
commonly called by her companions. Her blonde hair shone like gold in
the sun; her eyes, bluer than the cornflower, reflected the sweetness of
her angelic disposition. Everything breathed gladness around her, and
yet her delicate features, full of candor and grace, were expressive of
profound sadness. Alas! Her moist eyes, piercing the glass in the leaden
frame of the narrow window in the room, wandered far away, vainly
expecting for a long time to see the nuptial procession at the head of
which her betrothed was to appear. Tina's friends exchanged a few words
in a low voice, while the grandmother held in her hands the nuptial
ribbons--white, signifying the innocence of the bride; red, her beauty;
and black, her sorrow at leaving her family. As the grandmother was
about to tie the symbolic bunting on Tina's head, the girl emerged from
her revery, took the knot of ribbons in her hand, gazed upon it in
silence, and pointing with her finger to the black, said with a
heartrending sigh:
"Grandma, this should be the only color of my nuptial ribbons--black,
like the wings of a crow."
"Still harping on the memory of that presage of evil!" said the
grandmother in a voice of affectionate reproach. "To entertain such sad
thoughts on such a beautiful day is to offend God."
"It is to listen to God, grandma! In His goodness He sends us omens in
order to prepare us for misfortune," answered Tina pensively. "Early
this morning I stood at the window. The sun had hardly risen, but
already my eyes wandered in the direction of Mezlean. From that quarter
I saw flying towards me, with wings outstretched--a crow. He flew over
my head and circled over our house emitting his lugubrious screech. A
little turtle dove, nestled among the leaves of the large apple tree
that shades our well, was at the time cooing its song of love and
tenderness. The moment she heard the cawing of the crow she hid herself
from sight among the foliage. The crow detected and pounced down upon
her. In her attempt to escape she fluttered about, and happening to
stumble near the edge of the well, fell in and was drowned," Tina mused
aloud to herself. "God sends us omens to prepare us for misfortune!
Black should be the only color of my nuptial ribbons, grandma! Only
black! Nominoe does not come. The hour has passed--he will not come."
The belief in omens was so general in Brittany that, however singular or
unreasonable in appearance, Tina's persistency in her presentiments
impressed her companions. Nevertheless, Janik, the dearest of her
friends, sought to reassure the bride and said, forcing a smile upon her
own lips:
"That you should take the sweet little turtle dove to personify
yourself, I agree to, little Tina; but to see your betrothed, Nominoe,
so handsome, so good and so enamoured a youth--aye, to see him in that
ugly and wicked crow--fie, little Tina, fie! How can such a thought
occur to you!"
"Janik is right," put in the grandmother. "Your cousin has loved you
since your childhood. You have been long betrothed. As late as yesterday
he was here. Did he not say, as he was taking leave: 'Till to-morrow, my
sweet Tina. Fools are they who are often seen to look for happiness at a
distance when they can have it near at hand. Happiness to me consists in
joining my fate to yours. Till to-morrow, my sweet Tina!' And after such
words, you foolish child, and simply on account of a delay of perhaps an
hour in the arrival of the nuptial procession, you begin to have evil
dreams and to talk to us of black ribbons, crows and birds of death!
Come, cast off such mournful thoughts!"
"In the crow I see bad luck, grandma," persisted Tina, more and more
absorbed in her sad presentiments, and her eyes ever resting on the
desert road of Mezlean. "I see in the crow the bad luck that threatens,
and perhaps is to punish me."
"Punish you!" replied the grandmother no less surprised than the
bride's companions. "What harm have you ever done to anybody, dear,
innocent creature, as pure and innocent as a dove?"
"I had the vanity and pride of imagining myself beloved of Nominoe.
Alas! I know it; I am his own cousin; often did we sleep together, as
children, in the same cradle; but I am only a poor, ignorant girl, while
Nominoe is clever and cultured like a clerk. He has traveled and seen
distant countries. He and my uncle Salaun Lebrenn are the best mariners
of Vannes. They own their own vessel. They are rich, compared to my
father, who only has his forge and a few gold coins that he deprived
himself of for my sake." Tina paused and then proceeded in a tone of
bitter self-reproach: "Oh, what I have just said is not right--it is a
wrong to Nominoe. He desert me out of avarice! No! no! His heart is too
generous for that. Seeing how much I loved him, he took pity upon me. He
feared to grieve me if he did not love me. He is so good! Yes, last
night, as he thought of his coming here to-day to take me for his wife,
he must have realized that he loved me only out of compassion. That is
the reason of his absence!"
"Nominoe to put such an affront upon you! upon your father! upon your
family!" cried the grandmother interrupting Tina. "My child, you are
losing your senses! What nonsense, to imagine such cruel things simply
because your bridegroom is a little late in coming! Return to your
senses!"
"Why," remarked Janik, "I can easily guess the reason of his delay. It
must be the fault of the Baz-valan. That Paskou the Long, the longest
and most talkative of all tailors that I have ever seen, must have had
the notion of composing a new song in honor of your wedding, and he is
trying to commit it to memory. That is the reason of the delay. But they
must now be on the way."
Suddenly Tina, who, unmindful of the consoling words with which her
grandmother and friends strove to allay her fears, did not remove her
fixed and moist eyes from the deserted Mezlean road--suddenly Tina
seemed electrified; she rose, uttered a slight cry of joy, and,
transfigured and radiant, stretched out both her arms towards an object
in the distance. The shock of joy, the sudden revulsion from despair,
caused her to turn pale and stagger. She leaned upon her grandmother,
embraced her effusively, and muttered in a voice that gladness seemed to
choke: "Nominoe is coming! There he is now! There he comes!"
The bride's friends crowded to the window. At a distance they saw the
front ranks of the nuptial procession descending the slope of the
highway, preceded by the Baz-valan, who bestrode his little white horse
and held aloft the sprig of broom in blossom. Tankeru entered at that
moment, announcing gaily:
"Attention! There comes the procession! Are you ready, my little
daughter? What! Your nuptial ribbons are not yet tied in your hair!"
Only at that moment did the blacksmith notice the pallor of Tina's face,
and the traces of recent tears in her eyes. Turning to the grandmother,
uneasy and even alarmed, he inquired: "Mother! What has happened? The
girl has been weeping. She weeps--and on such a day as this! What is the
cause of her grief?"
"Good father!" answered Tina to whose plump and chaste cheeks the roses
were rapidly returning, "I was crazy! A sad presage oppressed me this
morning, despite myself. The procession was delayed so long in coming--I
thought Nominoe had deserted me!"
"Fire and flames!" cried the blacksmith, his face assuming an ominous
appearance. "Such an outrage!" But immediately interrupting himself he
addressed his daughter in a tone of affectionate reproof: "It is you,
dear child, who, surely without intending it, wronged Nominoe and his
father, the husband of your mother's sister, in believing them capable
of breaking faith."
"Friend Tankeru, they are waiting for you!" said one of the peasants,
stepping into the room. "The Baz-valan has alighted. He has knocked
twice at the house door. Cousin Madok, in his capacity of 'Brotaer,' is
going to answer the summons of Paskou the Long. The one is as pert as
the other. The answer will match the demand."
"Quick, quick, little Tina!" said the grandmother. "Let me adjust the
ribbons in your hair. The Brotaer will call for you in a minute. Come!
Make haste! We must be ready when called!"
"Oh! Grandma," said Tina, bending to her grandmother her virginal
forehead, "the Brotaer will not have to call me twice!" And radiant with
joy and pink with agitation, she raised to heaven her limpid eyes, that
a moment before were veiled in sadness, but now shone sweetly, like a
cornflower glistening in the morning dew.
When the nuptial procession was near the house of the bride it stopped.
The guests alighted from their rustic wagons and formed a circle. Paskou
the Long leaped to the ground, entrusted his mount to one of his
apprentices who officiated as a page, and holding in his hand his fresh
sprig of broom, and swaying his long body with the conscious importance
of a personage upon whom all eyes are centered, the Baz-valan stepped
alone to the house door, which was kept closed, and knocked. The door
opened; a relative of Tankeru, a miller named Madok, a pert and jolly
fellow, appeared at the threshold. He was to fill the office of
"Brotaer," or god-father to the bride, and meet and answer the
Baz-valan, the bridegroom's messenger. Paskou the Long began his
oration, modulating his voice to a slow rythm, that imparted to his
sentences the sound of a measured recitative:
"In the name of the Lord God--peace to this house, and blessings upon
its roof-tree--and greater bliss than I enjoy on earth."
"What is the matter with you, friend?" mischievously interrupted Madok
the Brotaer. "Why should not your heart be glad--the heart of one who
causes others to laugh so much--to laugh at your long neck and your long
legs, and your long arms! Paskou the Long, my friend, what is the grief
that you nurse at your heart?"
"Tut! Tut! Tut! my friend Madok," the Baz-valan replied, "very long are
my legs; still, they do not prevent the King's men from catching me,
from grabbing me by the neck and saying: 'Pay! pay! pay!--pay over
again! pay all the time!' Very long are my arms, but the arms of the
bailiff of our seigneur, and of the tithes-collector of the curate are
longer still! They are so long that they can reach down to the very
bottom of my pockets, even if they were as bottomless as the wells of
Melusine! Quite long is my neck--and yet, Monseigneur the Governor of
Brittany could stretch it out still longer--aye, my poor long neck! That
is the reason, my friend, why I am not among the most gladsome of
earth."
"Oh! how true is the proverb--how squarely the proverb hits the nail
upon the head when it says: It takes nine tailors to make one man. The
proverb is applicable to you," replied Madok.
"It takes just as many asses to make one miller, friend Brotaer--or, I
should rather say, Seigneur Windmill!" returned Paskou the Long. "Go to,
and grind your grain!"
"Well answered, Seigneur of the Needle and Thread!" said Madok. "And
yet, I repeat it--what a poor, inconsequential one-ninth of a man you
are! There you are, whimpering and all in a fright as you speak of
monseigneur, of monseigneur our Governor. Aye, your long face frowns and
becomes still longer. And yet, just tell me, when you start to speak of
a good fat pig, good and fat, a pig with such a belly that he can hardly
move his body, so club-cheeked that one can no longer see his little
peepers, hidden under three folds of fat--tell me, is it not true that
then your long face grows longer still--so much do you rejoice, so
brimful of admiration are you when you speak of such a fat and
incomparable pig? How comes it, then, my friend, that you do not
likewise rejoice when you speak of monseigneur--of monseigneur our
Governor? Answer my question."
The wedding guests received with loud outbursts of laughter the allusion
of Madok the miller to the enormous obesity of Monseigneur the Duke of
Chaulnes, the Governor of Brittany, whom the people nicknamed the Fat
Pig, and whom all classes execrated on account of his severity, his
haughtiness and his merciless exactions. Paskou the Long waited until
the hilarity of the audience subsided, and then proceeded:
"Certes, friend Brotaer, I rejoice greatly at the thought of a big and
honest pig--provided his profitable body is intended for the salt-tub.
But, Lord, when I think of a huge boar, wicked and unprofitable, who
fattens, pastures and wallows upon and in my own meager pittance, in
return for which the gormandizer grunts, steps upon my feet, turns me
black and blue butting against me, and bites me--is it at all
astonishing if then my long face should grow still longer and look sad?
But that is not the cause of my grief."
"What may be the cause of your grief? Speak! Let me know it, friend
Baz-valan," demanded the Brotaer.
Instead of answering the Brotaer's question, Paskou the Long replied: "I
had in my dovecote a beautiful pigeon--its plumage turned to all
imaginable colors. I also had a little white dove, the constant love of
my handsome pigeon. But, alas! my dove flew away--she flew away from my
dovecote. Did you, perhaps, see her around here?"
"No, my friend; I have not seen your dove. I do not care for such small
birds. A fine hen suits me better."
"But some neighbors informed me that she alighted in your yard. I
entreat you, friend, go in and inquire after my little dove. If I do not
find her, I assure you my poor pigeon will die of sadness in my
dovecote."
"In order to satisfy you, friend, I shall inquire after your dove."
Saying these words, the Brotaer went back into the bride's house, closed
the door after him, and reopened it after a short interval holding in
his hand and leading out a little girl of about five years. He presented
her to the Baz-valan and said:
"I went into my yard. I did not see your dove there, but I saw a large
number of fresh buds of eglantine. Here," pointing to the child, "is one
of them. She will gladden the eyes of your pigeon, and he will feel
consoled for his loss. I make you a present of the little bud, in the
place of your dove."
The Baz-valan embraced the child and answered: "Fresh and charming is
the little bud--but my pigeon is too sad--too sad is he over the loss of
his dove--too sad to forget her at the sight of a little flower, however
pretty it be. Go in again, my friend, and look and see if perhaps my
dove did not fly into your garret."
"Be satisfied--but as true as every time that he sets out--the good old
mother of the ferocious Marquis of Guerrand--rings, with tears and
shudderings--the alarm bell of the castle--to warn the vassals of the
Marquis to be on their guard against her merciless son--just so stubborn
are you in the search of your dove--as stubborn as the taxcollectors in
pursuit of the poor folks."
With these words Madok the Brotaer re-entered the house of the bride,
and speedily reappeared, leading by the hand a buxom matron of about
thirty years of age, saying: "I climbed into my garret. The tithes, the
taxes and the imposts extorted from us by the King, the castle and the
curate, leave nothing for us to glean but wisps after the harvest.
Nevertheless, in my garret did I find, escaped by accident from the
rapacity of the tax-gatherers, this beautiful ripe ear of tasteful and
golden wheat," and he pointed to the matron. "This beautiful ear of
wheat will console your pigeon, and he will cease to pine for his dove.
I give you my ripe ear of wheat to replace your dove. Take it with you."
"However tasteful, however golden they be, the grains of that beautiful
ripe ear will never tempt my pigeon. Alas, with the loss of his little
white dove he lost the taste for both eating and drinking. Friend,
friend, I entreat you, go down into your cellar. See if, perchance, my
white dove did not seek refuge there. Search in all the corners of your
cellar, you may find my white dove there."
"Be at your ease, but, by heaven! the men of the royal fisc, when they
pounce upon our poor houses, in pursuit of taxes and imposts, even they
are not skilful as you in rummaging a dwelling from the cellar to the
garret. I shall go look again, and see whether, by accident, your dove
has fled into my cellar."
For a third time Madok the Brotaer re-entered the bride's house, whence
he soon again emerged holding by the hand a very old and venerable
looking woman, and said: "Into my cellar I went; I did not see your dove
there. But I did find a good old fruit," pointing to the old
grandmother, "that was gathered long, very long ago. Despite its
wrinkles, however, it has preserved its taste and flavor. Good fruit
gains with time. I offer it to you for your pigeon."
"Certes, my friend, the wrinkles of good fruit do far from hurt its
quality. Always nourishing and wholesome, such fruit ever seems more
precious, and sweeter, when, winter having come, the summer fruits are
gone. But, alas! my pigeon cares not either for your good fruit, or for
your beautiful ear of ripe wheat, or for your fresh bud of eglantine.
Go, if you please, and sow your pearls before monseigneur our Governor.
What my pigeon wants is his own white dove. She is here; I know she is.
You only refuse to return her to me. I shall go in and look for her
myself. I must have my dear white dove, and I shall have her."
"Friend, I shall save you the trouble. Come with me, Baz-valan, come.
Your little dove is not lost. I kept her safe myself, for you. I kept
her in an ivory cage, a cage with bars of gold and silver. Yes, your
dove is here. She is here, gentle, beautiful, and decked quite gaily.
Your handsome pigeon need not die."
Saying this, the Brotaer opened the house door to the Baz-valan. The
latter beckoned to Nominoe to alight from his mount, took him by the
hand, and led him into the house of his bride, followed by his relatives
and friends. Tina soon appeared, led by the Brotaer and accompanied by
her father and grandmother. The first looks of the young girl were for
Nominoe; and he, seeing her so charming, above all so radiant with
happiness, no longer regretted having overpowered his reluctance to
contract the marriage. He thought to himself: "My father was right--my
refusal would have been death to her!" Beside Nominoe stood Salaun and
his brother Gildas Lebrenn, a vassal of the Count of Plouernel on the
farm of Karnak. The more distant relatives and friends ranked themselves
along the wall of the blacksmith's shop, leaving an empty space in the
middle in which the bride and bridegroom were placed by the Baz-valan
and the Brotaer. The faces of these two officials looked no less roguish
than jovial, yet serious and solemn. The touching expression on the face
of Paskou the Long caused his ridiculous thinness to be for a moment
lost sight of. Tankeru and Salaun each delivered a silver ring to the
Baz-valan, which he put upon the fingers of Nominoe and Tina. After this
ceremony the Brotaer said to them:
"On your knees, my children!"
The couple knelt down upon the bare floor, and the Brotaer proceeded:
"Exchange the rings given to you by the Baz-valan, in token of your
indissoluble alliance."
The bride and bridegroom exchanged rings, and the Brotaer added in a
grave voice:
"Nominoe Lebrenn, Tina Tankeru, do you swear to be joined on earth, the
one to the other as your finger to your ring?"
"Oh, I swear!" answered Tina with an expression of celestial bliss, and
she approached to her lips the ring which her bridegroom had temporarily
carried on his finger.
"I swear!" responded Nominoe.
At the moment of binding his life to his cousin's, Nominoe was
constrained to wrestle for a last time with his irresolution. Before
pronouncing the irrevocable oath he was silent for an instant. The
interval was imperceptible to all except Salaun Lebrenn. The father of
the bridegroom realized that, at that solemn moment, his son underwent a
supreme struggle with himself. His heart was gripped with pain.
"Tina Tankeru, Nominoe Lebrenn," resumed the Brotaer, "be you two for
evermore united, as the ring is to the finger. We live in evil days,
oppressed and harassed as we are by the men of the King, the seigneurs
and the clergy. Lean upon each other in your journey through these sad
times. May your children see better days. And now, let us proceed to the
temple. The Lord will bless those whom man has united. Let us all
proceed."
The ceremony being over, Paskou the Long took Nominoe's horse by the
bridle and led the animal to the door of the house. A lighter saddle,
provided behind the principal one, enabled the husband to take his wife
on the crupper of his mount. The two were considered married with the
exchange of rings. Nominoe leaped upon his horse. The Brotaer, in the
exercise of his office, raised Tina, light and supple as a child, in his
arms, and placed her behind her husband. The nuptial procession again
put itself in motion, now back to Mezlean, whither it was preceded by a
band of Armorican bag-pipers, playing lustily. Behind them came Paskou
the Long, cantering on his little white horse, and Madok the miller
astride of his ass. They were followed by Nominoe with little Tina
behind him--happy--Oh, as happy as one may think, at having her arms
around the waist of her well-beloved husband. Salaun Lebrenn and Tankeru
rode behind the married couple upon hired horses, while Gildas Lebrenn,
his wife, and all the other relatives and friends were seated in wagons
drawn by heavy Breton oxen. A large crowd of men, women and children on
foot brought up the rear.