CONCARNEAU—PONT-AVEN—QUIMPERLÉ.
[Illustration]
Fourteen miles south-east of Quimper is Concarneau, another important
fishing station of Cornouaille. It is well to go thither by road, in
order to see the view of Quimper and the valley below, when a few miles
out of the town; a view which few travellers see in these days. The old
town of CONCARNEAU, with its fortifications and towers, called “Ville
Close,” which in its position somewhat resembles St. Malo, is approached
by a drawbridge from the mainland, and at high tide is surrounded by
water; it consists of one long irregular street with old houses shut in
by dark walls, through the loopholes of which we see the sea. The
nominal population of Concarneau is 5000, but in the Faubourg Ste.
Croix, where the fleet of fishing-boats come and go at every tide, the
population is upwards of 10,000. There is a fine modern aquarium, and
there are several interesting monuments in the immediate neighbourhood,
but there is nothing very remarkable in the situation of the town
itself, and it is certainly not a place for visitors to stay in; the
work of life at Concarneau is to catch and cure little fishes, and the
odours of the dead and the dying, the cured and the fried, pervade the
air. The hedges are made of the cuttings of sardine boxes.
[Illustration]
We happen to see Concarneau at its best on a fine summer’s morning, when
the wide quay of the Faubourg Ste. Croix, where the sketch is taken, is
alive with people, the majority on their way to church across the
drawbridge in the Ville Close. The little fleet of fishing-boats is
moored in a cluster at the quay; the nets are drying in the sun _en
masse_, and the cork floats hang from the masts in graceful festoons.
Everyone is in holiday attire, and seems bent upon going somewhere—to
church, for a drive in the country, or for an excursion out to sea. The
fishermen and workmen have for the most part disappeared into the
wine-shops, whence their hilarity overflows into the streets. The girls
employed in the sardine factories have put on their best dresses and
neatest shoes, and go in companies of six or eight together to the
church. Their smooth white caps and lappets glisten in the clear air
which blows lightly from the south-east, and the odours of sardines are
for the time forgotten. It is the time and the spot from which to take
away an impression of Concarneau, for its ordinary everyday aspect is
not romantic. The procession of people coming from church down the
old-fashioned street, shut in by walls and towers, makes a good picture.
The majority wear their proper costume, as sketched on opposite page; a
few only have fallen into temptation, and carry bonnets, trains, and
high heels across the _Place_.
[Illustration: _Concarnean Sunday morning_]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ON THE QUAY AT CONCARNEAU.]
There is a wide, open space in front of the Hôtel des Voyageurs, on the
quay Ste. Croix—where, at a window overlooking the quay, the _femme de
chambre_ is putting the last touches to her toilet—but behind it are
narrow, dirty streets, crowded cafés and estaminets, where the husbands
of these white-capped women have disappeared for the day. The majority
of the well-to-do inhabitants are _en promenade_ under the trees, and
nearly everyone is bent upon pleasure of some sort. Here is a party just
starting for a boating excursion across the bay, singing a Breton air to
the time of the rowers, which we can hear on the quay. The sketch gives
the exact picture: the heavy fishing-boat built for rough weather and
stormy seas; the rowers standing four abreast, the heavy oars plashing
in the sunlight, the boat down at the stern with its holiday load;
whilst the _gamin_ of Concarneau sits on the edge of the quay, over the
principal drain of the town, with a string to catch little fishes.
[Illustration]
The sketch on the quay when the tide is out, with people waiting for the
ferry-boat, gives the aspect looking seaward, on a quiet evening, as we
drive away towards PONT-AVEN.
To reach Pont-Aven, we ascend and descend some gently sloping hills, in
an easterly direction, for about eight miles. On the left hand of the
road, near the village of Trégunc; we pass one of the largest rocking
stones in Brittany, a block of granite 12 feet long by 9 feet, poised
upon a second slab half buried in the ground. Little children lie in
wait for travellers, and move this stone, which is known far and wide as
“La pierre aux maris trompés,” a stone by which husbands are said to
test the fidelity of their wives. All the heath-covered land on the way
to Pont-Aven is strewn with granite boulders; there is a celebrated
dolmen, or “table stone,” in the neighbourhood, and, near at hand, at
Rustéphan, are the picturesque remains of a fifteenth-century castle,
which may be reached through a wood by leaving the road at the village
of Nizon, two miles from Pont-Aven.
[Illustration]
At a point where the river Aven—breaking through its narrow channel,
dashing under bridges and turning numerous water-wheels—spreads out into
a broad estuary, is the little port of Pont-Aven, built four miles from
the sea. The majority of the houses are of granite, and sheltered under
wooded hills; the water rushes past flour-mills and under bridges with
perpetual noise, and a breeze stirs the poplar trees that line its banks
on the calmest day. The widest part of the village is the _Place_,
sketched (looking northwards) from the stone bridge which gives
Pont-Aven its name. A small community of farmers, millers, fishermen and
peasant-women, is its native population, supplemented in summer by a
considerable foreign element.
[Illustration]
Pont-Aven is a favourite spot for artists, and a _terra incognita_ to
the majority of travellers in Brittany. Here the art student, who has
spent the winter in the Quartier Latin in Paris, comes when the leaves
are green, and settles down for the summer to study undisturbed. How far
he succeeds depends upon himself; his surroundings are delightful, and
everything he needs is to be obtained in an easy way that will sound
romantic and impossible in 1879. Pont-Aven being set in a valley between
two thickly wooded hills, opening out southwards to the sea, the climate
is temperate and favourable to outdoor work. In the centre of the
village is a little triangular _Place_, and at the broad end, facing the
sun, is the principal inn, the Hôtel des Voyageurs, which, at the time
of writing, has an excellent hostess, who takes _pensionnaires_ for
about five francs a day, “tout compris,” and where the living is as good
and plentiful as can be desired. This popular hostelry is principally
supported by American artists, some of whom have lived here all through
the year; but many English and French painters have stayed at Pont-Aven,
and have left contributions in the shape of oil paintings on the panels
of the _salle à manger_.
We have mentioned the Hôtel des Voyageurs; but there are other inns;
there is the Hôtel du Lion d’Or, also on the _Place_, frequented
principally by French artists and travellers; and down by the bridge, a
quaint little auberge (with a signboard painted by one of the inmates),
the Pension Gloanec. This is the true Bohemian home at Pont-Aven, where
living is even more moderate than at the inns. Here the panels of the
rooms are also decorated with works of art, and here, in the evening,
and in the morning, seated round a table in the road, dressed in the
easy _bourgeois_ fashion of the country, may be seen artists whose names
we need not print, but many of whose works are known over the world. The
resources of these establishments are elastic, accommodation being
afforded, if necessary, for fifty or sixty _pensionnaires_, by providing
beds a few yards off in the village. The cost of living, board and
lodging, at the Pension Gloanec, including two good meals a day with
cider, is _sixty francs_ a month! When we add that the bedrooms are
clean and bright, especially those provided in the neighbouring
cottages, we have said enough about creature comforts, which are
popularly supposed to be unknown in Brittany. The materials for work and
opportunities for study are similar to those in Wales, with fewer
distractions than at Bettwys-y-Coed.
[Illustration: PONT-AVEN.]
At Pont-Aven the presiding genius at the Hôtel des Voyageurs is one
Mademoiselle Julia Guillou. At this little inn, as at the Hôtel du
Commerce at Douarnenez, the traveller need not be surprised to find that
the conversation at table is of the Paris _Salon_, to find bedrooms and
lofts turned into studios, and a pervading smell of oil paint. It is
said of Pont-Aven that it is “the only spot in Europe where Americans
are content to live all the year round”; but perhaps the kind face and
almost motherly care of her _pensionnaires_ by the portly young hostess,
Mademoiselle Julia Guillou, has something to do with their content.
The views in the neighbourhood of Pont-Aven are beautiful, and the cool
avenues of beeches and chestnut trees, a distinctive feature of the
country, extend for miles. From one of these avenues, on the high ground
leading to an ancient chapel, there is a view over the village where we
can trace the windings of the river far away towards the sea, and where
the white sails of the fishing-boats seem to pass between the trees. The
sides of the valleys are grey with rocks, and the fields slope steeply
down to the slate roofs of the cottages built by the streams, where
women, young and old, beautiful and the reverse, may be seen washing
amongst the stones.
[Illustration: RETURNING FROM LABOUR, PONT-AVEN.]
Pont-Aven has one advantage over other places in Brittany; its
inhabitants in their picturesque costume (which remains unaltered) have
learned that to sit as a model is a pleasant and lucrative profession,
and they do this for a small fee without hesitation or “mauvaise honte.”
This is a point of great importance to the artist, and one which some
may be glad to learn through these pages. The peasants, both men and
women, are glad to sit for a franc for the greater part of a day; it is
only at harvest time, when field labourers are scarce, that the demand
may be greater than the supply. and recruits have to be found in the
neighbouring fishing villages. Once or twice a week in the summer, a
beauty comes over from Concarneau in a cart, her face radiant in the
sunshine, the white lappets of her cap flying in the wind. Add to these
opportunities for the study of peasant life and costume the variety of
scenery, and the brightness and warmth of colour infused into everything
under a more southern sun than England, and it will be seen that there
are advantages here not to be overlooked by the painter.
[Illustration]
The picturesque town of QUIMPERLÉ on the rivers Ellé and Isole, from
which so many English travellers have been scared, in years gone by, by
Murray’s laconic admonition, “No good inn,” is a most pleasant and
comfortable resting-place. It is approached on a high level when coming
by railway from Quimper, the road from the station winding round the
hills down to the _Place_, where there is the comfortable Hôtel des
Voyageurs. On arriving at Quimperlé, the aspect of the people is more
cosmopolitan, for we are approaching the borders of the province of
Morbihan, and are on the highway between Nantes and Brest.
[Illustration: at Quimperlé Station]
The people at the station are not numerous, and they are nearly all
third-class travellers. The quiet, almost taciturn company consists of a
tourist, a _sergent de ville_, a commercial man of Quimperlé, the same
old woman that we meet everywhere on our travels, in the comfortable
dark hood and cape of the country, and a peasant-woman taking home her
sack of meal, sketched on the opposite page.
Quimperlé contains about 6500 inhabitants, principally occupied in
agriculture. It is surrounded by hills covered with orchards and gardens
shut in by high walls; an old and sleepy place, full of memories of the
past, and with, apparently, little ambition for the future. There is an
ancient abbey church, built in the eleventh century, on the plan of the
Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem; in the crypt is the tomb of St. Gurloës,
one of the early abbots of Quimperlé. The large grey-roofed building on
the _Place_ adjoining this church, now used as the Mairie, was formerly
a convent of Benedictine nuns; and other buildings, such as the old inn,
the Lion d’Or, were originally used by the abbots of St. Croix.
[Illustration]
But Quimperlé, in spite of its railway, is a town where grass grows
between the paving-stones of its streets; a place which owes much of its
attraction to its picturesque site and its ancient buildings, to its
market-days, its weddings and fêtes. In the lower town there are some
old narrow streets, with most picturesque wooden gables, and there is
one dilapidated square, called “the Place of Revolution,” where there
would seem little left to destroy.
[Illustration]
A painter might well make Quimperlé a centre of operations, for its
precincts are little known; the gardens shine with laden fruit-trees,
and the hills are rich in colour until late in autumn; and in the
evening there is no better place for rest than under the trees on the
Place Nationale. Here the people pass to and fro, as in the sketch on
the opposite page; there are more women than men to be seen, for the
latter are resting from their labours, in the cafés. Beyond, and high
above this group, are the houses of the old town, surmounted by the two
square Gothic towers, with spires covered with lichen, of the church of
St. Michel. Under the trees near the river are women selling sardines
and fruit. The position of the bridge over the Ellé is indicated by the
man leaning over the stone parapet. The man with the cart has just come
in with wood for winter fires.
[Illustration: ON THE PLACE AT QUIMPERLÉ.]
The great attraction to Quimperlé is in the country round; in the beauty
of the woods and the windings of the streams. In this neighbourhood the
artist and the angler may settle down together and spend the summer
months delightfully.
[Illustration: A BIG LOAD.]
We said that Quimperlé, a town with a railway station, on the great
highway between Nantes and Brest, owes most of its life and picturesque
attraction to women, weddings, fêtes, and flowers. Let us picture a
prominent personage at the old Hôtel du Lion d’Or. She had a beautiful
name, _Augustine_, pronounced with enviable accuracy by all the
household. She hovered about us like a fairy, attending to our wants in
the most delicate way; to outward seeming a ministering angel with pure
white wings, but, in truth, a drudge, a methodical housewife, massive,
and hard to the touch. She did the work of three Parisian _garçons_, and
walked upstairs unaided with portmanteaus which it would require two men
to lift, anywhere out of Brittany. She slept in a box in the kitchen,
and dressed “somehow” in five minutes. She ate what was left,
contentedly, at the end of the day, and rose at sunrise to do the
laborious work of the house; helping also at harvest-time in the fields.
She had the sweetest of smiles (when she liked), an unconquerable habit
of taking snuff, and a murderous way of killing fowls in the early
morning which we shall not easily forget.
How it comes to pass that this girl of nineteen occupies such an
important position in the household is one of those things which are
peculiar to Brittany. The strong individuality, industry, and force of
character of the women make themselves felt wherever we go. Whilst the
men slumber and smoke, the women are building little fortunes or
propping up old ones. All through the land, in the houses, in the
factories, and in the fields, the strong, firm hand and arm of a woman
_does the work_.
[Illustration: AUGUSTINE.]
The pedestrian or sportsman, in his wanderings through Brittany, will,
if he knows the country, seek, at the end of a long day, the country
_auberge_ where a “household fairy” presides. The land is full of
legends and tales of gnomes and witches, but the reality is a
white-capped figure, that welcomes the traveller at the inn door the
modern representative of “mine host.” Her brightness and attraction, and
at the same time her whole armour and coat of mail, are her stiffly
starched cap, epaulets, and apron of spotless white. She presides at the
fêtes and weddings which are celebrated at the inns, and joins in the
frolics at the end of the day, dancing with the rest up and down the
street, and submitting with modest but hearty goodwill to some rather
demonstrative tokens of esteem. “How is it that these widespread collars
are never crumpled?” some one asks. “Oh, we just turn them round and
throw them over the shoulder for a minute!” is the quick answer.
Let us refer to our notebook to see how one of these weddings is managed
in Quimperlé in 1878. It is just after harvest, and the time for rest
and festivity in many a village round. Coats and gowns that have been
laid by for months are brought out, and many an antique-shaped garment
sees the light for the first time for a year. Two or three weddings are
arranged for the same day, and at early morning all meet at Quimperlé.
The girls come on foot, dressed in their local costumes, excepting a
little innovation of finery here and there; the “boys,” for they are
little more in age, have modernised themselves, and wear a clumsy
imitation of the conventional suit of black, being especially proud of
Parisian hats. But excepting in the matter of costume, they do as their
forefathers did; they spend the day in the streets of Quimperlé,
parading arm-in-arm with their brides, stopping to take, and to give,
refreshment at every inn-door and at the homes of all their friends. We
meet them early in the morning crossing the principal square; they have
registered their marriages, and have taken the sacrament in the church
of St. Michel, in the upper town, and for the rest of the long summer
day and half into the night they dance the “De Rober” up and down the
streets, hand in hand together, to the music of the bag-pipe and the
flageolet.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Evening: near Quimperlé._]