In Old Brittany

As the mailcoach approached Penmarc’h the windows in the old Gothic church blazed crimson and gold; even the long, gray stretches of moorland caught something of the glory of the sunset. For miles we had been following the beckoning menhirs that stood like giant sentinels along the road. Here and there one had been hewn into a rough cross by the pious peasants. The low stone houses and stone fences of the Bigoudins ¹ were in perfect harmony with these druidic monuments, which in turn seemed to belong to the rocky shore. No trees can live on the wind-swept coast. Only the hardiest of Breton peasants can brave the fury of the winter gales. But on that particular June evening the sea was one vast lake of molten fire. Scarcely a ripple stirred the shining surface. The women and children were still working in the fields. Their white caps and gayly embroidered costumes adding to the impression of color in the gray landscape. “Did you ever see anything so heavenly? Oh, I hope there is an inn! ” exclaimed the artist. But no such luxury had as yet invaded Penmarc’h. Inquiring if any of the peasants could accommodate us, we were proudly referred to the wife of the butcher. “She has a second story to her house, and the floor of every room is made of wood! There one can have all the luxuries.” To have made them comprehend our æsthetic objections to spending a summer over the butcher shop would have been impossible.

“I vote that we remain,” said the artist, closing one eye, and gazing rapturously at the peasants in the fields. “ I admit that it will be hard, yet where else can we find anything so paintable ? ”

“I have an idea,” said Margaret. “Last year some friends spent three delightful months in a Brittany convent. Why can’t we? ”

“We can, providing first that there is a convent, and secondly that the Sisters consent, ” replied practical Kate. We appealed to the driver. Yes, there was a convent, but the Sisters belonged to a very poor order; they never took boarders, and he knew that it was useless to apply. A visit to the butcher shop, however, determined us to try our powers of persuasion on the Mother Superior. The convent had been the château of a wealthy sea-merchant when Penmarc’h was one of the most important French trading towns of the fifteenth century. During the terrible siege by Fontenelle it had escaped destruction, owing to the massive stone walls by which it is still surrounded. As the heavy gates swung open we seemed transported into the Middle Ages. A sweet young sister came forward and conducted us to the pharmacy, where the Mother Superior was putting up prescriptions for some waiting peasants. “But mes chères demoiselles — we are so poor — we live most simply — you would not be comfortable ” —

Being assured that all we wanted was a shelter and the plainest food, she turned to consult the young sister.

“They might have the rooms reserved for the visits of the Superior General, is it not ? ” So it was settled, we were to have the guest-room with the tiny dining-room attached, also that occupied by the youthful sister, who smilingly consented to sleep in the storeroom. Once admitted we were taken into the hearts of the little community. A sister was detailed to prepare whatever dishes we were pleased to command and to serve them in our private diningroom. After the butcher shop our small apartments, with snowy curtained beds, seemed like Paradise. From our windows we could watch the men, women, and children planting the grain, and beyond, the great, white breakers dashing against the rocky shore. We were fascinated by the poetic beauty of this barren coast and the patriarchal life of the peasants. The Bretons have clung tenaciously to their ancient customs and language. The older generation shake their heads, and predict many evils from the introduction of French into their schools. Few grown-up Penmarc’hians can speak or understand one word of their national language. Yet the children in the Sisters’ school would compare favorably with our brightest boys and girls. This old race, whose written history dates back six hundred years before Christ, is endowed with rare mental as well as physical strength. Living close to the earth, they have learned much from that great teacher. Their poverty would crush Americans, but they are perfectly content. To be a Breton, to own a small home, to raise sufficient wheat and potatoes for his family, — what greater blessings could a man ask of le Bon Dieu?

“To-morrow will be a grand fete, and we shall eat the calf of Monsieur le Curé, ” said our one small bonne, as she carefully gathered up each crumb of bread left on the table. “I go with the Sisters at three in the morning to carry the new banner and decorate the Church of Our Lady for mass. Sister Polixene says that for you to eat cold the calf of Monsieur le Curé would be most sad, yet to hear mass at Notre Dame de la Joie, and then have your dinner on the rocks, that too is a great pleasure, is it not ? ”

“We want to see the Procession, Marie Jeanne; when will that take place? ”

“ Oh, not until four in the afternoon. ”

“And will you remain all day? ”

“But mademoiselle, it is the great Pardon of the year! Every one will be there ! After the high mass all will sit on the rocks, eating their lunch and talking with their friends. At two there is the vespers, and after vespers the Procession. The time is not long.”

“Not if Francois is there,” we laughingly admitted, while Marie Jeanne hastily retired.

Two short, happy months had slipped by since our discovery of Penmarc’h. Already we had learned to love the simple peasants, to share in their joys and sorrows. Except for the memory of one sad day our summer was unclouded. It was early in the morning that the long overdue Volonté de Dieu came home. We heard the people shouting that she had been sighted. Hurriedly dressing we followed them to the wharf at St. Guénolé The husband of our pretty model Corentine had sailed in this fishing sloop just before their first baby was born, and we felt anxious to know that he was safe and well. As the ship came nearer a silence fell upon the waiting people. The flag was at half-mast! The news spread from group to group; four men had been lost! We saw Corentine reel. A fisherman caught the baby from her arms as she fell. Sadly the bereaved families returned to their homes. That evening we went with the Sisters to the house of Corentine. The one livingroom had been converted into a chapelle ardente. The light of the candles shone on a small wooden cross that lay on top of the catafalque. It bore the name of poor Jean Louis. His wife knelt beside it, surrounded by the devout peasants, whose hearts were raised in supplication to Him who alone understands the mystery of life and death. All night they remained in prayer, as though beside the body of the dead. Next morning the village priest, attended by white-robed acolytes, came to the house as for a funeral. The little cross was carried in a procession to the church where services for the dead were held. Then it was placed in an urn beside the altar, to remain there until the Feast of All Souls, when the crosses of those lost at sea during the year are interred in one mound. Four times that day did the tolling bells announce the burial service, the last time being for the son of old Anna who lived in a neighboring village. From our windows we watched the little procession winding slowly through the golden grain. The tinkling bell announced its approach to the peasants working in the fields. They fell upon their knees, praying silently as it passed. For days nothing was talked of but the ill-fated sailors. When far from shore they had gone in a small boat to haul in the nets. Suddenly a terrible storm arose. It was impossible for the captain to go in search of the boat. Each moment he feared his ship would be destroyed. The sailors fell upon their knees beseeching the Mother of God to intercede for them, promising that if they were saved they would walk barefoot in her Procession at Notre Dame de la Joie. When the fury of the gale abated, they saw no trace of life on the broad waters. The boat, with its precious human freight, had disappeared. It was to witness the fulfillment of the sailors’ vow that we had planned to see the Procession at Notre Dame de la Joie. This church stands quite alone in the open fields, close to the sea. When we arrived for the Pardon we found dozens of little booths clinging like barnacles about the old stone walls. They had been erected during the night by traveling peddlers, who were busy selling penny toys, green apples, and impossible looking cakes to an admiring crowd. Overhead the open Gothic towers stood out against the soft blue sky, revealing the great bells as they swung to and fro. No place in the world do the people love their church bells as in Brittany, where they evoke the most sacred memories of their lives. “Are they not beautiful, our bells ? ” asked an old peasant, hearing our exclamations of delight. “Did you know, chéres demoiselles, that they have a language of their own? We who live far from the village gain all our news from the bells at Penmarc’h. The death of a man, a woman, a child, each has its own tolling. The baptism of an infant, the joy or disaster that comes to our neighbor, all is told us by our bells.” At this moment something in their ringing, inexplicable to us, warned him that the service was beginning, and he fell upon his knees. Hundreds, unable to enter the closely packed church, knelt on the ground before the open doorways, the weather - beaten faces of the sailors transfigured by their earnest devotion. This Pardon is their special fête, as they have chosen Our Lady of Joy for their patroness. In the Procession which followed the vesper service they carried her banner, while young girls bore her flower-crowned image; then came the priests chanting her praises; the altar boys bearing tall silver crosses ; the peasants, with lighted candles; the men who were saved on the Volonté de Dieu, barefoot and in spotless white. Across the fields, far down by the sea, the Procession almost disappeared ; still we heard the clear voices chanting, “Star of the Sea, pray for us. . Be our intercessor before the throne of Christ.” The entire population of Penmarc’h and its surrounding villages were intoning the litany as they marched, their gleaming banners and brilliant costumes making a wonderful color picture in the sombre landscape. At last the priests reëntered the church. Once more the glorious bells pealed forth, and the solemn benediction was given the kneeling multitude.

Walking home in the golden twilight we met the little children trudging bravely along in bare feet, carrying their Sunday shoes! Some were resting by the roadside, worn out by the unusual festivities and the weight of their fête-day clothes,— four skirts being deemed necessary for the adornment of the smallest child. Americans naturally assume that the petticoats should be shorter than the dress, — not so the Bigoudins. The first skirt almost touches the ground ; the second is shorter, showing the gorgeously embroidered band on the first; the third, still shorter, going up in tiers. The richer the peasant, the greater the number of petticoats !

“I want a newborn infant in my next picture, ” said the artist, as we came in sight of the village. “Will you stop at Anna Marie’s ? She told me St. Nono left one at her house yesterday.”

Anna Marie, aged six, was sitting on the doorstep. “My father had to carry a banner in the Procession, and I am guarding the children,” she proudly replied, when asked why we had not seen her at Notre Dame de la Joie.

Entering the passage which divided the house into two rooms, we saw the cow and pig occupying that on the right, so we turned to the left. This room had but one window, fifteen inches square, and in the semi-darkness we stumbled over the uneven mud floor. “Be careful, my dear young ladies! ” Looking up we saw the mother propped against the pillows of her curious bed. Built high against the wall, with sliding wooden doors, it resembled an upper berth in our sleeping cars. A tall bench beside it served the double purpose of ladder and chairs. Opposite, the bed and bench were repeated, leaving just space enough between the seats for a large table. On this the meals were prepared and served. Under the beds were stored potatoes, white sand for sprinkling the floor, and neat piles of dried cow manure for fuel. The immense fireplace and mantel occupied one end of the room. As Marie Louise belonged to the richest family of Penmarc’h, this mantel was filled with old Breton plates and bowls. In the fireplace hung a large iron pot. This with a smaller one, and a long-handled skillet for baking buckwheat cakes, constituted the culinary outfit. Beside the door an armoire or wardrobe was built in the wall. Handsomely decorated with shining brass hinges, it rivaled the tall clock loudly ticking by its side. Hanging shelves, suspended from the ceiling; here were kept the Bible, schoolbooks, bread, butter, and dried herbs. What wonder that a family can live comfortably in one room, I thought, when they utilize the walls for bedrooms, the ceiling for library and storehouse, and content themselves with potato soup for breakfast, buckwheat cakes for dinner, and potatoes for supper! How many generations have been born in this room; have laughed and toiled and suffered and been laid to rest here for the last time! My reverie was interrupted by excited exclamations from the artist. “No — impossible — not locked up in a drawer of the armoire! ”

“Why not, mademoiselle? that is always done. The little one does not need air for the first three days, and is far safer in the armoire. Here is the key; you will find him in the second drawer.” Yes, there lay the dear baby, fast asleep, looking curiously like an ancient mummy in his dark swaddling clothes. “We wanted to call him François, as our eldest boy is named Jean, but his young godparents had set their hearts on Jean, so we did not insist. We will call him Jeanic [little John] to distinguish him from his brother.”

“ Do the children who are godparents always choose the name ? ”

“Yes, that is their privilege. Of course they try to please the family.”

Meanwhile Anna Marie had climbed on a bench and lifted the bread and butter from the hanging shelf. Taking a jackknife from her pocket she cut several slices, buttered them, and silently handed one to each of the younger children.

“What a comfort your big girl of six must be to you, Marie Louise.”

“Indeed she is. She helps her father with all the work. But we live very simply, mademoiselle; we do not have the luxuries of the French.”

To these peasants “the French” are a different nation, and Paris quite the end of the world. Old Denis often boasted of having seen this distant city.

“People who never travel are very narrow-minded, mademoiselle. Now I can understand foreign ways. When I was serving in the army I lived two months in your city of Paris.”

“ We are not Parisians, Denis; we are from the United States.”

“And where is that, mademoiselle? I have never heard of that country.”

“ Surely you have heard of our great city New York ? ”

He rubbed his head in a puzzled way, so we added, “in America.” At that name his face brightened.

“Oh yes, I had a brother who went to America, but they told him that all foreigners were sold as slaves, so he hurried back to the ship and stayed on board until she sailed for France.”

Since the good Sisters have had charge of the public school they have done all in their power to educate these people. Such is the poverty of Penmarc’h that the law of compulsory education is not enforced. It requires much self-sacrifice on the part of parents to spare their children from the fields; many live miles from the school, yet few have failed to respond to the entreaties of the Sisters. Not only are these good Samaritans the teachers, they are the physicians and dentists of the four villages. It seemed strange to see the stalwart farmers reduced to tears over the extraction of a tooth by pretty Sister Catherine. When our beautiful little model “Goldenhead” was dying, we went to her house with Sister Clothide. On a bench beside the high bed sat the poor mother, silently weeping. The father and six children were eating their supper of potatoes and milk. The light from their one candle shone on the yellow curls and flushed cheeks of the dying child.

“ How terrible, Sister, that the family must eat and sleep in the room with the sick, the dead! ”

“But they are not afraid of the dead, my child, and le Bon Dieu wishes them to eat. Perhaps a rich neighbor who has two rooms will take the younger children. The peasants are always good to one another; they have learned sympathy through suffering. Do not look so sad, mademoiselle; these people are not often unhappy. Indeed, we sometimes say that they are in love even with their miseries, for no Breton would exchange places with a king upon his throne ! Those who are too old to work are not ashamed to beg. Do they not give their prayers in return for bread? ”

The charity of the Sisters was boundless. Each day we heard the murmured prayers of old men and women. They never asked for anything, but stood patiently at the door, praying audibly for all within the house until bread or pennies were given them.

“We must see a wedding, Marie Jeanne. You said there would be plenty as soon as the harvest was over, and we have not had one. ”

“But the peasants are digging their potatoes, mademoiselle. When that is finished, and the seaweed is gathered for the winter’s fuel, then they will have time for weddings ! My brother is to be married in two weeks, but it will not be very gay as he is in mourning, and that compels the bride to wear black.”

“How strange, to wear mourning at his wedding! ”

“Oh, but he must, mademoiselle. Why, his wife has n’t been dead three months yet, and a widower or widow always wears black two years; if either marries before that time the bride or groom must wear mourning for the remainder of the two years.”

Proper respect is thus paid the dead, whom the Bretons never forget. In the midst of the festivities which took place when later Marie Jeanne and François were married a mass was said for the repose of the souls of all their relatives. The wedding party, of nearly two hundred, attended, dressed in mourning. Then they hurried home to change their costumes for the marriage feast, which began about nine in the morning and lasted until late at night. It was served under tents erected in the groom’s garden. For days the two households had been busy preparing the meat. This luxury, otherwise indulged in but twice a year, constituted the feast. It was served in every possible form with white bread and wine. From time to time the younger people left the table to join in the outdoor dancing. On departing each guest slipped a five-franc piece into the willing hand of the groom to help defray expenses, no peasant having sufficient ready money for such an outlay, their only commerce being the export of potatoes to England. Some of the children earn a little by working in the sardine factories of Kerity, the adjoining village. Here they are brought into contact with “ the great world ” through the government officials. It is the duty of these officers to superintend the weighing of fish brought into port. Salt is heavily taxed in France, and the owners of boats must pay the established rate per pound on all fish salted at sea by means of water drawn from the great Atlantic! The officers also patrol the coast of Penmarc’h to prevent the peasants’ stealing water and extracting salt for their bread!

The happiest summer must end, and our peaceful days in the old convent were drawing to a close, when an incident occurred which threw even the stolid Bretons into a state of wildest excitement. Corentine, on her way to church, met her husband! Shrieking that she had seen a ghost, she fled to the house of Monsieur le Curé. It was some time before the good priest could calm her sufficiently to investigate the miracle. The four sailors, supposed to have been lost at sea by the Volonté de Dieu, had been picked up by a vessel sailing to Canada. When almost there they met her companion ship, the captain of which readily consented to bring the men home. Great was the rejoicing in all the villages. A solemn procession of thanksgiving was proclaimed for the Feast of All Souls. Once more the banners were unfurled, the statues crowned with artificial flowers, and the names of those who were to carry them, called from the altar. The great day dawned, fair and beautiful. At noon the Procession marched to Notre Dame de la Joie, the four sailors carrying for burial the urn containing the crosses of those lost at sea, from which their names had been so mercifully erased. We waited on the moors for their return. Soon we heard the faint tinkling of the silver bells, then the chanting voices, nearer and nearer, through the winding road, up the village street. We knelt with the Mother Superior as the Procession passed, then followed it into the dear old church. The bells were pealing forth a glorious Te Deum. The priests, the choir boys, the peasants caught it up, — their voices echoing through the Gothic arches, filling the ancient church with such a hymn of praise as had not sounded within its stone walls since mediæval days, when warriors, knights, and ladies had crowded its aisles. Through the exquisite stained glass of the quattrocento windows the last rays of the setting sun mingled with the flames of countless candles, and fell softly on the upturned faces of the kneeling multitude. It was this picture that we carried with us from Brittany, — that land of honest toil, of strong hearts, and of a faith as deep and abiding as the sea which washes its rockbound shores.

Anna Seaton Schmidt.