with gleaming pots and pans and blue enamelled buckets. This lowest
story has always large wooden painted shutters flung back.

The houses are unlike those of any other town I have seen in Brittany.
There are always about five solid square rafters under each story, and
each rafter is carved at the end into some grotesque little image or
flower. There is much painted woodwork about the windows, and
criss-cross beams sometimes run down the whole length of the house.
There are still many strange old blackened edifices, sculptured from
top to bottom, which have remained intact during four centuries with a
sombre obstinacy. At the angles you often see grotesque figures of
biniou-players, arabesques, and leaves, varied in the most bizarre
manner, and so delicately and beautifully executed that they would
form material for six 'Musées de Cluny.' These vast high houses are
very dirty, crumbling like old cheeses, and almost as multitudinously
alive. Each story is separated by massive beams, carved in a profusion
of ornaments; each window has small leaded panes. The rest of the
façade is carved with lozenge-shaped slates.

Morlaix, of course, has her Maison de la Reine Anne, of which she is
proud. It is a characteristic house, with straight powerful lines. The
door, greenish-black, is of fluted wood. The whole building is covered
with an infinity of detail--ludicrous faces, statuettes, and carved
figures of saints. Inside it has almost no decoration. The white walls
rise to the top of the house plain and unadorned, save for a very
elaborate staircase of rich chestnut-coloured wood very beautifully
carved, with bridges, branching off from right to left, leading to the
various apartments. At the top is a sculptured figure--either of the
patron saint of the house or of some saint especially beloved in
Brittany.

The town is a mixture of antiquity and modernity. Though her houses
and streets are old, Morlaix possesses the most modern of viaducts,
284 metres long, giving an extraordinary aspect to the place. When you
arrive at night you see the town glistening with myriads of lights, so
far below that it seems incredible. You do not realize that the
railway is built upon a viaduct: it seems as if you were suspended in
mid-air.

When we arrived at Morlaix, a man with a carriage and four horses
offered to drive us to Huelgoat for a very modest sum; but I vowed
that all the king's horses and all the king's men would not tear me
away that day. There was much to be seen. One never wearies of
wandering through the streets of this fine old town, gazing up at the
houses, and losing one's way among the ancient and dark by-ways.
Morlaix is in a remarkable state of preservation. The houses generally
do not suggest ruin or decay. The town seems to have everlasting
youth. This is principally owing to the great love of the people for
art and the picturesque, which has led them to renovate and rebuild
constantly. For this reason, some of the structures are of great
archæological value.

  [Illustration: MEDIÆVAL HOUSE AT MORLAIX]

The religious edifices are few. Indeed, I saw only the little church
of St. Milaine, its belfry dwarfed by the prodigious height of the
viaduct. It is a gem of architecture. The stonework is carved to
resemble lace, and both inside and out the building is in the pure
Gothic style.

Storms are very sudden in Morlaix. Sometimes on a sunny day, when all
the world is out of doors, the wind will rise, knocking down the
tailors' dummies and scattering the tam-o'-shanters hanging outside
the clothiers'. Then comes rain in torrents. How the peasants scuttle!
What a clatter of wooden-shod feet over the cobbles as they run for
shelter! Umbrellas appear like mushrooms on a midsummer-night. Once I
saw some old women in the open square with baskets of lace and
crotchet-work and bundles of clothes stretched out for sale. When the
rain began they fell into a great fright, and strove to cover their
wares with old sacks, baskets, umbrellas--anything that was ready to
hand. I felt inclined to run out of the hotel and help. As suddenly as
the storm had risen, the sun came out, clear and radiant. I never knew
the air to be so invigorating and bright anywhere in Brittany as it is
in Morlaix.

  [Illustration: OUTSIDE THE SMITHY, PONT-AVEN]

CHAPTER XII

PONT-AVEN

Pont-Aven is associated with agreeable memories. This village in the
South of Finistère draws men and women from all over Europe, summer
after summer. Many of them stay there throughout the winter, content
to be shut off from the world, allowing the sweet and gentle lassitude
of the place to lull their cares and troubles. Is it climatic--this
soothing influence--or is it the outcome of a spell woven over
beautiful Pont-Aven by some good-natured fairy long ago? I have often
wondered. Certain it is that intelligent men, many of them painters,
have been content to spend years in Pont-Aven. Some time ago Mother
and Father, touring in Brittany, came to this delightful spot, and
determined to spend three weeks there. They stayed three years.

All my life I have heard stories of this wonderful place, and of their
first visit. It was when my father had only just begun his career as a
painter. The experience, he says, was a great education. There he
found himself in an amazing nest of French and American painters, all
the newer lights of the French school. He was free to work at whatever
he liked, yet with unlimited chances of widening, by daily argument,
his knowledge of technical problems. For the three years that he
remained on this battlefield of creeds conflicts of opinion raged
constantly. Everyone was frantically devoted to one or another of the
dominating principles of the moderns. There was a bevy of schools
there.

One, called the Stripists, painted in stripes, with vivid colour as
nearly prismatic as possible, all the scenery around. Then, there were
the Dottists, who painted in a series of dots. There were also the
Spottists--a sect of the Dottists, whose differentiation was too
subtle to be understood. Men there were who had a theory that you must
ruin your digestion before you could paint a masterpiece. No
physically healthy person, they declared, could hope to do fine work.
They used to try to bring about indigestion.

One man, celebrated for his painting of pure saints with blue dresses,
over which Paris would go crazy, never attempted to paint a saint
until he had drunk three glasses of absinthe and bathed his face in
ether. Another decided that he was going to have, in Paris, an
exhibition of merry-go-rounds which should startle France. He had a
theory that the only way to get at the soul of a thing was to paint
when drunk. He maintained that the merry-go-rounds whirled faster
then. One day my father went to his studio. He was dazed. He did not
know whether he was standing on his head or his heels. It was
impossible to see 'Black Bess' or any of the pet horses he knew so
well. The pictures were one giddy whirl.

Then, there was the Bitumen school, a group of artists who never
painted anything but white sunlit houses with bitumen shadows. A year
or two afterwards a terrible thing invariably happened. Without any
warning whatsoever, the pictures would suddenly slide from off their
canvases to the floor. The bitumen had melted.

The Primitives afforded joy. Their distinctive mark was a
walking-stick, carved by a New Zealand Maori, which they carried about
with them. It gave them inspiration. So powerful was the influence of
these sticks that even the head of a Breton peasant assumed the rugged
aspect of the primitive carvings in their paintings. The most
enthusiastic disciple of the sect was a youth who was continually
receiving marvellous inspirations. Once, after having shut himself up
for three days, he appeared looking haggard and ravenous. Without a
word, he sat down heavily near a table, called for absinthe, and,
groaning, dropped his head in his hands, and murmured, 'Ah, me! Ah,
me!' All beholders were in a fever to know what the mystery was. After
some minutes of dead silence the young man rose majestically from his
chair, stretched forth one arm, and, with a far-away look in his eyes,
said, 'Friends, last night, when you were all asleep, a beautiful
creature came to me in spirit form, and taught me the secret of
drawing; and I drew this.' Then he brought out a picture. It was far
above his usual style, and the more credulous envied his good fortune.
Some weeks afterwards, however, it was discovered by a painter with
detective instincts that the marvellous vision was in reality a
_chambre au clair_--that is to say, a prism through which objects are
reflected on paper, enabling one to trace them with great facility.

  [Illustration: IN AN AUBERGE, PONT-AVEN]

Such are the extraordinary people among whom Mother and Father found
themselves on their first visit to Pont-Aven--geniuses some of them,
mere daubers others, all of them strange and rough and weird.
More like wild beasts they looked than human beings, Mother told me;
for very few women came to Pont-Aven in the early days, and those were
Bohemians. The artists allowed their hair and beards to grow long. Day
after day they wore the same old paint-stained suits of corduroys,
battered wide-brimmed hats, loose flannel shirts, and coarse wooden
sabots stuffed with straw.

Mother, who was very young at the time, has often told me that she
will never forget their arrival at the little Hôtel Gleanec. They were
shown into a _salle à manger_, where rough men sat on either side of a
long table, serving themselves out of a common dish, and dipping great
slices of bread into their plates.

Mother was received with great courtesy by them. She found it very
amusing to watch the gradual change in their appearance day by
day--the donning of linen collars and cuffs and the general smartening
up. Many of the men who were then struggling with the alphabet of art
have reached the highest rungs of the ladder of fame, and their names
have become almost household words; others have sunk into oblivion,
and are still amateurs.

The chief hotel in the village was the Hôtel des Voyageurs, to which
Mother and Father soon migrated. It was kept by a wonderful woman,
called Julia. Originally a peasant girl, she had by untiring energy
become the proprietress of the great establishment. Her fame as
hostess and manager was bruited all over France. Everyone seemed to
know of Julia, and year after year artists and their families came
back regularly to stay with her. She is a woman with a strong
individuality. She gathered a large custom among artists, who flocked
to the Hôtel des Voyageurs as much because of the charm of Mdlle.
Julia, and the comfort of her house, as for the beauty of the scenery.

There was a delightful intimacy among the guests, most of whom were
very intelligent. Mdlle. Julia took a sincere interest in the career
of each. All went to her with their troubles and their joys, certain
of sympathy and encouragement. Many are the young struggling painters
she has helped substantially, often allowing them to live on in the
hotel for next to nothing. Many are the unpaid bills of long standing
on the books of this generous woman. I fear that she has never made
the hotel pay very well, for the elaborate menu and good accommodation
are out of all proportion to her charges. A strong woman is Mdlle.
Julia. She has been known to lift a full-grown man and carry him out
of doors, landing him ignominiously in the mud.

There was one man, a retired military officer, whom no one else could
manage. He had come to stay in Pont-Aven because he could live there
for a few francs a day and drink the rest. He suffered from
hallucinations, and took great pleasure in chasing timid artists over
the countryside, challenging them to duels, and insulting them in
every way possible. He was the terror of the village. He had a house
on the quay, and early one morning when the snow was thick upon the
ground, just because a small vessel came into the river and began
blowing a trumpet, or making a noise of some kind, he sprang out of
bed in a towering rage, rushed in his nightshirt into the street, and
began sharpening his sword on a rock, shouting to the ship's captain
to come out and be killed if he dared. The captain did not dare. The
only person of whom this extraordinary person stood in awe was Mdlle.
Julia. Her he would obey without a murmur. No one knew why. Perhaps
there had been some contest between them. At any rate, they understood
each other.

The friends of Mdlle. Julia ranged from the Mayor of the town to
Batiste, the butcher, who sat outside his door all day and watched her
every movement.

'If I want to remember where I have been, and what I did at a certain
hour, I have only to ask Batiste,' she was wont to say.

All the artists worshipped the ground she trod upon; and well they
might, for they would never have a better friend than she. Her _salle
à manger_ and _grand salon_ were panelled with pictures, some of which
are very valuable to-day. Tender-hearted she was, and strong-minded,
with no respect for persons. Mother told me that once when my brother
and sister, babies of three and four years old, were posing for Father
on the beach with only their linen sunbonnets on, their limbs were
somewhat sunburnt and blistered. When they returned to the hotel,
Mdlle. Julia applied sweet oil and cold cream to the tender skin, and
rated my parents soundly between her tears of compassion for the
little ones. It was of no use explaining that it was in the cause of
art. She bade them in unmeasured terms to send art to the Devil, and
scolded them as if they were children. I doubt not she would have
reprimanded the King of England with as little compunction.

  [Illustration: A SAND-CART ON THE QUAY, PONT-AVEN]

Mdlle. Julia made the reputation of Pont-Aven by her own overpowering
individuality. If she went to Paris or elsewhither for a few days,
everyone in the village felt her absence. Things were not the same.
Pont-Aven seemed momentarily to have lost its charm. The meals were
badly cooked and worse served; the _bonnes_ were neglectful. All
missed the ringing laugh and cheery presence of Julia. How soon one
knew when she had returned! What a flutter there was among the
_bonnes_! What a commotion! How everyone flew hither and thither at
her command! She seemed to fill the hotel with her presence.

I went to Pont-Aven when I was ten years old, and I remember well how
Mdlle. Julia came to meet us, driving twenty miles through the deep
snow. What happy days those were in the dear little village! We lived
as wild things, and enjoyed life to the full. M. Grenier, the
schoolmaster, acted as tutor to us. He was lenient. We spent our time
mainly in rambling over the countryside, making chocolate in Mdlle.
Julia's wood, bird-nesting, and apple-stealing. M. Grenier taught us
to row, and we learnt all the various intricate currents and dangerous
sandbanks so thoroughly that after a time we could almost have
steered through that complicated river blindfold. We learnt how to
make boats out of wood, and how to carve our names in a professional
manner on trees. We became acquainted with a large selection of Breton
ballads and a good deal of rough botany. More advanced lessons have
faded from my mind. Of actual book-learning we accomplished very
little. Many a time M. Grenier pulled himself together, brought us new
copybooks, fine pens, his French grammar and readers, and settled us
down in the salon to work; but gradually the task would pall on both
master and scholars, and before the morning was half over we would be
out in the fields and woods again, 'just for a breath of fresh air.'

Children have the power of making themselves at home in a foreign
country. Within a week my brother and I knew everyone in the village.
We became acquainted with all their family affairs and troubles. In
many households we were welcome at any time of the day. There was the
sabot-maker, whom we never tired of watching as he cleverly and
rapidly transformed a square block of wood into a rounded, shapely
sabot. He was always busy, and sometimes turned out a dozen pairs in
a day. To my great joy, he presented me with a beautiful little pair,
which I wore painfully, but with much pride. Although when you become
accustomed to them sabots are comfortable and sensible gear, at first
they are extremely awkward. Of course, you can kick them off before
you enter a house, and run about in the soft woollen _chausson_ with a
leather sole which is always worn underneath. Round the hotel doorway
there is always a collection of sabots awaiting their owners. In a
country such as Brittany, where it rains a good deal, and the roads
are often deep in mud, they are the only possible wear. The sabot is a
product of evolution. In that respect it is like the hansom cab which
is a thing of beauty simply because it has been thought out with
regard to its usefulness and comfort alone.

Batiste, the butcher, was a great friend of ours. With morbid
fascination we witnessed his slaughter of pigs and cows. Then, soon we
knew where to get the best _crêpes_. These are pancakes of a kind, so
thin that you can see through them, made on a round piece of metal
over a blazing fire. Eaten hot, with plenty of butter and sugar, they
are equal to anything in our English cookery. There was one particular
old lady living down by the bridge who made _crêpes_. We saw her
mixing the ingredients, mostly flour and water, and spreading the
dough over the round piece of metal. It became hard in an instant, and
curled up brown and crisp, as thin as a lace handkerchief. Likewise,
we knew where to buy bowls of milk thick with cream for one sou. We
had to tramp over several fields and to scale several fences before we
found ourselves in the kitchen of a large farm, where the housewife
was busy pouring milk into large copper vessels. Seated at the
polished mahogany table, we drank from dainty blue bowls.

I went back to Pont-Aven recently, and found it very little changed.
We travelled by diligence from Concarneau; but, as the conveyance left
only once a day, we had several hours to while away. The Concarneau
and Pont-Aven diligence is quaint and primitive, devoid of springs,
and fitted with extremely narrow and hard seats. We passed through
villages in which every house seemed to be either a _buvette_ or a
_débit de boisson_. At these our driver--a man in a blue blouse and a
black felt hat--had to deliver endless parcels, for which he dived
continually under the seat on which we were sitting. For discharging
each commission he received several glasses of cider and wine. He
stopped at every place to drink and talk with the host, quite
oblivious of his passengers. With every mile he became more
uproarious.

  [Illustration: PLAYING ON THE 'PLACE,' PONT-AVEN]

Our only travelling companion was an old woman in the costume of the
country, with a yellow and wrinkled face. On her arm she carried a
large basket and a loaf of bread two yards long. Ruthlessly she trod
on our toes with her thick black sabots in getting in. Although I
helped her with her basket and her bread, she never volunteered a word
of thanks, but merely snatched them from my hands. Many Bretons are
scarcely of higher intelligence than the livestock of the farms. They
live in the depths of the country with their animals, sleeping in the
same room with them, rarely leaving their own few acres of ground. The
women work as hard as the men, digging in the fields and toiling in
the forests from early morning until night.

At one of the villages where the diligence stopped, a blacksmith, a
young giant, handsome, dark, came out from the smithy with his dog,
which he was sending to some gentleman with hunting proclivities in
Pont-Aven. The animal--what is called a _chien de la chasse_--was
attached by a long chain to the step, and the diligence started off.
The blacksmith stood in the door of his smithy, and watched the dog
disappear with wistful eyes. The Bretons have a soft spot in their
hearts for animals. The dog itself was the picture of misery. His
moans and howls wrung one's heart. I never saw an animal more wily. He
tried every conceivable method of slipping his collar. He pulled at
the chain, and wriggled from one side to another. Once he contrived to
work his ear under the collar, and my fingers itched to help him. Had
the truant escaped, I could not have informed the driver. Strange that
one's sympathies are always with the weakest! In novels, an escaping
convict, no matter how terrible his guilt, always has my sympathy, and
I am hostile to the pursuing warder.

As we drew near to Pont-Aven the scenery became more and more
beautiful. On either side of the road stretched miles and miles of
brilliant mustard-yellow gorse, mingled with patches of dried reddish
bracken, and bordered by rows of blue-green pines. Here and there one
saw great rocks half-covered with the velvet-green of mosses thrown
hither and thither in happy disorder. Sometimes ivy takes root in the
crevices of the rocks where a little earth has gathered, and creeps
closely round about them, as if anxious to convey life and warmth to
the cold stone. The sun, like a red ball, was setting behind the
hills, leaving the sky flecked with clouds of the palest mauves and
pinks, resembling the fine piece of marbling one sometimes sees inside
the covers of modern well-bound books. Now and then we passed a little
ruined chapel--consecrated, no doubt, to some very ancient saint (it
was impossible to make out the name), a saint whose cult was evidently
lost, for the little shrine was tumbling to ruins. We saw by the
wayside little niches sheltering sacred fountains, the waters of which
cure certain diseases; and passed peasants on the roadside, sometimes
on horseback, sometimes walking--large, well-proportioned,
fine-featured men of proud bearing. In Brittany the poorest peasant is
a free and independent man. He salutes you out of politeness and good
nature; but he does not cringe as if recognising himself to be lower
in the social scale. The Breton, howsoever poor, is no less dignified
under his blue blouse than his ancestors were under their steel
armour.

A long straight road leads from Concarneau to Pont-Aven, and at the
end of it lies the pretty village among hills of woods and of rocks
bathed in a light mist. One could almost imagine that it was a Swiss
village in miniature. By the time we arrived it was night. We could
only discern clean white houses on either side, and water rushing
under a bridge over which we passed. The Hôtel des Voyageurs looked
much the same as ever, except that over the way a large building had
been added to the _annexe_. To our great disappointment, we discovered
that Mdlle. Julia had gone to Paris; but we recognised several of the
_bonnes_ and a hoary veteran called Joseph, who had been in Julia's
service for over twenty years.

Gladly I rushed out next morning. There is nothing more delightful
than to visit a place where one has been happy for years as a child,
especially such a place as Pont-Aven, which changes little. My first
thought was to see the Bois d'Amour. I found it quite unchanged. To be
sure, I had some difficulty in finding the old pathway which led to
the wood, so many strange houses and roadways had been built since we
were there; but at length we found it--that old steep path with the
high walls on either side, on which the blackberries grew in
profusion. There are two paths in the forest--one, low down, which
leads by the stream, and the other above, carpeted with silver
leaves. A wonderful wood it is--a joyous harmony in green and gold.
Giant chestnuts fill the air with their perfumed leaves, forming an
inextricable lattice-work overhead, one branch entwining with the
other, the golden rays of the sun filtering through. The ground is
carpeted with silver and salmon leaves left from last autumn; the
pines shed thousands of brown cones, and streams of resin flow down
their trunks. It is well-named the Bois d'Amour. Below runs a little
stream. Now it foams and bounds, beating itself against a series of
obstacles; now it flows calmly, as if taking breath, clear, silver,
and limpid, past little green islands covered with flowers, and into
bays dark with the black mud beneath. Low-growing trees and bushes
flourish on the banks, some throwing themselves across the stream as
barricades, over which the laughing water bounds and leaps
unheedingly, scattering diamonds and topaz in the sunlight. Everything
in the Bois d'Amour seems to join in the joyous song of Nature. The
little stream sings; the trees murmur and rustle in the wind; and the
big black mill-wheel, glistening with crystal drops, makes music with
the water.

  [Illustration: ON THE QUAY AT PONT-AVEN]

By the riverside, women are washing their clothes on square slabs of
stone, which stretch across the water. It was on these stepping-stones,
I remember, that my brother and I lost our shoes and stockings. At one
place the stream is hidden from sight by thick bushes, and you find
yourself in a narrow green lane, a green alley, walled on either side
and roofed overhead by masses of trees and bushes, through which the
sun filters occasionally in golden patches. Whenever I walk down that
lane, I think of the song that my bonne Marie taught me there one day;
it comes back as freshly now as if it had been but yesterday. The
refrain begins, 'Et mon coeur vol, vol et vol, et vol, vers les
cieux.'

One meets the river constantly during this walk, and every mile or so
you come across a little black mill. The mills in Pont-Aven are
endless, and this saying is an old one: 'Pont-Aven ville de renom,
quatorze moulins, quinze maisons.'

Picturesque little mills they are. The jet-black wheels form a
delightful contrast to the vivid green round about; and small bridges
of stones, loosely put together and moss-grown here and there, cross
the river at intervals.

  [Illustration: ON THE STEPS OF THE MILL HOUSE, PONT-AVEN]

I love this rough, wild country. How variable it is! You may sit
in a wood with the stream at your feet, and all about you will be
great hills half-covered with gorse and bracken, and here and there
huge blocks of granite, which seem ready to fall any moment.

The Bois d'Amour is a happy hunting-ground of artists. This particular
view of the mill at which I gazed so long has been a stock-subject
with painters for many years. You never pass without seeing at least
one or two men with canvases spread and easels erected, vainly trying
to reproduce the beautiful scene. Artists are plentiful in this
country. Wherever you may wander within a radius of fifteen miles, you
cannot stop at some attractive prospect without hearing an impatient
cough behind you, and, turning, find yourself obstructing the view of
a person in corduroys and flannel shirt, with a large felt hat,
working, pipe aglow, at an enormous canvas. The artists, who are
mostly English, are thought very little of by the people about. I once
heard a commercial traveller talking of Pont-Aven.

'Pshaw!' he said, 'they are all English and Americans there.
Everything is done for the English. At the Hôtel des Voyageurs even
the cuisine is English. It is unbearable! At the table the men wear
clothes of inconceivable colour and cut. They talk without gestures,
very quickly and loudly, and they eat enormously. The young _mecs_ are
flat-faced, with long chins, white eye-lashes, and fair hair. Many are
taciturn, morose, and dreamy. Occasionally they make jokes, but
without energy. They mostly eat without interruption.'

This is the French view, and it is natural. Pont-Aven does not have
the right atmosphere for the Frenchman: the Bretons and the English
are supreme.

Nothing is more delightful than to spend a summer there. You find
yourself in a colony of intelligent men, many of them very clever, as
well as pretty young English and American girls, and University
students on 'cramming' tours. Picnics and river-parties are organized
by the inimitable Mdlle. Julia every day during the summer, and in the
evening there is always dancing in the big salon. The hotel is full to
overflowing from garret to cellar. Within the last few years Mdlle.
Julia has opened another hotel at Porte Manec, by the sea, to which
the visitors may transfer themselves whenever they choose, going
either by river or by Mdlle. Julia's own omnibus. It is built on the
same lines as Mme. Bernhardt's house at Belle Isle, and is situated on
a breezy promontory.

The river lies between Pont-Aven and Porte Manec, which is at the
mouth of the sea. How beautiful this river is--the dear old
browny-gray, moleskin-coloured river, edged with great rocks on which
the seaweed clings! On the banks are stretches of gray-green grass
bordered by holly-bushes. The scenery changes constantly. Sometimes it
is rugged and rocky, now sloping up, now down, now covered with green
gorse or a sprinkling of bushes, now with a wilderness of trees. Here
and there you will see a cleft in the mountain-side, a little leafy
dell which one might fancy the abode of fairies. Silver streams
trickle musically over the bare brown rocks, and large red toadstools
grow in profusion, the silver cobwebs sparkling with dew in the gorse.

It is delightful in the marvellous autumn weather to take the narrow
river-path winding in and out of the very twisty Aven, and wander
onwards to your heart's content, with the steep hillside at the back
of you and the river running at your feet. You feel as if you could
walk on for ever over this mountainous ground, where the heather
grows in great purple bunches among huge granite rocks, which, they
say, were placed there by the Druids. Down below flows the river--a
mere silver ribbon now, in wastes of pinky-purple mud, for it is ebb
tide; and now and then you see the battered hulk of a boat lying on
its side in the mud. On the hill are lines of fir-trees standing black
and straight against the horizon.

Night falls in a bluish haze on the hills and on the river, confusing
the outline of things. At the foot of the mountains it is almost dark.
Through the open windows and doors of the cottages as one passes one
can see groups round the tables under the yellow light of candles. One
smells the good soup which is cooking; the noise of spoons and plates
mingles with the voices of the people. Pewter and brass gleam from the
walls. It is a picture worthy of Rembrandt. The end of the room is
hidden in smoky shadow, now and then lit up by a flame escaping from
the fireplace, showing an old woman knitting in the ingle-nook, and an
old white-haired peasant drinking cider out of a blue mug. It is
strange to think of these people living in their humble homes year
after year--a happy little people who have no history.

  [Illustration: THE BRIDGE, PONT-AVEN]

Not far from Pont-Aven is the ruined château of Rustephan. One
approaches it through a wood of silver birches, under great old trees;
cherry-trees and apple-trees remain in what must once have been a
flourishing orchard. The castle itself has fallen to decay. The wall
which joined the two towers has broken down, and the steps of the
grand spiral staircase, up which we used to climb, have crumbled; only
the main column, built of granite sparkling with silver particles,
which will not fall for many a day, stands stout and sturdy. One of
the stately old doorways remains; but it is only that which leads to
the castle keep--the main entrance must have fallen with the walls
centuries ago. Bits of the old dining-hall are still to be seen--a
huge fireplace, arch-shaped, and a little shrine-like stone erection
in the wall, worn smooth in parts; one can imagine that it was once a
sink for washing dishes in.

It is a drowsy morning; the sun shines hotly on the back of the neck;
and as one sits on a mound of earth in the middle of what was once the
dining-hall, one cannot resist dreaming of the romantic history of
Geneviève de Rustephan, the beautiful lady who lived here long ago. Up
in one of the great rounded towers spotted with orange lichen and
encircled with ivy is a room which must have been her bedchamber. An
ancient chimney-stack rears itself tall and stately, and where once
gray smoke curled and wreathed, proceeding from the well-regulated
kitchen, long feathery grasses grow. All round the castle, in what
must have been the pleasure-gardens, the smooth lawns and the
bowling-green, my lady's rose-garden, etc., are now mounds of earth,
covered with straggling grass, bracken, and blackberry-bushes, and
loose typical Breton stone walls enclosing fields. Horrible to relate,
in the lordly dining-hall, where once the dainty Geneviève sat, is a
fat pig, nozzling in the earth.

Naturally, Rustephan is haunted. If anyone were brave enough to
penetrate the large hall towards midnight (so the peasants say), a
terrible spectacle would be met--a bier covered with a white cloth
carried by priests bearing lighted tapers. On clear moonlight nights,
say the ancients, on the crumbling old terrace, a beautiful girl is to
be seen, pale-faced, and dressed in green satin flowered with gold,
singing sad songs, sobbing and crying. On one occasion the peasants
were dancing on the green turf in front of the towers, and in the
middle of the most animated part of the feast there appeared behind
the crossbars of a window an old priest with shaven head and eyes
as brilliant as diamonds. Terrified, the men and the girls fled, and
never again danced in these haunted regions.

  [Illustration: THE VILLAGE FORGE, PONT-AVEN]

One feels miserable on leaving Pont-Aven. It seems as if you had been
in a quiet and beautiful backwater for a time, and were suddenly going
out into the glare and the noise and the flaunting airs of a
fashionable regatta. I can describe the sensation in no other way.
There is something in the air of Pont-Aven that makes it like no other
place in the world.

  [Illustration: THE VILLAGE COBBLER]

CHAPTER XIII

QUIMPERLÉ

Quimperlé is known as the Arcadia of Basse Bretagne, and certainly the
name is well deserved. I have never seen a town so full of trees and
trailing plants and gardens. Every wall is green with moss and gay
with masses of convolvulus and nasturtium. Flowers grow rampant in
Quimperlé, and overrun their boundaries. Every window-sill has its row
of pink ivy-leafed geraniums, climbing down and over the gray stone
wall beneath; every wall has its wreaths of trailing flowers.

There are flights of steps everywhere--favourite caprices of the
primitive architects--divided in the middle by iron railings. Up these
steps all the housewives must go to reach the market. On either side
the houses crowd, one above the other, with their steep garden walls,
sometimes intercepted by iron gateways, and sometimes covered by
blood-red leaves and yellowing vines. Some are houses of the Middle
Ages, and some of the Renaissance period, with sculptured porches and
panes of bottle-glass; a few have terraces at the end of the gardens,
over which clematis climbs. Here and there the sun lights up a corner
of a façade, or shines on the emerald leaves, making them scintillate.
Down the steps a girl in white-winged cap and snowy apron, with pink
ribbon at her neck, carrying a large black two-handled basket, is
coming on her way from market.

Having scaled this long flight of steps, you find yourself face to
face with the old Gothic church of St. Michael, a grayish-pink
building with one great square tower and four turrets. The porch is
sculptured in a rich profusion of graceful details. Here and there
yellow moss grows, and there are clusters of fern in the niches.
Inside, the church was suffused with a purple light shed by the sun
through the stained-glass windows; the ceiling was of infinite blue.
Everything was transformed by the strange purple light. The beautiful
carving round the walls, the host of straight-backed praying-chairs,
and even the green curtain of the confessional boxes, were changed to
royal purple. Only the altar, with its snowy-white cloths and red and
gold ornaments, retained its colour. Jutting forth from the church of
St. Michael are arms or branches connecting it with the village, as
if it were some mother bird protecting the young ones beneath her
wings. Under these wings the houses of the village cluster.

It is five o'clock in the afternoon, the sociable hour, when people
sit outside their cottage doors, knitting, gossiping, watching the
children play, and eating the evening meal. Most of the children, who
are many, are very nearly of the same age. Clusters of fair curly
heads are seen in the road. The youngest, the baby, is generally held
by some old woman, probably the grandmother, who has a shrivelled
yellow face--a very tender guardian.

Over the doorways of the shops hang branches of withered mistletoe.
Through the long low windows, which have broad sills, you catch a
glimpse of rows and rows of bottles. These are wine-shops--no rarities
in a Breton village. Another shop evidently belonged to the church at
one time. It still possesses a rounded ecclesiastical doorway, built
of solid blocks of stone, and the walls, which were white originally,
are stained green with age. The windows, as high as your waist from
the ground, have broad stone sills, on which are arranged carrots and
onions, coloured sweets in bottles, and packets of tobacco. This shop
evidently supplies everything that a human being can desire. Above it
you read: 'Café on sert a boire et a manger.'

While we were in Quimperlé there were two musicians making a round of
the town. One, with a swarthy face, was blind, and sang a weird song
in a minor key, beating a triangle. The other, who looked an Italian,
was raggedly dressed in an old fur coat and a faded felt hat. His
musical performance was a veritable gymnastic feat. In his hands he
held a large concertina, which he played most cleverly; at his back
was a drum with automatic sticks and clappers, which he worked with
his feet. It was the kind of music one hears at fairs. Wherever we
went we heard it, sometimes so near that we could catch the tune,
sometimes at a distance, when only the dull boom of the drum was
distinguishable.

Whenever I think of Quimperlé this strange music and the spectacle of
those two picturesque figures come back to memory. The men are well
known in Brittany. They spend their lives travelling from place to
place, earning a hard livelihood. When I was at school in Quimper I
used to hear the same tune played by the same men outside the convent
walls.

  [Illustration: THE BLIND PIPER]

Quimperlé is a sleepy place, changing very little with the years. In
spite of the up-to-date railway-station, moss still grows between the
pavings of the streets. The houses have still their picturesque wooden
gables; the gardens are laden with fruit-trees; the hills are rich in
colour. Flowers that love the damp grow luxuriantly. It is an arcadian
country. The place is hostile to work. In this tranquil town, almost
voluptuous in its richness of colour and balminess of atmosphere, you
lose yourself in laziness. There is not a discordant note, nothing to
shock the eye or grate on the senses. Far from the noise of Paris, the
stuffy air of the boulevards, the never-ending rattle of the fiacres,
and the rasping cries of the camelot, you forget the seething world
outside.

In the Rue du Château, the aristocratic quarter, are many spacious
domains with doorways surmounted by coats of arms and coronets. Most
of them have closed shutters, their masters having disappeared,
alienated for ever by the Revolution; but a few great families have
returned to their homes. One sees many women about the church, grave
and sad and prayerful, who still wear black, clinging to God, the
saints, and the priests, as to the only living souvenirs of better
times.

In no other place in Finistère was the Revolution so sudden and so
terrible as in this little town, and nowhere were the nobility so many
and powerful. This old Rue du Château must have rung with furious
cries on the day when the federators returned from the fête of the
Champs de Mars after the abolition of all titles and the people took
the law into their own hands. The Bretons are slow to anger; but when
roused they are extremely violent. They not only attacked the
living--the nobles in their seignorial hotels--but also they went to
the tombs and mutilated the dead with sabre cuts.

In Quimperlé the painter finds pictures at every turn. For example,
there are clear sinuous streams crossed by many bridges, not unlike
by-canals in Venice. As you look up the river the bank is a jumble of
sloping roofs, protruding balconies, single-arched bridges, trees, and
clumps of greenery. The houses on either side, gray and turreted,
bathe their foundations in the stream. Some have steep garden walls,
velvety with green and yellow moss and lichen; others have terraces
and jutting stone balconies, almost smothered by trailing vines and
clematis, drooping over the gray water. The stream is very shallow,
showing clearly the brown and golden bed; and on low stone benches at
the edge girls in little close white caps and blue aprons are busily
washing with bare round arms. A pretty little maid with jet-black hair
is cleaning some pink stuff on a great slab of stone, against a
background of gray wall over which convolvulus and nasturtium are
trailing; a string of white linen is suspended above her head. This is
a delightful picture. It is a gray day, sunless; but the gray is
luminous, and the reflections in the water are clear.

  [Illustration: AT THE FOIRE]

CHAPTER XIV

AURAY

When we arrived in Auray it was market-day, and chatter filled the
streets. There were avenues of women ranged along the pavement, their
round wicker baskets full of lettuce, cabbages, carrots, turnips,
chestnuts, pears, and what not--women in white flimsy caps, coloured
cross-over shawls, and sombre black dresses. Their aprons were of many
colours--reds, mauves, blues, maroons, and greens--and the wares also
were of various hues. All the women knit between the intervals of
selling, and even during the discussion of a bargain, for a purchase
in Brittany is no small matter in the opinion of housewives, and
engenders a great deal of conversation. All the feminine world of
Auray seemed to have sallied forth that morning. Processions of them
passed down the avenue of market women, most of them peasants in the
cap of Auray, with snuff-coloured, large-bibbed aprons, carrying bulky
black baskets with double handles.

Now and then one saw a Frenchwoman walking through the avenue of
vegetables, just as good at bargaining, just as keen-eyed and
sharp-tongued, as her humbler sisters. Sometimes she was pretty,
walking with an easy swinging gait, her baby on one arm, her basket on
the other, in a short trim skirt and altogether neatly dressed. More
often she was dressed in unbecoming colours, her hair untidily
arranged, her skirt trailing in the mud--a striking contrast to the
well-to-do young Breton matron, with neatly braided black hair and
clean rosy face, her white-winged lawn cap floating in the breeze, her
red shawl neatly crossed over her lace-trimmed corsage. In her black
velvet-braided skirt and wooden sabots the Breton is a dainty little
figure, her only lapse into frivolity consisting of a gold chain at
her neck and gold earrings.

Vegetables do not engender much conversation in a Breton market: they
are served out and paid for very calmly. It is over the skeins of
coloured wool, silks, and laces, that there is much bargaining. Round
these stalls you will see girls and old hags face to face, and almost
nose to nose, their arms crossed, speaking rapidly in shrill voices.

  [Illustration: MID-DAY]

Just after walking past rows of very ordinary houses, suddenly you
will come across a really fine old mansion, dating from the
seventeenth century, white-faced, with ancient black beams, gables,
and diamond panes. Then, just as you think that you have exhausted the
resources of the town, and turn down a moss-grown alley homewards, you
find yourself face to face with another town, typically Breton,
white-faced and gray-roofed, clustering round a church and surrounded
by old moss-grown walls. This little town is situated far down in a
valley, into which you descend by a sloping green path. We sat on a
stone bench above, and watched the people as they passed before us.
There were bare-legged school-children in their black pinafores and
red berés, hurrying home to _déjeuner_, swinging their satchels; and
beggars, ragged and dirty, holding towards us tin cups and greasy
caps, with many groans and whines. One man held a baby on his arm, and
in the other hand a loaf of bread. The baby's face was dirty and
covered with sores; but its hair was golden and curly, and the sight
of that fair sweet head nodding over the father's shoulder as they
went down the hill made one's heart ache. It was terrible to think
that an innocent child could be so put out of touch with decent
humanity.

To reach this little town one had to cross a sluggish river by a
pretty gray stone bridge. Some of the houses were quaint and
picturesque, mostly with two stories, one projecting over the other,
and low windows with broad sills, bricked down to the ground, on which
were arranged pots of fuchsias, pink and white geraniums, and
red-brown begonias. Nearly every house had its broad stone stoop, or
settle, on which the various families sat in the warm afternoon
drinking bowls of soup and eating _tartines de beurre_.

It is a notably provincial little town, full of flowers and green
trees, and dark, narrow streets, across which hang audaciously strings
of drying linen. All the children of the community appeared to be out
and about--some skipping, others playing at peg-tops, and others
merely sucking their fingers and their pinafores in the way that
children have. One sweet child in a red pinafore, her hair plaited
into four little tails tied with red ribbon, clasped a slice of
bread-and-butter (butter side inwards, of course) to her chest, and
was carelessly peeling an apple with a long knife at the same time, in
such a way as to make my heart leap.

A happy wedding-party were swinging gaily along the quay arm in arm,
singing some rollicking Breton chanson, and all rather affected by
their visits to the various _débits de boissons_. There were two men
and two women--the men fair and bearded, wearing peaked caps; the
women in their best lace coifs and smartest aprons. As they passed
everyone turned and pointed and laughed. It was probably a three days'
wedding.

A mite of a girl walking gingerly along the street carried a bottle of
ink ever so carefully, biting her lips in her anxiety to hold it
steadily. Round her neck, on a sky-blue ribbon, hung a gorgeous silver
cross, testifying to good behaviour during the week. Alack! a tragedy
was in store. The steps leading to the doorway of her home were steep,
and the small person's legs were short and fat. She tripped and fell,
and the ink was spilled--a large, indelible, angry black spot on the
clean white step. Fearfully and pale-faced, the little maid looked
anxiously about her, and strove to put the ink back again by means of
a dry stick, staining fingers and pinafore the more. It was of no
avail. Her mother had seen her. Out she rushed, a pleasant-faced woman
in a white lace cap, now wearing a ferocious expression.

'Monster that thou art!' she cried, lifting the tearful,
ink-bespattered child by the armpits, and throwing her roughly
indoors, whence piteous sounds of sobbing and wailing ensued.

The child's heart was broken; the silver cross had lost its charm; and
the sun had left the heavens. The mother, busily bending over her
sewing-machine, looked up at us through the window, and smiled
understandingly.

  [Illustration: A LITTLE MOTHER]

CHAPTER XV

BELLE ISLE

As a rule, a country becomes more interesting as one draws near to the
sea; the colouring is more beautiful and the people are more
picturesque. It is strange that the salt air should have such a
mellowing effect upon a town and its inhabitants; but there is no
doubt that it has. This seemed especially remarkable to us, coming
straight from Carnac, that flat, gray, treeless country where the
people are sad and stolid, and one's only interest is in the dolmens
and menhirs scattered over the landscape--strange blocks of stone
about which one knows little, but imagines much.

When you come from a country such as this, you cannot but be struck by
the warmth and wealth of colouring which the sea imparts to everything
in its vicinity. Even the men and women grouped in knots on the pier
were more picturesque, with their sun-bleached, tawny, red-gold hair,
and their blue eyes, than the people of Carnac. The men were handsome
fellows--some in brown and orange clothing, toned and stained by the
sea; others in deep-blue much bepatched coats and yellow oilskin
trousers. Their complexions had a healthy reddish tinge--a warmth of
hue such as one rarely sees in Brittany.

The colouring of the Bay of Quiberon on this particular afternoon was
a tender pale mother-of-pearl. The sky was for the most part a broad,
fair expanse of gray, with, just where the sun was setting, intervals
of eggshell blue and palest lemon-yellows breaking through the drab;
the sands were silvery; the low-lying ground was a dim gold; the water
was gray, with purple and lemon-yellow reflections. The whole scene
was broad and fair. The people on the pier and the boats on the water
formed notes of luscious colour. The fishing-boats at anchor were of a
brilliant green, with vermilion and orange sails and nets a gauzy
blue. Ahead, on the brown rocks, although it was the calmest and best
of weather, white waves were breaking and sending foam and spray high
into the air. There was everywhere a fresh smell of salt.

  [Illustration: CURIOSITY]

We were anxious to go across to Belle Isle that night, and took
tickets for a small, evil-smelling boat, the cargo of which was mostly
soldiers. It was rather a rough crossing, and we lay in the
stuffy cabin longing to go on deck to see the sunset, which, by
glimpses through the portholes, we could tell to be painting sea and
sky in tones of flame. At last the spirit conquered the flesh, and,
worried with the constant opening and shutting of doors by the noisy
steward, we went on deck. A fine sight awaited us. From pearly grays
and tender tones we had emerged into the fiery glories of a sunset
sky. Behind us lay the dark gray-blue sea and the darker sky, flecked
by pale pink clouds. Before us, the sun was shooting forth broad
streaks of orange and vermilion on a ground of Venetian blue. Towards
the horizon the colouring paled to tender pinks and lemon-yellows. As
the little steamer ploughed on, Belle Isle rose into sight, a dark
purple streak with tracts of lemon-gold and rosy clouds. The nearer we
drew the lower sank the sun, until at last it set redly behind the
island, picking out every point and promontory and every pine standing
stiff against the sky.

Each moment the island loomed larger and darker, orange light shining
out here and there in the mass. We were astonished by its size, for I
had always imagined Belle Isle as being a miniature place belonging
entirely to Mme. Bernhardt. The entrance to the bay was narrow, and
lay between two piers, with lights on either end; and it was a strange
sensation leaving the grays and blues and purples, the silvery
moonlight, and the tall-masted boats behind us, and emerging into this
warmth and wealth of colouring. A wonderful orange and red light shone
behind the dark mass of the island, turning the water of the bay to
molten gold and glorifying the red-sailed fishing-boats at anchor. As
we drew near the shore, piercing shrieks came from the funnel. There
appeared to be some difficulty about landing. Many directions were
shouted by the captain and repeated by a shrill-voiced boy before we
were allowed to step on shore over a precarious plank. Once landed, we
were met by a brown-faced, sturdy woman, who picked up our trunks and
shouldered them as if they were feather-weights for a distance of half
a mile or so. She led the way to the hotel.

Next morning was dismal; but, as we had only twenty-four hours to
spend in Belle Isle, we hired a carriage to take us to the home of
Mme. Bernhardt, and faced the weather. The sky was gray; the country
flat and bare, though interesting in a melancholy fashion. The
scenery consisted of mounds of brown overturned earth laid in regular
rows in the fields, scrubby ground half-overgrown by gorse, clusters
of dark pines, and a dreary windmill here and there. Now and then, by
way of incident, we passed a group of white houses, surrounded by
sad-coloured haystacks, and a few darkly-clad figures hurrying over
the fields with umbrellas up, on their way to church. The Breton
peasants are so pious that, no matter how far away from a town or
village they may live, they attend Mass at least once on Sunday. A
small procession passed us on the road--young men in their best black
broadcloth suits, and girls in bright shawls and velvet-bound
petticoats. This was a christening procession--at least, we imagined
it to be so; for one of the girls carried a long white bundle under an
umbrella. Bretons are christened within twenty-four hours of birth.

The home of Mme. Bernhardt is a square fortress-like building, shut up
during the autumn, with a beautifully-designed terrace garden. It is
situated on a breezy promontory, and the great actress is in sole
possession of a little bay wherein the sea flows smoothly and greenly
on the yellow sands, and the massive purple rocks loom threateningly
on either side with many a craggy peak. Her dogs, large Danish
boarhounds, rushed out, barking furiously, at our approach; her sheep
and some small ponies were grazing on the scanty grass.

Our driver was taciturn. He seemed to be tuned into accord with the
desolate day, and would vouchsafe no more than a grudging 'Oui' or
'Non' to our many questions, refusing point-blank to tell us to what
places he intended driving us. At length he stopped the carriage on a
cliff almost at the edge of a precipice. Thoughts that he was perhaps
insane ran through my mind, and I stepped out hurriedly; but his
intention was only to show us some cavern below. Mother preferred to
remain above-ground; but, led by the driver, I went down some steps
cut in the solid rock, rather slippery and steep, with on one side a
sheer wall of rock, and the ocean on the other. The rock was dark
green and flaky, with here and there veins of glistening pink and
white mica. Lower and lower we descended, until it seemed as if we
were stepping straight into the sea, which foamed against the great
rocks, barring the entrance to the cavern.

  [Illustration: A SOLITARY MEAL]

The cavern itself was like a colossal railway-arch towering hundreds
of feet overhead; and against this and the rocks at the entrance
the sea beat with much noise and splash, falling again with a groan in
a mass of spray. Inside the cavern the tumult was deafening; but never
have I seen anything more beautiful than those waves creaming and
foaming over the green rocks, the blood-red walls of the cave rising
sheer above, flecked with glistening mica. It was a contrast with the
tame, flat, sad scenery over which we had been driving all the
morning. This was Nature at her biggest and best, belittling
everything one had ever seen or was likely to see, making one feel
small and insignificant.

By-and-by we drove to a village away down in a hollow, a typical
Breton fishing-village with yellow and white-faced _auberges_, and
rows of boats moored to the quay, their nets and sails hauled down on
this great day of the week, the Sabbath. As there was no hotel in the
place, we entered a clean-looking _auberge_ and asked for luncheon.
The kitchen led out of the little _salle à manger_, and, as the door
was left wide open, we could watch the preparation of our food. We
were to have a very good soup; we saw the master of the house bringing
in freshly-caught fish, which were grilled at the open fireplace, and
fresh sardines; and we heard our chicken frizzling on the spit. We
saw the coffee-beans being roasted, and we were given the most
exquisite pears and apples. Small matter that our room was shared by
noisy soldiers, and that Adolphus (as we had named our driver) entered
and drank before our very eyes more cognac than was good for him or
reasonable on our bill.

Sunday afternoon in Belle Isle is a fashionable time. Between three
and four people go down to the quay, clattering over the cobble stones
in their best black sabots, to watch the steamers come in from
Quiberon. You see girls in fresh white caps and neat black dresses,
spruce soldiers, ladies _à la mode_ in extravagant headgear and loud
plaid or check dresses. On the quay they buy hot chestnuts. From our
hotel we could watch the people as they passed, and the shopkeepers
sitting and gossiping outside their doors. Opposite us was a souvenir
shop, on the steps of which sat the proprietor with his boy. Very
proud he was of the child--quite an ordinary spoiled child, much
dressed up. The father followed the boy with his eyes wherever he
went. He pretended to scold him for not getting out of the way when
people passed, to attract their attention to the child. He greeted
every remark with peals of laughter, and repeated the witticisms to
his friend the butcher next door, who did not seem to appreciate them.
Every now and then he would glance over to see if the butcher were
amused. French people, especially Bretons, are devoted to their
children.

I was much amused in watching the little _bonne_ at the hotel who
carried our luggage the night before. She was quaint, compact, sturdy.
She would carry a huge valise on her shoulder, or sometimes one in
either hand. She ordered her husband about. She dressed her child in a
shining black hat, cleaned its face with her pocket-handkerchief,
straightened its pinafore, and sent it _en promenade_ with papa, while
she herself stumped off to carry more luggage. There was apparently no
end to her strength. On her way indoors she paused on the step and
cast a loving glance over her shoulder at the back view of her husband
in his neatly-patched blue blouse and the little child in the black
_sarrau_ walking sedately down the road. She seemed so proud of the
pair that we could not resist asking the woman if the child were hers,
just to see the glad smile which lit up her face as she answered,
'Oui, mesdames!' I have often noticed how lenient Breton women are to
their children. They will speak in a big voice and frown, and a child
imagines that Mother is in a towering rage; but you will see her turn
round the next moment and smile at the bystander. If children only
knew their power, how little influence parents would have over them!

The French differ from the British in the matter of emotion. On the
steamer from Belle Isle to Quiberon there were some soldiers, about to
travel with us, who were being seen off by four or five others
standing on the quay. Slouching, unmilitary figures they looked, with
baggy red trousers tied up at the bottoms, faded blue coats, and
postmen-shaped hats, yellow, red, or blue pom-pom on top. One of the
men on shore was a special friend of a soldier who was leaving. I was
on tenter-hooks lest he should embrace him; he almost did so. He
squeezed his hand; he picked fluff off his clothes; he straightened
his hat. He repeatedly begged that his 'cher ami' would come over on
the following Sunday to Belle Isle. Tears were very near his eyes; he
was forced to bite his handkerchief to keep them back. When the boat
moved away, and they could join hands no longer, the soldiers blew
kisses over the water to one another. They opened their arms
wide, shouted affectionate messages, and called one another by
endearing terms. Altogether, they carried on as if they were neurotic
girls rather than soldiers who had their way to make and their country
to think of.

  [Illustration: IN THE BOIS D'AMOUR]

There was one man superior to his fellows. He held the same rank, and
wore the same uniform; but he kept his buttons and his brass belt
bright; he wore silk socks, and carried a gold watch under his
military coat; his face was intelligent.

CHAPTER XVI

ST. ANNE D'AURAY

Not far from the little town of Auray is the magnificent cathedral of
St. Anne D'Auray, to which so many thousands from all over Brittany
come annually to worship at the shrine of St. Anne. From all parts of
the country they arrive--some on foot, others on horseback, or in
strange country carts: marquises in their carriages; peasants plodding
many a weary mile in their wooden sabots. Even old men and women will
walk all through the day and night in order to be in time for the
pardon of St. Anne.

The Breton people firmly believe that their household cannot prosper,
that their cattle and their crops cannot thrive, that their ships are
not safe at sea, unless they have been at least once a year to burn
candles at the shrine. The wealthy bourgeois's daughter, in her new
dress, smart apron, and Paris shoes, kneels side by side with a ragged
beggar; the peasant farmer, with long gray hair, white jacket,
breeches and leather belt, mingles his supplications with those of a
nobleman's son. All are equal here; all have come in the same humble,
repentant spirit; for the time being class distinctions are swept
away. Noble and peasant crave their special boons; each confesses his
sins of the past year; all stand bareheaded in the sunshine, humble
petitioners to St. Anne.

At the time of the pardon, July 25, the ordinarily quiet town is
filled to overflowing. There is a magnificent procession, all green
and gold and crimson, headed by the Bishop of Vannes. A medley of
people come from all parts to pray in the cathedral, and to bathe in
the miraculous well, the water of which will cure any ailment.

It is said that in the seventh century St. Anne appeared to one
Nicolazic, a farmer, and commanded him to dig in a field near by for
her image. This having been found, she bade him erect a chapel on the
spot to her memory. Several chapels were afterwards built, each in its
turn grander and more important, until at last the magnificent church
now standing was erected. On the open place in front is a circle of
small covered-in stalls, where chaplets, statuettes, tall wax
candles, rings, and sacred ornaments of all kinds, are sold.

  [Illustration: A BRETON FARMER]

Directly you appear within that circle, long doleful cries are set up
from every vendor, announcing the various wares that he or she has for
sale. You are offered rosaries for sixpence, and for four sous extra
you can have them blessed. A statue of the Virgin can be procured for
fourpence; likewise the image of St. Anne. Wherever you may go in the
circle, you are pestered by these noisy traders. There is something
incongruous in such sacred things being hawked about the streets, and
their various merits shrieked at you as you pass. We went to a shop
near by, where we could look at the objects quietly and at leisure.

The church, built of light-gray stone, is full of the richest
treasures you can imagine--gold, jewels, precious marbles, and
priceless pictures. One feels almost surfeited by so much
magnificence. Every square inch of the walls is covered with slabs of
costly marble, on which are inscribed, in letters of gold, thanks to
St. Anne for benefits bestowed and petitions for blessings.

Although one cannot but be touched by the worship of St. Anne and the
simple belief of the people in her power to cure all, to accomplish
all, one is a little upset by these costly offerings. Nevertheless, it
is a marvellous faith, this Roman Catholic religion: the more you
travel in a country like Brittany, the more you realize it. There must
be a great power in a religion that draws people hundreds of miles on
foot, and enables them, after hours of weary tramping, to spend a day
praying on the hard stones before the statue of a saint.

CHAPTER XVII

ST. MALO

When you are nearing the coast of France all you can see is a long
narrow line, without relief, apparently without design, without
character, just a sombre strip of horizon; but St. Malo is always
visible. A fine needle-point breaks the uninteresting line: it is the
belfry of St. Malo. To left and right of the town is a cluster of
islands, dark masses of rock over which the waves foam whitely. St.
Malo is magnificently fortified. It is literally crowned with military
defences. It is a mass of formidable fortresses, rigid angles, and
severe gray walls. It speaks of the seventeenth century, telling of a
time when deeds of prowess were familiar. The sea, which is flowing,
beats furiously against the walls of defence, protected by the trunks
of great trees planted in the sand. These gigantic battalions stop the
inrush of the water, and would make landing more arduous to an enemy.
They have a bizarre effect when seen from the distance.

The town defied all the efforts of the English to capture her. On one
occasion they laid mines as far as the Porte of St. Malo; but the
Virgin, enshrined above the gate, and ever watching over the people,
disclosed the plot by unfolding her arms and pointing with one hand to
the ground beneath her. The Bretons dug where she pointed, and
discovered their imminent peril. Thus was the city saved. To-day the
shrine receives the highest honours, and is adorned with the finest
and sweetest flowers.

For one reason at least St. Malo is unique. It is a town of some
thousand inhabitants; yet it is still surrounded by mediæval walls. Of
all the towns in Brittany, St. Malo is the only one which still
remains narrowly enclosed within walls. It is surrounded by the sea
except for a narrow neck of land joining the city to the mainland.
This is guarded at low tide by a large and fierce bulldog, the image
of which has been added to St. Malo's coat of arms. Enclosed within a
narrow circle of walls, and being unable to expand, the town is
peculiar. The houses are higher than usual, and the streets narrower.
There is no waste ground in St. Malo. Every available inch is built
upon. The sombre streets run uphill and downhill. There is no
town like St. Malo. Its quaint, tortuous streets, of corkscrew form,
culminate in the cathedral, which, as you draw near, does not seem to
be a cathedral at all, but a strong fort. So narrow are the streets,
and so closely are they gathered round the cathedral, that it is only
when you draw away to some distance that you can see the
beautifully-sculptured stone tower of many points.

  [Illustration: IN THE EYE OF THE SUN]

Up and down the steep street the people clatter in their thick-soled
sabots. It is afternoon, and most of the townspeople have turned out
for a walk, to gaze in the shop windows with their little ones. The
people are rather French; and the children, instead of being clad in
the Breton costume, wear smart kilted skirts, white socks, and shiny
black sailor hats. Still, there is a subtle difference between these
people and the French. You notice this directly you arrive. There is
something solid, something pleasant and unartificial, about them. The
women of the middle classes are much better-looking, and they dress
better; the men are of stronger physique, with straight, clean-cut
features and a powerful look.

Very attractive are these narrow hilly streets, with their throngs of
people and their gay little shops where the wares are always hung
outside--worsted shawls, scarlet and blue berés, Breton china
(decorated by stubby figures of men and women and heraldic devices),
chaplets, shrines to the Virgin Mary, many-coloured cards, religious
and otherwise.

  [Illustration: SUNDAY]

There are a few houses which perpetuate the past. You are shown the
house of Queen Anne, the good Duchess Anne, a house with Gothic
windows, flanked by a tower, blackened and strangely buffeted by the
blows of time. Queen Anne was a marvellous woman, and has left her
mark. Her memory is kept green by the lasting good that she achieved.
From town to town she travelled during the whole of her reign, for she
felt that to rule well and wisely she must be ever in close touch with
her people. No woman was more beloved by the populace. Everywhere she
went she was fêted and adored. She ruled her province with a rod of
iron; yet she showed herself to be in many ways wonderfully feminine.
Nothing could have been finer than the act of uniting Brittany with
France by giving up her crown to France and remaining only the Duchess
Anne. In almost every town in Brittany there is a Queen Anne House, a
house which the good Queen either built herself or stayed in.
Everywhere she went she constructed something--a church, a
chapel, an oratory, a _calvaire_, a house, a tomb--by which she was to
be remembered. There is, for example, the famous tower which she
built, in spite of all malcontents, not so much in order to add to the
defences of St. Malo as to rebuke the people for their turbulence and
rebellion. Her words concerning it ring through the ages, and will
never be forgotten:

     'Quic en groigneir
        Ainsy ser
     C'est mon playsir.'

Ever since the tower has gone by the name of 'Quiquengroigne.'

There are three names, three figures, of which St. Malo is proud; the
birthplaces are pointed out to the stranger fondly. One is that of the
Duchess Anne; another that of Duguay-Trouin; last, but not least, we
have Chateaubriand. Of the three, perhaps the picturesque figure of
Duguay-Trouin charms one most. From my earliest days I have loved
stories of the gallant sailor, whose adventures and mishaps are as
fascinating as those of Sinbad. I have always pictured him as a heroic
figure on the bridge of a vessel, wearing a powdered wig, a lace
scarf, and the dress of the period, winning victory after victory,
and shattering fleets. It is disappointing to realize that this hero
lived in the Rue Jean de Chatillon, in a three-storied, time-worn
house with projecting windows, lozenge-paned. Of Chateaubriand I know
little; but his birthplace is in St. Malo, for all who come to see.

What a revelation it is, after winding up the narrow, steep streets of
St. Malo, suddenly to behold, framed in an archway of the old mediæval
walls, the sea! There is a greeny-blue haze so vast that it is
difficult to trace where the sea ends and the sky begins. The beach is
of a pale yellow-brown where the waves have left it, and pink as it
meets the water. At a little distance is an island of russet-brown
rocks, half-covered with seaweed; at the base is a circle of tawny
sand, and at the summit yellow-green grass is growing.

  [Illustration: THE CRADLE]

CHAPTER XVIII

MONT ST. MICHEL

The road to Mont St. Michel is colourless and dreary. On either side
are flat gray marshes, with little patches of scrubby grass. Here and
there a few sheep are grazing. How the poor beasts can find anything
to eat at all on such barren land is a marvel. Gradually the scenery
becomes drearier, until at last you are driving on a narrow causeway,
with a river on one side and a wilderness of treacherous sand on the
other.

Suddenly, on turning a corner, you come within view of Mont St.
Michel. No matter how well prepared you may be for the apparition, no
matter what descriptions you may have read or heard beforehand, when
you see that three-cornered mass of stone rising from out the vast
wilderness of sand, you cannot but be astonished and overwhelmed. You
are tempted to attribute this bizarre achievement to the hand of the
magician. It is uncanny.

Just now it is low tide, and the Mount lies in the midst of an
immense moving plain, on which three rivers twist, like narrow threads
intersecting it--Le Conesnon, La Sée, and La Seline. Several dark
islands lie here and there uncovered, and groups of small boats are
left high and dry. It is fascinating to watch the sea coming up,
appearing like a circle on the horizon, and slipping gently over the
sands, the circle ever narrowing, until the islands are covered once
more, the boats float at anchor, and the waves precipitate themselves
with a loud booming sound, heard for miles round, against the double
walls that protect the sacred Mount.

Many are the praises that have been sung of Mont St. Michel by poets
and artists, by historians and architects. She has been called 'A poem
in stone,' 'Le palais des angles,' 'An inspiration of the Divine,' 'La
cité des livres,' 'Le boulevard de la France,' 'The sacred mount,'
etc. Normandy and Brittany dispute her. She is in the possession of
either, as you will.

  [Illustration: SOUPE MAIGRE]

Mont St. Michel is not unlike Gibraltar. As you come suddenly upon the
place, rising from out the misty grayish-yellow, low-lying marshes, it
appears to be a dark three-cornered mass, surrounded by stout brownish
battlemented walls, flanked by rounded turrets, against a
background of blue sky. At the base of the Mount lies the city, the
houses built steeply one above the other, some with brownish
lichen-covered roofs, others of modern slate. Above the city is the
monastery--brown walls, angry and formidable, rising steeply, with
many windows and huge buttresses. Beyond, on the topmost point, is the
grand basilica consecrated to the archangel, the greenish light of
whose windows you can see clearly. Above all rises a tall gray spire
culminating in a golden figure.

There is only one entrance to Mont St. Michel--over a footbridge and
beneath a solid stone archway, from which the figure of the Virgin in
a niche looks down. You find yourself in a narrow, steep street, black
and dark with age, and crowded with shops and bazaars and cafés. The
town appears to be given up to the amusement and entertainment of
visitors; and, as St. Michael is the guardian saint of all strangers
and pilgrims, I suppose this is appropriate. Tourists fill the streets
and overflow the hotels and cafés; the town seems to live, thrive, and
have its being entirely for the tourists. Outside every house hangs a
sign advertising coffee or china or curios, as the case may be, and
so narrow is the street that the signs on either side meet.

Your first thought on arriving is about getting something to eat. The
journey from St. Malo is long, and, although the sun is shining and
the sky is azure blue, the air is biting. Of course, everyone who
comes to the Mount has heard of Mme. Poulard. She is as distinctly an
institution as the very walls and fortresses. All know of her famous
coffee and delicious omelettes; all have heard of her charm. It is
quite an open question whether the people flock there in hundreds on a
Sunday morning for the sake of Mme. Poulard's luncheon or for the
attractions of Mont St. Michel itself. There she stands in the doorway
of her hotel, smiling, gracious, affable, handsome. No one has ever
seen Mme. Poulard ruffled or put out. However many unexpected visitors
may arrive, she greets them all with a smile and words of welcome.

We were amid a very large stream of guests; yet she showed us into her
great roomy kitchen, and seated us before the huge fireplace, where a
brace of chickens, steaming on a spit, were being continually basted
with butter by stout, gray-haired M. Poulard. She found time to
inquire about our journey and our programme for the day, and directed
us to the various show-places of the Mount.

There is only one street of any importance in Mont St. Michel, dark
and dim, very narrow, no wider than a yard and a half; a drain runs
down the middle. Here you find yourself in an absolute wilderness of
Poulard. You are puzzled by the variety and the relations of the
Poulards. Poulard greets you everywhere, written in large black
letters on a white ground.

If you mount some steps and turn a corner suddenly, Poulard _frère_
greets you; if you go for a harmless walk on the ramparts, the
renowned coffee of Poulard _veuve_ hits you in the face. Each one
strives to be the right and only Poulard. You struggle to detach
yourselves from these Poulards. You go through a fine mediæval
archway, past shops where valueless, foolish curios are for sale; you
scramble up picturesque steps, only to be told once more in glaring
letters that POULARD spells Poulard.

A very picturesque street is the main thoroughfare of Mont St. Michel,
mounting higher and higher, with tall gray-stone and wooden houses on
either side, the roofs of which often meet overhead. Each window has
its pots of geraniums and its show of curios and useless baubles.
Fish-baskets hang on either side of the doors. Some of the houses have
terrace gardens, small bits of level places cut into the rock, where
roses grow and trailing clematis. Ivy mainly runs riot over every
stone and rock and available wall. The houses are built into the solid
rock one above another, and many of them retain their air of the
fourteenth or the fifteenth century.

You pass a church of Jeanne d'Arc. A bronze statue of the saint stands
outside the door. One always goes upwards in Mont St. Michel, seeing
the dark purplish-pink mass of the grand old church above you, with
its many spires of sculptured stone. Stone steps lead to the ramparts.
Here you can lean over the balustrade and look down upon the waste of
sand surrounding Mont St. Michel. All is absolutely calm and
noiseless. Immediately below is the town, its clusters of new
gray-slate roofs mingling with those covered in yellow lichen and
green moss; also the church of the village, looking like a child's
plaything perched on the mountain-side. Beyond and all around lies a
sad, monotonous stretch of pearl-gray sand, with only a darkish,
narrow strip of land between it and the leaden sky--the coast of
Normandy. Sea-birds passing over the country give forth a doleful
wail. The only signs of humanity at all in the immensity of this great
plain are some little black specks--men and women searching for
shellfish, delving in the sand and trying to earn a livelihood in the
forbidding waste.

  [Illustration: DÉJEUNER]

The melancholy of the place is terrible. I have seen people of the
gayest-hearted natures lean over that parapet and gaze ahead for
hours. This great gray plain has a strange attraction. It draws out
all that is sad and serious from the very depths of you, forcing you
to think deeply, moodily. Joyous thoughts are impossible. At first you
imagine that the scenery is colourless; but as you stand and watch for
some time, you discover that it is full of colour. There are pearly
greens and yellows and mauves, and a kind of phosphorescent slime left
by the tide, glistening with all the hues of the rainbow.

Terribly dangerous are these shifting sands. In attempting to cross
them you need an experienced guide. The sea mounts very quickly, and
mists overtake you unexpectedly. Many assailants of the rock have been
swallowed in the treacherous sands.

Being on this great height reminded me of a legend I had heard of the
sculptor Gautier, a man of genius, who was shut up in the Abbey of
Mont St. Michel and carved stones to keep himself from going mad--you
can see these in the abbey to this day. For some slight reason
François I. threw the unfortunate sculptor into the black cachot of
the Mount, and there he was left in solitude, to die by degrees. His
hair became quite white, and hung long over his shoulders; his cheeks
were haggard; he grew to look like a ghost. His youth could no longer
fight against the despair overhanging him; his miseries were too great
for him to bear; he became almost insane. One day, by a miracle, Mass
was held, not in the little dark chapel under the crypts, but in the
church on high, on the topmost pinnacle of the Mount. It was a Sunday,
a fête-day. The sun shone, not feebly, as I saw it that day, but
radiantly, the windows of the church glistening. It was blindingly
beautiful. The joy of life surrounded him; the sweetness and freshness
of the spring was in the air. The irony of men and things was too
great for his poor sorrow-laden brain. He cleared the parapet, and was
dashed to atoms below. Poor Gautier! It was his only chance of escape.
One realized that as one looked up at those immense prison walls,
black and frowning, sheer and unscaleable, every window grated and
barred. What chance would a prisoner have? If it were possible for him
to escape from the prison itself, there would be the town below to
pass through. Only one narrow causeway joins the island to the
mainland, and all round there is nothing but sea and sandy wastes.

  [Illustration: A FARMHOUSE KITCHEN]

I was disturbed in my reverie by a loud nasal voice shouting, 'Par
ici, messieurs et dames, s'il vous plaît.' It was the guide, and
willy-nilly we must go and make the rounds of the abbey among a crowd
of other sightseers. An old blind woman on the abbey steps, evidently
knowing that we were English by our tread, moistened her lips and drew
in her breath in preparation for a begging whine as we approached. We
passed through a huge red door of a glorious colour, up a noble flight
of wide steps, with hundreds of feet of wall on either side, into a
lofty chapel, falling to decay, and being renovated in parts. It was
of a ghostly greenish stone, with fluted pillars of colossal height,
ending in stained-glass windows and a vaulted roof, about which
black-winged bats were flying. Room after room we passed through, the
guide making endless and monotonous explanations and observations in
a parrot-like voice, until we reached the cloister. This is the pearl
of Mont St. Michel, the wonder of wonders. It is a huge square court.
In the middle of the quadrangle it is open to the sky, and the sun
shines through in a golden blaze. All round are cool dim walks roofed
overhead by gray arches supported by small, graceful, rose-coloured
pillars in pairs. This is continued round the whole length of the
court. Let into the wall are long benches of stone, to which, in olden
days, the monks came to meditate and pray. The ancient atmosphere has
been well preserved; yet the building is so little touched by time,
owing to the careful renovations of a clever architect, that one
almost expects at any moment to see a brown-robed monk disturbed in
his meditations.

From the quiet courtyard we are taken down into the very heart of the
coliseum--into the mysterious cells where the damp of the rock
penetrates the solid stone. How gloomy it was down in these crypts!
Even the names of them made one tremble--'Galerie de l'Aquilon,'
'Petit Exil,' and 'Grand Exil.' You think of Du Bourg, tightly
fettered hand and foot, being eaten alive by rats; of the Comte
Grilles, condemned to die of starvation, being fed by a peasant, who
bravely climbed to his window; of a hundred gruesome tales. There is
the chapel where the last offices of the dead were performed--a cell
in which the light struggled painfully through the narrow windows,
feebly combating with the dark night of the chamber; and there is the
narrow stairway, in the thickness of the wall, by which the bodies of
the prisoners were taken.

We were shown the cachot and the oubliette where the living body of
the prisoner was attacked by rats. That, however, was a simple torture
compared with the strait-jacket and the iron cage. In the oubliette
the miserable men could clasp helpless hands, curse or pray, as the
case might be; but in the iron cage the death agony was prolonged.

Even now, although the poor souls took wings long ago, the cachot and
the oubliette fill you with disgust. You feel stifled there. The
atmosphere is vitiated. Even though centuries have passed since those
terrible times, the walls seem to be still charged with iniquity, with
all the sighs exhaled, with all the smothered cries, with all the
tears, with all the curses of impatient sufferers, with all the
prayers of saints.

It seems impossible to believe, down in the heart of this world of
stone, in the impenetrable darkness, that the architect that designed
this thick and cruel masonry constructed those airy belfries, those
balustrades of lace, those graceful arches, those towers and minarets.
It is as if he had wished to shut up the sorrow and the maniacal cries
of the men who had lost their reason in a fair exterior, attracting
the eyes of the world to that which was beautiful, and making it
forget the misery beneath.

  [Illustration: MARIE]

  [Illustration: A FARM LABOURER]

CHAPTER XIX

CHÂTEAU DES ROCHERS

The name of Mme. Sévigné rings through the ages. Vitré is full of it.
Inhabitants will point out, close to the ruined ramparts, the winter
palace where the _spirituelle Marquise_ received the Breton nobility
and sometimes the Kings of Brittany. To the south they will show you
the Château des Rochers, the princely country residence maintained by
this famous woman. She was a Breton of the Bretons, building and
planting, often working in the fields with her farm hands. She loved
her Château des Rochers. It was a joy to leave the town and the
gaieties of Court for the freshness of the fields and the woods. She
especially liked to be there for the 'Triomphe du mois de Mai'--to
hear the nightingale and the cuckoo saluting spring with song. With
Lafontaine, she found inspiration in the fields; but, as she preserved
a solid fund of Gaelic humour, she laughed also, and the country did
not often make her melancholy. She felt the sadness of autumn in her
woods; but she never became morose. She never wearied of her garden.
She had always some new idea with regard to it--some new plan to lure
her from a letter begun or a book opened. Before reading the memoirs
of Mme. Sévigné it is almost impossible to realize this side of her
nature. Who would have imagined that this woman of the salons, fêted
in Paris, and known everywhere, would be always longing for her
country home? It is only when you visit the famous Château des Rochers
that you realize to the full that she was a lover of nature and
country habits. Wandering through the old-world garden, you find
individual touches which bring back the dainty Marquise vividly to
mind. There are the venerable trees, under which you may wander and
imagine yourself back in the time of Louis XIV. There are the deep and
shady avenues planted by Mme. Sévigné, and beautiful to this day. The
names come back to you as you walk--'La Solitaire,' 'L'Infini,'
'L'honneur de ma fille'--avenues in which madame sat to see the sun
setting behind the trees. Very quiet is this garden, with its broad
shady paths, its wide spaces of green, its huge cedars growing in the
grass, and its stiff flower-beds. There is Mme. Sévigné's sundial, on
which she inscribed with her own hand a Latin verse. There are
the stiff rows of poplars, like Noah's Ark trees, symmetrical,
interlacing one with the other, unnatural but dainty in design. There
is her rose garden, a rounded and terraced walk planted with roses.
There, too, are the sunny 'Place Madame,' the 'Place Coulanges,' and
'L'Écho,' where two people, standing on stones placed a certain
distance apart, can hear the echo plainly. This garden, with its stiff
little rows of trees, its sunny open squares surrounded by low walls,
and its stone vases overgrown with flowers, brings back the past so
vividly that one asks one's self whether indeed Mme. Sévigné is there
no longer, and glances involuntarily down the avenues and the by-ways,
half expecting to distinguish the rapid passage of a majestic skirt.
What a splendid life this woman of the seventeenth century led! She
knew well how to regulate mind and body. The routine of the day at Les
Rochers was never varied, and was designed so perfectly that there was
rarely a jar or a hitch. She rose at eight, and enjoyed the freshness
of the woods until the hour for matins struck. After that there were
the 'Good-mornings' to be said to everyone on her estate. She must
pick flowers for the table, and read and work. When her son was no
longer with her she read aloud to broaden the mind of his wife. At
five o'clock her time became her own; and on fine days, a lacquey
following, she wandered down the pleasant avenues, dreaming visions of
the future, of God and of His providence, sometimes reading a book of
devotions, sometimes a book of history. On days of storm, when the
trees dripped and the slates fell from the roof,--on days so wet and
gray and wild that you would not turn a dog out of doors--you would
suppose the Marquise to become morbid and miserable. Not at all. She
realized that she must kill time, and she did so by a hundred
ingenious devices. She deplored the weather which kept her indoors,
but fixed her thoughts on the morrow. Ladies and gentlemen often
invaded her; all the nobility came to present their compliments. They
assailed her from all sides. When she resisted them, and strove to
shut herself away from the world, the Duke would come and carry her
away in his carriage.

  [Illustration: A LITTLE WATER-CARRIER]

She always longed to return to her solitude--to her dear Rochers,
where her good priest waited, at once her administrator, her man of
affairs, her architect, and her friend. Her pride of property was
great, and she was constantly beautifying and embellishing her country
home. Each year saw some new change. On one occasion six years passed
without her visiting Les Rochers. All her trees had become big and
beautiful; some of them were forty or fifty feet high. Her joy when
she beheld them gives one an insight into her youthfulness.

How young she was in some things! She often asked herself whence came
this exuberance. She drew caricatures of the affectations of her
neighbours, and the anxious inquiries of her friends as to her
happiness during her voluntary exile amused her immensely. In a letter
written to her daughter she said:

'I laugh sometimes at what they call "spending the winter in the
woods." Mme. de C---- said to me the other day, "Leave your damp
Rochers." I answered her, "Damp yourself--it is your country that is
damp; but we are on a height." It is as though I said, Your damp
Montmartre. These woods are at present penetrated by the sun whenever
it shines. On the Place Madame when the sun is at its height, and at
the end of the great avenue when the sun is setting, it is marvellous.
When it rains there is a good room with my people here, who do not
trouble me. I do what I want, and when there is no one here we are
still better off, for we read with a pleasure which we prefer above
everything.'

The prospect of spending a winter at Les Rochers did not frighten her
in the least. She wrote to her daughter, saying, 'My purpose to spend
the winter at Les Rochers frightens you. Alas! my daughter, it is the
sweetest thing in the world.'

Mme. Sévigné was always thinking of her daughter, and of Provence,
where she lived. Her heart went out to her daughter. Everything about
Les Rochers helped her to remember her beloved child. Even the country
itself seemed to bring back memories, for the nights of July were so
perfumed with orange-blossoms that one might imagine one's self to be
really in Provence. Mme. Sévigné wrote in a letter to one of her
friends:

'I have established a home in the most beautiful place in the world,
where no one keeps me company, because they would die of cold. The
abbé goes backwards and forwards over his affairs. I am there thinking
of Provence, for that thought never leaves me.'

  [Illustration: WEARY]

The château in which this wonderful woman lived, whence started so
many couriers to Provence, is an important building, gray, a little
heavy with towers, with high turrets of slate and great windows.
Resembling most houses built in the Louis XIV. style, it is rather sad
in design. At the side is a chapel surmounted by a cross, a rotund
hexagonal building constructed in 1671 by the Abbot of Coulanges.
Inside it is gorgeous with old rose and gold. One can imagine the
gentle Marquise kneeling here at her devotions.

Visitors are shown the bedroom of Mme. Sévigné, now transformed into a
historical little sanctuary. The furniture consists of a large
four-post bed, with a covering of gold and blue, embroidered, it is
said, by the Countess of Grignan. Under a glass case have been
treasured all the accessories of her toilet--an arsenal of feminine
coquetry: brushes, powder-boxes, patch-boxes, autograph letters,
account-books, her own ink-stand, books written in the clear,
delicate, legible handwriting of the Marquise herself.

The walls are hung with pictures of the family and intimate friends,
some of which are very remarkable. This room was called by Mme.
Sévigné the 'green room.' It still has a dainty atmosphere. Here Mme.
Sévigné passed a great part of her life. Under a large window is a
marble table where she is supposed to have written those letters which
one knows almost as well as the fables of Lafontaine. Mme. Sévigné
coloured the somewhat cold though pure language of the seventeenth
century, but not artificially. She animated it, conveyed warmth into
it, by putting into her writings much that was feminine, never
descending to the 'precious' or to be a blue-stocking. The books that
she loved, and her correspondence, did not take up so much of her time
that she had to overlook the details of her domain. Sometimes she had
a little fracas with her cook; often she would be called away to
listen to the complaints of Pilois, her gardener, a philosopher. She
knew how to feel strongly among people who could feel only their own
misfortunes and disgraces. She had a true and thoughtful soul. This
one can tell by her letters from Les Rochers, which come to us in all
their freshness, as if they had been written yesterday.

  [Illustration: THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE]

  [Illustration: IN THE INGLENOOK]

CHAPTER XX

CARNAC

The country round Carnac is solemn and mysterious, full of strange
Druidical monuments, menhirs and dolmens of fabulous antiquity,
ancient stone crosses, _calvaires_, and carvings. Everything is grand,
solemn, and gigantic. One finds intimate traces of the Middle Ages.
The land is still half-cultivated and divided into small holdings; the
fields are strewn with ancient stones.

The Lines of Carnac are impressive. You visit them in the first place
purely as a duty, as something which has to be seen; but you are amply
repaid. On a flat plain of heather or gorse they lie, small and gray
and ghost-like in the distance, but looming larger as you draw near.
You come across several in a farmyard; but on scaling a small
loosely-built stone wall you find yourself in the midst of them--lines
of colossal stones planted point-downwards, some as high as twenty
feet, and stretching away to the horizon, on a space of several
miles, like a gigantic army of phantoms. Originally the Lines of
Carnac were composed of six thousand stones; but to-day there remain
only several hundreds. They have been destroyed bit by bit, and used
by the peasants as fences along the fields and in the construction of
houses.

We sat on a rock and gazed at these strange things, longing to know
their origin. What enigmas they were, wrapped in mournful silence,
solemn and still, sphinx-like! I endeavoured to become an amateur
Sherlock Holmes. I examined the stones all over. I noticed that at the
extremity of one line they were placed in a semicircle. This did not
seem to lead me on the road to discovery. Of what avail is it to
attempt to read the mystery of these silent Celtic giants? Historians
and archæologists have sought in vain to find a solution to the
problem. Some say that the stones planted in the fields are temples
dedicated to the cult of the serpent; others maintain that this is a
sort of cemetery, where the dead of Carnac and of Erderen were
interred after a terrible battle. They are variously taken to be
sacred monuments, symbols of divinity, funeral piles, trophies of
victory, testimonies to the passing of a race, the remains of a
Roman encampment. Innumerable are the surmises.

  [Illustration: A BLIND BEGGAR]

The country people have their own versions of the origin of these
stones. The peasants round about Carnac firmly believe that these
menhirs are inhabited by a terrible race of little black men who, if
they can but catch you alone at midnight, will make you dance, leaping
round you in circles by the light of the moon with great shouts of
laughter and piercing cries, until you die of fatigue, making the
neighbouring villagers shiver in their beds. Some say that these
stones have been brought here by the Virgin Mary in her apron; others
that they are Roman soldiers, petrified as was the wife of Lot, and
changed into rocks by some good apostle; others, again, that they were
thrown from the moon by Beelzebub to kill some amiable fairy.

A boy was sitting on a stone near us. He had followed us, and had sat
leaning his head on his hand and gazing backwards and forwards from us
to the stones. Out of curiosity to hear what his ideas might be, I
asked the child what he imagined the menhirs were. Without a moment's
hesitation he said, 'Soldats de St. Cornely!'

Afterwards I discovered that St. Cornely is in this country one of
the most honoured saints. It is he that protects the beasts of the
field. His _pardon_ used to be much attended by peasants, who took
with them their flocks of sheep and cows. St. Cornely had occasion to
fly before a regiment of soldiers sent in pursuit by an idolatrous
king. In the moment of his fear--for even saints experience fear--he
went towards the sea, and soon saw that all retreat was cut off
thereby. The oxen fell on their knees, their eyes full of dread. The
situation was terrible. The saint appealed to Heaven, where lay his
only hope, and, stretching his arm towards the soldiers, changed them
suddenly into stone. Here, it is said, the soldiers of St. Cornely
have remained ever since, fixed and rigid.

  [Illustration: LA PETITE MARIE]

CHAPTER XXI

A ROMANTIC LAND

Brittany is essentially a romantic country. It is full of mysteries
and legends and superstitions. Romance plays a great part in the life
of the meanest peasant. Every stock and stone and wayside shrine in
his beloved country is invested with poetical superstition and
romance. A nurse that we children once had, nineteen years of age,
possessed an enormous stock of legends, which she had been brought up
to look upon as absolute truth. Some of the songs which she sang to
the baby at bedtime in a low minor key were beautiful in
composition--'Marie ta fille,' 'Le Biniou,' amongst others. The
village schoolmaster, who was our tutor, during our long afternoon
rambles would often make the woods ring as he sang ballads in his
rich, full voice. The theme changed according to his humour. Now the
song was a canticle, relating the legend of some saint, or a pious
chronicle; at another time it was of love he sang, generally ending
sadly. Then, there was the historical song, recounting some sombre, or
touching, or stirring event, when the little man worked himself up to
a high pitch of excitement, carrying us children open-mouthed to gory
battlefields and the palaces of sumptuous Kings. One quite forgot the
insignificant schoolmaster in the rush and swing of the music.

There are many Breton ballads. The lives of the people are reflected
truthfully in these compositions, which have as their themes human
weakness, or heartache, or happiness. The Breton bards are still a
large class. In almost every village there is someone who composes and
sings. Each one holds in his or her hand a small stick of white wood,
carved with notches and strange signs, which help towards remembering
the different verses. The Gauls called this stick, the use of which is
very ancient, the alphabet of the bards.

  [Illustration: THE LITTLE HOUSEWIFE]

Mendicity is protected in Brittany. One meets beggars at all the
fairs, and often on the high-roads. They earn their living by songs
and ballads. They attend family fêtes, and, above all, marriage
ceremonies, composing songs in celebration. No Breton will refuse a
bard the best of his hospitality. Bards are honoured guests. 'Dieu
vous bénisse, gens de cette maison,' says one, announcing
himself. He is installed in the ingle-nook, the cosiest corner of a
Breton kitchen; and after having refreshed the inner man he rewards
his host with song after song, often giving him the last ballad of his
composition. When he takes his leave, a large bundle of food is slung
over his shoulder. Unless you live for years in the same village, as I
have done, sharing in the joys and sorrows of the people, you can gain
very little knowledge of the tales and songs and legends. The Breton
is reticent on the advent of the stranger: he fears ridicule.

Then, again, a child can always wriggle itself into the hearts and
homes of people. Setting aside all racial prejudices and difficulties
of language, a child will instal itself in a household, and become
familiar with the little foibles of each inmate in a single day,
whereas a grown-up person may strive in vain for years. I, as a child,
had a Breton _bonne_, and used to spend most of my days at her home, a
farm some distance from the village, playing on the cottage floor with
her little brothers and sisters, helping to milk the cows, and poking
the fat pigs. This, I think, Mother could scarcely have been aware of;
for she had forbidden Marie to allow me to associate with dirty
children, and these were certainly not too clean. One day I was
playing at dolls with a village girl under the balcony of Mother's
room. Suddenly, on looking up, I found her gazing at me reproachfully.

'O Mother,' I hastened to explain, pulling the child forward by the
pinafore, 'she are clean.' We children were familiar with everyone in
the village, even bosom friends with all, from stout Batiste, the
butcher, to Lucia the little seamstress, and Leontine her sister, who
lived by the bridge. If a child died we attended the funeral, all
dressed in white, holding lighted tapers in our hands, and feeling
important and impressive. If one was born, we graciously condescended
to be present at the baptismal service and receive the boxes of
dragées always presented to guests on such occasions. At all village
processions we figured prominently.

When I returned to Brittany, at the age of ten, I found things very
little changed. My friends were a trifle older; but they remembered me
and welcomed me, receiving me into their midst as before. My sister
and I took part in all the _pardons_ of the surrounding villages. We
learnt the quaint Breton dances, and would pace up and down the dusty
roads in the full glare of the summer sun hour after hour, dressed in
the beautiful costume of the country--black broadcloth skirts, white
winged caps, and sabots. Often we would go with our _bonne_ and our
respective partners into some neighbouring _débits de boissons_ and
drink _syrops_ in true Breton fashion. At one _pardon_ we won the
_ruban d'honneur_--a broad bright-blue ribbon with silver tassels worn
across the shoulder, and presented to the best dancer.

The Breton gavotte is a strange dance of religious origin. The dancers
hold hands in a long line, advancing and retiring rhythmically to
long-drawn-out music. Underneath an awning sit the two professional
biniou-players, blowing with all their might into their instruments
and beating time with their feet to the measure. The _sonneur de
biniou_ is blind, and quite wrapped up in his art; he lives, as it
were, in a world apart. The _joueur de biniou_, the principal figure,
reminding one of a Highland piper, presses his elbow on the large
leather air-bag, playing the air, with its many variations, clear and
sweet, on the reed pipe.

Brittany is the land of _pardons_. During the summer these local
festivities are taking place daily in one village or another. The
_pardon_ is a thing apart; it resembles neither the Flemish
_kermesse_ nor the Parisian _foire_. Unlike the _foires_ of Paris,
created for the gay world, for the men and women who delight in
turning night into day, the _pardon_ has inspiration from high
sources: it is the fête of the soul. The people gather together from
far and near, not only to amuse themselves, but also to pray. They
pass long hours before the images of the saints; they make the tour of
the 'Chemin de la Croix,' kneeling on the granite floor.

Still, it is a joyous festival. The air is filled with shouts and
laughter. For example, in Quimper, at the Feast of the Assumption, the
Place St. Corentin is crowded. People have come from the surrounding
towns, all dressed in the characteristic costume of their vicinities.
Pont-Aven, Pont L'Abbé, Concarmeau, Fouesnant, Quimperlé--all are
represented. You see the tight lace wide-winged cap of the Douarnénez
women, hats bound with coloured chenile of the men of Carhaix, white
flannel coats bordered with black velvet of the peasants of Guéméné,
the flowered waistcoats of Pleavé; the women of Quimper have
pyramidical coifs of transparent lace, showing the pink or blue ribbon
beneath, with two long floating ends.

  [Illustration: AN OLD WOMAN]

The great square in front of the cathedral is a jumble of gold
and silver, embroidery, ribbons, muslin, and lace--a joyous feast of
colour in the sun. The crowd moves slowly, forming into groups by the
porch and round the stalls, with much gossip. The square and the
neighbouring streets are bordered by stalls trading in fabrics and
faiences, gingerbread, sweets, lotteries, cider, and fancy-work of all
kinds. Young men and girls stop in couples to buy mirrors or coloured
pins, surmounted with gold, that jingle, to fasten in their caps or in
their bodices. Others gather round the lotteries, and watch with
anxious eyes the wheel with the rod of metal that clicks all the way
round on its spokes, and stops at a certain number. 'C'est vingt-deux
qui gagne!' cries the proprietor. A pretty little peasant woman has
won. She hesitates, wavering between a ball of golden glass and a vase
painted with attractive flowers. The peasants laugh loudly.

There are all kinds of attractions and festivities at the
_pardons_--hurdy-gurdies, swing-boats, voyages to the moon, on which
you get your full and terrible money's worth of bumps and alarms; for
not only are you jerked up hill and down dale in a car, but also, when
you reach the moon, you are whirled round and round at a tremendous
rate and return backwards. There are side-shows in which are
exhibited fat women, headless men, and bodiless girls, distorted thus
by mirrors, the deception of which even we children saw through
plainly. There are jugglers and snake-charmers. A cobra was fed on
rabbits. We children haunted that tent at feeding-times, and used to
watch with fascination the little dead bunnies disappearing, fur and
all, afterwards noticing with glee the strange bumps they formed in
the animal's smooth and shiny coils. How bloodthirsty children are at
heart!

It is not always in large towns like Quimperlé that _pardons_ are
held. More often they are to be witnessed in the country, perhaps
miles away from any town, whence the people flock on foot. There you
see no grand cathedral, no magnificent basilicas and superb
architecture, but some simple little gray church with moss-grown walls
and trees growing thickly about it. The rustic charm of the _pardons_
it is impossible to describe. Round you are immense woods and flowered
prairies; in the woods the birds are singing; a mystic vapour of
incense fills the air. Peasants gather round this modest house of
prayer, which possesses nothing to attract the casual passer-by. The
saints that they have come to venerate have no speciality: they
heal all troubles, assuage all griefs: they are infallible and
all-powerful. Inside the church it is very dim and dark. Not a single
candle is alight on the altar; only the lamp of the sanctuary shines
out with red gleam like an ever-seeing eye. In the gray darkness of
the choir the silent priests cross themselves. They look like ghosts
of the faithful. The bells ring out in noisy peals, filling the air
with vibrations. Over the fields the people hurry--girls in their
smartest clothes, accompanied by their gallants; children brought by
their mothers in their beautiful new suits to attend service and to
have their faces bathed in the fountain, which cures them of all
diseases, and makes them beautiful for ever; old men come to
contemplate the joy of the young people, to be peaceful, and to ask
forgiveness before leaving this world and the short life over which
their own particular saint has watched. The bells peal so loudly that
one is afraid they will crack under the efforts of the ringers. Still
the people swarm over the fields and into the church, until at last
the little edifice is full, and men and women and children are
compelled to kneel outside on the hard earth; but the doors are
opened, and those outside follow the service with great attention.

  [Illustration: A PIG-MARKET]

One must be a Breton born and cradled in the country in order to
realize the important place that the _pardon_ of his parish occupies
in the peasant's mind. It is a religious festival of great
significance: it is the day above all others on which he confesses his
sins to God and receives absolution. Throughout his life his dearest
and sweetest thoughts cling round this house of prayer and pardon.

Here it is generally that he betroths himself. He and the girl stroll
home together when the sun has set, walking side by side over the
fields, holding each other by the little finger, as is the Breton
custom. A sweet serenity envelops the countryside; darkness falls; the
stars appear. The man is shy; but the girl is at ease. When nearing
home, to announce their arrival at the farm, they begin to sing a song
that they have heard from the bards during the day. Other couples in
the distance, hearing them, take up the refrain; and soon from all
parts of the country swells up into the night air a kind of alternate
song, in which the high trebles and the deep basses mingle
harmoniously. As the darkness deepens the figures disappear and the
sounds die away in the distance.

The Saturday before the first Sunday in July is a fête-day in most
towns. Pilgrims fill the towns, which are packed with stalls for the
fair. There are sellers of cider and cakes, amulets, and rosaries. A
statue of the Madonna surrounded by archangels against a background of
blue is situated at the church door to receive the homage of faithful
pilgrims. When night falls the door of the porch is flung open, and a
long procession of girls, like an army of phantoms, advances, each
penitent holding in her hand a lighted torch, slowly swinging her
rosary and repeating a Latin prayer. The statue of the Virgin is
solemnly carried out on the open square, where bonfires are lit and
young folk dance to the accompaniment of the biniou.

In some places the dances are prolonged for three or four days. The
Bretons like songs and dances and representations; they like the heavy
pomp of pilgrimages; they believe in prayer, and never lose their
respect for the Cross. They are a fine people, especially the men who
live by the sea, sailors and fishermen--well-made, high-strung men,
their faces bronzed and stained like sculptures out of old chestnut,
with eyes of clear blue, full of the sadness of the sea. They have an
air of robustness and vitality; but under their fierce exterior they
hide a great sweetness of nature. They are kind hosts; they are frank,
brave, and chaste. They have, it is true, a weakness: on fair
days--market-days especially--they abuse the terrible and brutalizing
_vin du feu_. Then, the Bretons are not a very clean people. The
interiors of the cottages are dignified, with great beds made of dark
chestnut and long, narrow tables, stretching the whole length of the
rooms, polished and beeswaxed until you can see your face mirrored on
the surface; but pigs will repose on the stone floor, which waves up
and down with indentations and deep holes. The more well-to-do Bretons
have their clothes washed only once in six months. The soiled linen is
kept above in an attic protected from the rats by a rope with broken
bottles strung on it, on which the rats, as they come to gnaw the
clothes, commit involuntary suicide.

The poorer families have better habits. They wash their few
possessions regularly and out of doors in large pools constructed for
the purpose, where hundreds of women congregate, kneeling on the
flagstones around the pond, beating their linen energetically on
boards, with a flat wooden tool, to economize soap. This I consider a
far cleaner method than that of our British cottagers, who wash
their clothes in their one living-room, inhaling impure steam.

  [Illustration: HOUSEHOLD DUTIES]

In spite of the winds and the tempests which desolate it, the Bretons
love their country. They live in liberty; they are their own masters.
The past holds profound and tenacious root in the hearts of these men
of granite, and the attachment to old beliefs is strong. The people
still believe in miracles, in sorcery, and in the evil eye. The land,
rich with memories of many kinds,--with its menhirs, its old
cathedrals, its pilgrimages, its _pardons_--sleeps peacefully in this
century of innovations. In Brittany everything seems to have been
designed long ago. Wherever one goes one comes across a strange and
ancient Druidical monument, menhirs, and dolmens of fabulous
antiquity, an exquisite legend, a ruined château, ancient stone
crosses, _calvaires_, and carvings. It is a country full of signs and
meanings. The poetical superstitions and legends have been left intact
in their primitive simplicity. Nowhere do you see finer peasantry;
nowhere more dignity and nobility in the features of the men and women
who work in the fields; nowhere such quaint houses and costumes;
hardly anywhere more magnificent scenery. You have verdant islands,
ancient forests, villages nestling in the mountains, country as wild
and beautiful as the moors of Scotland, fields and pasture-lands as
highly cultivated as those of Lincolnshire.

Brittany is especially inspiring to the painter. You find villages in
which the people still wear the national dress. Perhaps, however, the
time is not far distant when new customs will arise and the old
beliefs will be only a remembrance. Little by little the influence of
modern times begins to show itself upon the language, the costume, and
the poetic superstitions. The iron and undecorative hand of the
twentieth century is closing down upon the country.

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD

Transcriber's note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.