STE. ANNE D’AURAY—CARNAC—LOCMARIAKER.
[Illustration]
On the 24th of July we take up our quarters at the comfortable Hôtel
Pavillon d’en Haut, at Auray. To-morrow is the great day of the Pardon
of Ste. Anne, the occasion of the annual pilgrimage to the miraculous
well, whither from far and near, on foot and on horseback, in carts and
other strange road conveyances, and by excursion trains, come pilgrims
to the shrine of Ste. Anne. Like the great annual gatherings at Guingamp
and at Ste. Anne la Palue, of which we have spoken, the Pardon of Ste.
Anne attracts a strange medley of people, and thus it is that the
ordinarily quiet little town of Auray, situated four miles from the
shrine, is crowded to overflowing.
The town of Auray, which contains about 5000 inhabitants, is finely
situated above the river which bears its name. It was formerly a port of
commercial importance, but its trade has drifted to Vannes and L’Orient,
and it is best known to travellers as a starting-point for visiting the
fields of Carnac and Locmariaker; also as a pleasant and healthy place
of residence, where fishing and shooting can be obtained. There are no
objects of great antiquity to be seen at Auray itself, its historic
castle has disappeared, but there is much to interest the traveller in
the old streets with timbered houses, leading down to the river.
On a wide _Place_ a few yards off, called the Belvédère, is a column to
ascend to see the view, looking northward and eastward, in the direction
of Vannes, over a wide stretch of cultivated land, pastures, and woods,
dotted with white houses and church spires, one of which is Ste. Anne
d’Auray. Immediately beneath is a rocky, precipitous path down to the
river, with small vessels loading and unloading, and the grey roofs of
toy-like houses and warehouses on the quay. A sudden cloud of smoke,
which curls through the gorse and bushes which conceal the greater part
of the river from view, comes from a little steamer which has arrived
from Belle-Île with the evening tide, and has brought another crowd of
pilgrims for Ste. Anne. All is quiet and beautiful from this
vantage-ground; the air is soft, and slowly waves the tree-tops in the
avenue which skirts the Belvédère on its southern side; there is nothing
to indicate the tumult of to-morrow.
[Illustration]
The morning of the 25th of July is bright, and the gilt statue of Ste.
Anne glitters above the trees. If at this moment we could look down from
the spire of its church, upon the country round, we should see on every
road, and across the open land, little dark specks which are pilgrims
all tending one way—to the shrine. They have been coming all through the
night, camping in the fields and sleeping at the roadside. The broad
Roman road from Vannes is covered with carts and carriages, and more
people are arriving by the river.
[Illustration: EVENING ON THE BELVÉDÈRE, AURAY.]
The crowd that has assembled in the open square near the church of Ste.
Anne at six in the morning numbers several thousands, and increases
every hour. They are pilgrims of every grade, from the marquis and his
family, who have driven from Vannes the evening before, and stay
comfortably at the large hotel, to the solitary herdsman in goatskin
coat and wooden shoes stuffed with straw, who has walked for two days
and nights from his home in the Montagnes Noires. But they have come on
the same errand, and will stand side by side before an altar in one of
the side chapels, and burn their candles together. They both believe, or
are taught to believe, in a legend that some time in the seventeenth
century a saint appeared to one Nicolazic, who rented a farm near this
spot, and commanded him to dig in a field for her image, and to erect a
chapel to her memory. They both have heard of the miraculous cures at
the well of Ste. Anne, and believe that no household can prosper, no
ships are safe at sea, no cattle or crops can thrive, unless once a
year, at least, they come to burn candles to Ste. Anne; and they both
have wife, mother, or sister christened _Anne_, the name in fact of
nearly every child we see to-day.
[Illustration]
The miraculous well of Ste. Anne is in a large inclosure at the western
end of which is the Scala Santa, a small, raised chapel, open to the air
and covered by a cupola; a modern wooden erection about twenty feet from
the ground, approached on either side by a covered flight of steps. It
is from this platform that the opening ceremony of the Pardon takes
place in the afternoon of the 25th of July, when after a procession
round the town with a brass band and banners, the bishop of Vannes, or
other dignitary, addresses the people in the open square. The procession
is a long one, gay with the green-and-gold-embroidered vestments of the
priests, and bright with the white robes of the acolytes with their
crimson sashes; a quickly moving procession of bareheaded men singing
the litany of Ste. Anne, with banners (representing different
departments and communes) waving above them, and silver crosses and
relics carried high in the air. The crowd presses forward to see, and
forms a narrow lane to let them pass to the Scala Santa, where the head
of the procession comes to a standstill, and as many of the priests and
attendants as can crowd on to the steps stand as a sort of bodyguard,
whilst the bishop addresses the multitude assembled in the square
beneath.
[Illustration]
Then the outsiders of the crowd get up and watch the proceedings
(including a cook in white cap and apron, who sits upon the hotel wall),
some eagerly from curiosity apparently, some with devotion, and some, it
must be confessed, with an easy, jaunty air more appropriate to a show
in a country fair. There are several hundreds on the grass before us in
the bright sun, in the glare of which the sketch was taken, sitting
together in parties, kneeling in prayer, or standing close together
intent upon the scene.
What those upturned faces were, and what the good bishop saw beneath him
in the crowd, as he rolled forth a discourse full of earnestness and
eloquence, the pencil has recorded in the sketch. It gives, as no words
could describe, the mingled expression of feeling on the faces of the
pilgrims, and tells more eloquently than any argument that the influence
of the Church is on the wane in Brittany. The words spoken are the old
story: first the history of “the miracle of Ste. Anne,” then an
exhortation as to the importance of confession and of works of charity
and masses for the dead. The costume of the people that listen is nearly
the same as in 1623, when Ste. Anne appeared in a wheat-field to a
peasant; and yet—and in spite of all accounts of the earnest devotion of
the people—if we look at the aspect of the crowd, we seem to understand
the matter better than we ever did before.
They stand bareheaded in the sunshine, old and young, rich and poor; on
the left, the pretty _bourgeois’_ daughter, from Auray, in plain cloth
dress, with velvet body, dark green shawl, and neatest of shoes; behind
her, in the background, a contingent from more remote districts, farmers
and small traders, the majority being comfortable people who have come
by train. The spare old woman with eccentric expression and worn hands,
holding purchases, or plunder, in her apron, is not a pauper, but a
hanger-on at a large household, who has saved money. Next, nearer to us,
is a peasant farmer, with long grey hair, in white jacket and breeches
and leathern girdle, who has come on foot from his home in the interior.
He has walked all through the night to be present at the Pardon, as he
has done every year, going through the round of services and exercises,
contributing several francs in money to the church, buying a few charms
and trinkets, and then plodding home. Behind him, with stick and
umbrella under arm, holding beads in her hand, with fat red face, a
white hood and apron, is a comfortable farmer’s wife from Baud; on her
right an old woman in dark green _coiffe_, framing a screwed-up face, a
study of colour in bronze and green. Behind them is a tall, bareheaded
man with his daughter, two of the best types of Bretons in the crowd. On
the right in the sketch is a pretty figure with a cross on her breast,
with shining face, in the white cap and wide collar so common in
Finistère; and, next, three peasants, old and wrinkled, bronzed with sun
and grime, the common type at Pardons. Thus—leaving out some of the more
hideous aspects of deformity and disease—this sketch gives an exact
picture of the crowd, and a true idea of the strange mixture of
curiosity, amusement, and religious awe with which the celebration of
Ste. Anne is received in the present day.
[Illustration: _At the Pardon of Ste. Anne d’Auray._]
[Illustration]
Let us add a few notes of the scene on Sunday, the second day of the
Pardon, when the crowd is greatest, and when there must be collected at
least 10,000 people; when, besides the peasants and country people,
visitors from Paris and other parts of France have filled to overflowing
the large modern hotel, the courtyard of which is full of carriages and
conveyances of all kinds. In the streets and round the open square there
are booths for the sale of trinkets and toys, rosaries, tapers,
statuettes, and medals of Ste. Anne, besides the more common objects for
sale at a country fair. In the roadway women cook fish and cakes
(_galettes_) at charcoal fires; there are itinerant vendors of gigantic
wax candles, there are peep-shows and other amusements, skittles and
games like quoits, played with leaden counters of the size of a
five-franc piece. There is every kind of amusement in honour of Ste.
Anne, and the family meetings and gatherings, that take place round the
cafés and in the open fields, suggest a picnic more than a pilgrimage.
But it is in the street leading to the church door, and in the adjoining
cloisters of a convent, that the more serious aspects of the Pardon are
to be witnessed, some of which it would be impossible to record in a
sketch.
From four o’clock in the morning masses have been said, and in and out
of the church there has been a continual stream of people, all in
holiday attire, and nearly all wearing strings of beads, crosses, or
silver ornaments bearing the image of Ste. Anne. They form in groups on
the grass in the centre of the cloistered square, close together, some
kneeling, some standing erect, with eyes strained upwards at a cracked
and weather-worn statue of the Christ; they tell their beads, and drop
sous into a box at the foot of the cross, the poorest contributing
something.
They pass round the cloisters in a continual stream, missing nothing set
down for them, but stopping and kneeling at each “station” with
expressions of devotion and awe at some grotesque paintings on the walls
representing the Passion. They stop and pray, some on one knee only with
beads in hand, some kneeling low on the pavement, sitting on the heels
of their sabots for rest. They have come a long and weary march, they
are at the end of their pilgrimage, and so it happens that sitting and
praying they fall asleep. A heavy thwack from a neighbour’s umbrella
falls upon the shoulders of the sleepers, and again they go the round.
By midday the crowd has increased so that movement in the road is
difficult. Coming slowly up the narrow street—blocked by carriages, by
vendors of “objets de dévotion,” and by the crowd that passes up and
down—is an, apparently very poor, old man with long dark hair, a white
sheepskin jacket and _bragous bras_, a leather girdle and sabots,
holding in his hand a hollow candle three feet high; it has cost him six
sous, and he will place it presently at the altar in the church with the
rest. Following him is a farmer and his wife, well-to-do people, who
have come by train, and combine a little marketing with their religious
observances. Following them are two young married people with their
child, all dressed in the latest costumes of Paris, the father manfully
taking off his light-kid gloves, and carrying his candle to the church
with the rest.
The scene in the church, where services have been held at intervals all
day, and the people crowd to burn candles at the side altars, is of
people handing up babies, beads, and trinkets to be blessed; of the
flaring of candles, of the movements of tired priests, and the perpetual
murmur of prayers.
We have spoken often of the simple, practical, and graceful dress of the
women; but here at Auray we must confess that many of the country people
in full holiday attire are anything but graceful in appearance. At a
side altar of the chapel there is a young face, very fair, with large
devotional eyes, deepened in colour and intensity by her white cap; but
below it is a stiff, shapeless bodice as hard as wood, and a bundle of
lower garments piled one upon the other, till the figure is a rather
ungainly sight; her large capable hands hold her book, her rosary, and a
stout umbrella; she is encumbered with clothing, but she differs from
her modernised sisters in one thing: her dress is not on her mind when
she says her prayers. She is on her knees nearly all day at Auray; but,
working or praying, half her young life has been spent in this position.
In spite of the grotesque element, which is everywhere at Pardons, the
sight is often a sad one; sad, especially, to see so many young faces
clouded by superstitious awe. The saying would seem to apply to
Brittany, that “national piety springs from a fountain of tears.”
We have purposely said little of the repulsive side of the spectacle; of
the terrible-looking men and women who have come out of their
hiding-places to kneel at the shrine and to beg from strangers; who
wander about like savages, and are propitiated with beads. Figures
strange, weird, and grotesque, the like of which we shall see nowhere
else in the world, pass round the cloisters of St. Anne d’Auray for two
days in the year.
There is one half witted man from the sea-coast, evidently soon “going
home”; as he drags himself along, the shadows seem to deepen, and the
light from human eyes to burn more fiercely in their tenement. Fed with
seaweed, thatched with straw, exposed to the wildest winds of the
Atlantic, his home little better than a hole in the rocks, what wonder
that he comes across the hills once a year to the Pardon of Ste. Anne
for a blessing; that he prays for a land beyond the sea, visioned in his
mind by innumerable candles, and paid for in advance through weary years
in his Passage to the Cross!
[Illustration]
Many of the pilgrims go through other religious observances before
leaving Auray, including washing in the well, going step by step up the
Scala Santa on their hands and knees; and all—the poorest and most
pitiable—leave _something_ in the coffers of Ste. Anne.
And so the long day passes, and at last the tide recedes. What if a
strong north wind and the running river Auray could bear them away
seaward to be seen no more? What if all the wretchedness, dirt, and
disease, collected, as if by a miracle, at Ste. Anne for two days,
could, by another miracle as great, be swept away for ever!
CARNAC.
Turning southward and westward from Auray, a drive of eight or nine
miles across a dreary-looking district, with patches of pasture
interspersed with gorse and ferns, and here and there a peasant leading
a cow, driving a cart, or digging in the poor soil—on reaching a rising
ground, we see before us a wide stretch of open land, grey and
monotonous in colour, and beyond, in the far distance, the horizon line
of sea. Leaving the carriage-road, about a mile before reaching the
village of Carnac, and turning off to the left, we come rather suddenly,
as it seems, upon a stubble field strewn with large grey rocks or
stones, some of them six or eight feet high, standing on end, upright,
or leaning against each other, but the majority lying _pêle-mêle_ on the
ground, some half buried in the earth, or hidden by gorse or long grass.
They are for the most part smooth and time-worn blocks of, apparently
unhewn, granite, of all shapes and sizes, some covered with moss and
lichen.
Is this, then, the famous field of Carnac, with its “avenues of
menhirs,” the object of so many pilgrimages, the origin of so many
theories, the birthplace of so many legends? The first impression, we
need hardly say, is disappointing, and fills the traveller with that
feeling of blank dismay which comes upon him on the first sight of the
“Court of Lions” at the Alhambra in Spain. But in a little while,
looking westward, and tracing a certain order and method in the position
of “the Stones,” he begins to realise that by no ordinary forces of
nature, but by some unknown hands in past ages, these pillars must have
been raised. But how raised, and by whom brought and strewn on this
desolate shore? That they were monuments of the dead, or that they mark
the spot where burials took place, forming a consecrated ground for the
ancient inhabitants of Armorica, is the commonly received opinion. We
are told also that these irregular rows of unhewn stone are relics of
serpent worship, that they represent serpents’ teeth and the waving
lines of its body; also that they mark the places of sacrifice of the
Druids; bones and ancient remains of human beings having been found to
support this theory.
The “menhir,” or “long stone of the sun,” will suggest the form of
monument used in all ages in religious worship, and the “dolmen,” or
table stone (which we see in the neighbourhood of Locmariaker),
consisting of a chamber formed by placing one large flat stone
horizontally on two or more upright blocks, points to the theory of a
place of sacrifice in Druidical times, or at any rate to a place of
burial.[9] All else seems vague and mysterious, leading men of
succeeding ages to surround the scene with legends and traditions. It
has been said that “the ancient temples of aboriginal races are
generally to be found where nature wears her saddest and most funereal
aspect,” and certainly Carnac is no exception to the rule.
Footnote 9:
The forms of the menhir and the dolmen are indicated on the
title-page.
It is a summer’s day, and the light south wind that comes over the sea,
and gently sways the trees inland, here blows up the sand into our
faces, and moans between the stones. It is such a wild and dreary
place—where, excepting for a farm and an oasis of a few trees, there is
no welcome colour presented to the eye—that the mind leans naturally to
the mysterious side, and clings rather to legend and tradition than to
historic facts; thus we may see in this confused array an army of pagan
warriors turned into stone, and cling, like the present inhabitants of
Carnac, to the story of the patron saint of their herds and flocks (St.
Cornély), who, pursued to the sea by a host of armed men, and finding no
means of escape, cursed his pursuers and turned them into stone.
If, by the aid of the map below, we look down upon the fields of Carnac,
we shall discern a certain order and method in the arrangement of the
stones, and carry away a more definite impression. Thus we see the
menhirs (or _peulvens_, “pillars of stone,” as they would be more
accurately described) arranged in three avenues extending from east to
west, commencing irregularly at Kerlescant, continuing in a second group
called Kermario, and ending abruptly near Carnac. These avenues form the
principal groups, but there are two others, one at Erdeven and one at
Ste. Barbe, in a north-westerly direction, besides separate menhirs or
_peulvens_, scattered about for miles, half buried in the soil or
standing in the long grass. It is estimated by old chroniclers that on
these fields there once were 12,000 or 15,000 Celtic monuments; at the
present time there are not 1000 to be found upon the fields of Carnac,
so many having been destroyed or taken away for building or other
purposes.
[Illustration]
The most prominent object on the field of Carnac is a mound of stones,
once a burial-place, on which there is a chapel and a calvary dedicated
to St. Michel. Every traveller ascends this mound to obtain a view, on
the one side, of the plains of Carnac, and, on the other, of the
peninsula of Quiberon and of the distant islands of Belle-Île, Houath,
and Hoedic. From the mound we can also see the spot where the ruins of
Roman houses and baths have been found. On the right, as we look
seaward, is the little village of Carnac close at hand, with its grey
spire and cluster of houses, and here and there in the distance are
trees, farms, and patches of cultivation. But all looks dreary and
wind-blown, even in summer-time and the inhabitants that stop in their
work in the fields to stare, or pursue the tourist through the day, have
a wild and weary look that is infinitely sad.
[Illustration: SKETCH ON THE FIELDS OF CARNAC.]
In the church of Carnac are some curious relics, and frescoes
descriptive of events in the life of St. Cornély, and in a house
opposite is a collection of ancient ornaments, weapons, bone implements,
and the like, which have been unearthed from time to time, and are now
exhibited for a small fee. Visitors to Carnac should make enquiry for
the site of recent excavations made by Mr. Miln, a Scotch gentleman who
has devoted some years to archæological labours in the neighbourhood.
Descending to the village of Carnac, the traveller finds a comfortable
resting-place at the Hôtel des Voyageurs, and a pleasant contrast to the
prevailing sadness of the outer world. In this old-fashioned inn a
sumptuous breakfast is prepared in summer for visitors; and here
assemble, at midday, the more prosperous part of the community,
including priests of antiquarian taste, small farmers, traders in fish,
travelling merchants, carriage drivers, and others. The kitchen should
be seen by all visitors, with its old fireplace and furniture, ancient
clock, and comfortable beds; the pleasant faces and homely welcome of
the people giving colour and character to the picture. For a few weeks
in summer-time, and at the time of the Pardon of Ste. Anne d’Auray, this
little inn is a centre of attraction; it is close to the church, where,
round its walls in grave procession, peasants still bring their cattle
to be cured—kneeling and praying, in the road, for miraculous aid.
[Illustration: IN THE KITCHEN OF THE HÔTEL DES VOYAGEURS AT CARNAC.]
Turning to the north-west, about two miles on the road to Erdeven, is
Plouharnel, a village somewhat poor in its surroundings, but giving
comfortable accommodation to travellers who come to see the dolmen of
Corcorro, one of the largest in Brittany. It consists of three chambers,
or “allées couvertes,” which were opened in 1830 and found to contain
fragments of earthen vessels, and an urn containing ashes, gold
necklaces, &c. The enormous slabs which rest upon and project beyond the
upright stones, measured originally, it is supposed, about forty-five
feet; the dolmen now measures twenty-four feet by twelve; it was
formerly underground, but now stands in the open moorland.
[Illustration]
The landlord of the inn at Plouharnel formed a collection of relics in
1849, including celts of jade and bronze, taken from this and other
dolmens in the neighbourhood. It should be noted that these relics
belong to a much later period than others found near Locmariaker, some
of which are to be seen at the Museum of Antiquities at Vannes.
* * * * *
The second principal excursion from Auray is to LOCMARIAKER and the
island of Gâvr Innis. Locmariaker, or “the place of the Virgin Mary,” is
situated nine miles in a southerly direction from Auray, and the island
of Gâvr Innis (Goat Island) is one of a cluster of little islands two
miles east of Locmariaker. At the extremity of the peninsula are two
large mounds or tumuli, where various implements and relics have been
found, pointing to the time of the Roman occupation of Gaul; and side by
side with these, remains of dolmens and menhirs of a much earlier date.
The Montagne de la Fée, a tumulus of stones about thirty feet high, was
excavated in 1863, and in the vaulted chamber or grotto were found
necklaces, beads, and other ornaments which may be seen in the museum at
Vannes. There is a guide who shows the interior to visitors, and points
to the hatchet-shaped inscriptions on the stones. In the Mané Lud, the
second great tumulus opened in 1863, was found a large chamber, supposed
to have been a sepulchre, containing the skeletons of horses’ heads, as
well as other bones.
[Illustration]
After visiting the tumuli, we cross the fields a little way from
Locmariaker, following upon the track of three priests, to see the great
fallen menhir, called “Men-er-Groách,” or “Stone of the Fairies.” It is
as wild and wind-blown here as at Carnac; in every direction, excepting
due north, is the sea, and beyond the sea is a strong south-west wind.
The sun that shines upon the islands, and light up the colours of the
lichen on the rocks out at sea, scarce illumines the foreground; there
is no relief upon the low land but mounds of earth covered with long
grass and furze, and here and there, half buried in the ground, grey
rocks, strewn about as if by some convulsion of nature. There is no
trace of man’s handling, as far as we can see; nothing to suggest a
monument, and nothing, by contrast, to give an idea of size. But all at
once, as we descend a little behind some clumps of heather, there loom
up before us against the sea and sky the dark rounded sides of two
enormous stones, half buried in the ground, but raised once, as history
and tradition tell us, in the form of an obelisk seventy feet high and
sixteen feet in diameter! All is silent but the wind coming through
distant pines, scattering the gorse blossom on the ground, and bending
the long grass. There are rooks floating in the air, and presently there
is a flapping of black garments as three pilgrims appear upon the more
distant portion of the menhir, clambering down its side. It is an
undignified contrast, but valuable to us for the impression of size and
grandeur it gives to the fallen monument.
[Illustration]
Two miles off, on the inland sea of Morbihan—approached easily by boats
at certain times of the tide, but often with great difficulty owing to
the currents—is the small island called Gâvr Innis. This island is about
three quarters of a mile in length, and is green and cultivated, but so
difficult is the approach that it is only in summer-time that there is
much communication with the mainland. On a summer’s day a few
adventurous tourists come scrambling up the wet rocks from boats, to
visit the tumulus or mound of stones which has been excavated of late
years, and in which there have been found various Celtic remains and
inscriptions. It is, outwardly, a mound or heap of stones about 300 feet
in circumference, and not more than 30 feet high.
Of the origin, or use, of these tumuli, of which the one on Gâvr Innis
is the most remarkable in Brittany, neither antiquaries of the past nor
the present owner, M. Closmedenc, who lives on the island in summer, can
give a satisfactory account. Like the island of Avalon, it sleeps in an
atmosphere of romance and mystery; the most searching of modern
antiquaries speaking of the “circular and serpent-like waving lines” cut
on the stones of Gâvr Innis as “unaccountable,” and of the inscriptions
as of “unknown meaning.”
Here we may pause, wondering no longer at the superstitions of the
peasants, or the romances and legends of the people of Morbihan.
[Illustration]