Faith And Poetry Of The Bretons.
Continued.
Saint-Thêgonnec
Cemeteries
Calvaries
Character Of The People.
We need not traverse the whole of Brittany to have a perfect idea of the works of architecture which faith has embellished. In one little borough-town, Saint-Thégonnec, between Morlaix and Landerneau, we find all the types of Christian art in Brittany concentrated—church, funereal chapel, burying-vault, calvary, and sculptures.
The Breton cemeteries closely resemble each other; nearly everywhere they surround the church, and are enclosed by a low wall, often without gates of any kind, merely a small ditch preventing the cattle from trespassing on the abode of the dead. [Footnote 21] A cross, or a calvary, where the scenes of the passion are represented, or sometimes the kneeling statue of a loved or lamented pastor's venerated image that recalls his virtues to his faithful people, these are the only monuments of the cemeteries of the Breton villages. The tombs are marked by small heaps of earth, pressed each against the other, and surmounted by a cross. Some are covered by a stone, and in this stone is indented a little cup that gathers the dew and rain from heaven, and offers to the mourning relative—the mother, son, the friend—the blessed asperges to accompany the prayer for him who lies beneath. [Footnote 22] These cemeteries, placed in the midst of towns and villages, cannot be of any great extent; soon, therefore, they are filled with extinct generations, and these bodies must be exhumed to make place for new-comers. In one village, Plouha, after the sons had disinterred the bodies of their fathers, they decorated the façade of the church with the stones of the tombs, that they might be cold witnesses of their memories, or, at least, might never cover the bodies of others. The general resting-place for these exhumed bones is a mortuary chapel constructed by the side of the church; and if a glance is taken through the Gothic arch which opens on this charnel-house, bones upon bones may be seen heaped up and mingled like blades of straw. These were men who have walked on the earth, now solitary and forsaken until the eternal resurrection.
[Footnote 21: At Goueznon, at Plabennec, etc.]
[Footnote 22: We see in Algeria little cups hollowed in the sepulchral stones of the Mussulmans; but this water is only used by the birds to satisfy their thirst, or to water the flowers that decorate the tombs.]
But at Saint-Thégonnec a more respectful and tender sentiment has tried to preserve intact at least a portion of these bodies so rudely torn from the earth. Before entering the church, we are struck by an unexpected sight; from every projection of the building, on the porches, on the prominent cornices, are laid or hung and suspended, one above the other, a multitude of small boxes arranged as a chaplet; these little boxes, surmounted each by its cross, are coffins, and enclose the skull of an ancestor, his head, or, according to the expressive word of the old language, le chef, that which is most noble in man, and which may be resumed. An inscription indicates the date and name:
"Here lies LE CHEF de …"
Another touching symbol may be seen through the openings, the funeral archives of families preserved in the shadow of the church, that rising generations may discover them, so that they may not be forgotten, as they would be, immured in their own homes. [Footnote 23]
[Footnote 23: At Locmariquer there are not only coffins with heads, but miniature ones enclosing all the bones, piled one above the other like bales of goods, in the place apportioned them.]
Here and there on the cornice, exposed to the air, are skulls of the dead, poor creatures once without friends or family to give them burial, painted green, their eyes filled with sand and blades of grass projecting from them, often leaning against each other; here, one supported perhaps by him who was his bitter enemy.
Passing there double rows of coffins, we enter the church, and this is but a repetition of all the Breton churches; everything here—an elegant font, sculptured mouldings, pulpit of choice wood and of marvellous workmanship—chef-d'oeuvre of the end of the Renaissance, and one of the finest pulpits in Brittany—pictures on wood, chisel paintings, ever perpetuating the patriarchs, the kings, and prophets of the Old Testament mounting from earth to heaven; even to the Blessed Virgin; vault of gold and azure fairly sparkling in its complete beauty; the choir, the altar, and the side chapels filled with statues, wreathed columns, heads of angels, flowers, garlands, gilded and painted in every color, a perfect stream of gold, verdure, brilliant crimson, and azure.
From this refulgent and living whole, a single door rises on the side, high and naked; no sculpture, no ornament; the stones sweat their dampness; the bricks, that have assumed a blackened tint, separated by their white cement, present a lugubrious aspect; a great mourning veil seems spread before the eyes—this is the gate of death. You open, and you pause enchanted. Before you lies the cemetery. At your right, at your left, monument upon monument breaks upon your gaze. Under the porch where you stand are the statues in line of the twelve apostles; and opposite you, a large gate with three arches, the gate of the cemetery, in its imposing style, an arch of triumph, as if the Bretons, passing under it the perishable body, had typified the life eternal, the glory and the joy of the imperishable soul. At the right, a mortuary chapel of the style of the Louvre of Henry IV. is erected, its sculpture from the bottom to the top, an immense châsse pictured in granite; at your left is the calvary, one of those complicated calvaries, found only in Brittany, a whole people of statues; eighty or a hundred personages in the most natural and simple attitudes—disciples, prophets, holy women, thieves on their crosses, guards on horseback, and, towering over all this crowd, the tree of the cross, colossal in its structure, of several stones, cross upon cross, and holding on its branches statues of the Virgin, Saint John, the guards, and others, and, in immensity of size and above all, the Christ himself, with his arms extended over the world, and his eyes uplifted to heaven. Angels are there, too, suspended in the air, and collecting in their chalices the precious blood from his hands. [Footnote 24]
[Footnote 24: The calvaries of Plougastel and Pleyben—towns so remarkable for their beautiful churches are more complicated and grand, perhaps, but not so striking, as this one.]
And this is not all: enter the crypt of the mortuary chapel, and there you will find yourself face to face with another chef-d'oeuvre—the entombing of Christ, the scene which has ever inspired the greatest artists, and in colossal proportions. These are painted statues, and the painting adds to the impression, giving to the deeply moved personages the appearance of life. You hear them cry, you see their tears course down their pallid faces; the Virgin-Mother with her pressed lips on the livid feet of her divine Son, the Magdalen overwhelmed with grief and still beautiful in the midst of her sorrow. Can you fail to become an actor in this impassioned scene? You are rooted to the spot; the terrible blow that made them surfer becomes your reality, and, grieved to the depths of your soul, you feel your own tears flow; the lapse of ages is forgotten, and you are living in that Calvary scene.
And when we think that these works of religious art are spread all over Brittany with the same profusion; that in towns apparently the most remote from any road or centre, at Saint-Herbot in the Black Mountains, at Saint-Fiacre, which is only a little village of Laouet, and even less than a village, a miserable hamlet of five or six houses, in the chapel of Rozegrand near Quimperlé, a modest manor which hardly merits the name of a castle—we find in all these places galleries of sculptured wood, painted, gilded, and figured with fifty or more persons, rivalling the most costly churches; works so admirably reproducing the history, the miracles, and the mysteries of religion, while they preserve among the people and reanimate and increase their ardor and faith, we cannot but ask, What is the cause of such a multitude of works of art appearing everywhere on the surface of the country, and what has been the inspiration which has produced such fruit—richness of invention, truth of gesture, expression of physiognomy, a true and deep sentiment of everything divine in scenery and action? In all these monuments of the middle ages, there is to be found the same truth, the same power of imagination, while the artist never repeats himself and never tires you. He leads you on like the musician, scarcely giving you time to recover from one melody ere you are soul-entranced with another still more beautiful.
But this creative power has a cause; this society—as a man arrived at maturity with all his work accomplished for the end he would attain—had been prepared by previous ages. Disengaged from the swaddling-clothes of antiquity, its tongue was formed, its religious ideas fixed, and with its new-formed Christianity, it was logically constituted—it became a unity. Still in possession of such power, this people struggles only to create; never led by contrary tastes or carried away by disorderly and unregulated motives, so justly named in our day caprice, they cling to what preceding ages have sought for, gathered, and inculcated. The materials are ready to their hands, they seize them, and, with the genius of the age, reproduce, in a thousand forms, new beauties; the well-filled vase has only to diffuse itself and overflow with treasures. Thus, imagination bursts out everywhere lively and colored; the same mind, in literature as in art, reproduces the varied ornaments of churches, invents fables and legends, and finds at every moment new images to represent manners, ideas, opinions; and this imagination, far from exhausting itself, grows and increases, not as the forced plant of the hot-house, but the natural flower of their own spring. Ages train on, and the last one bears the crown.
We see, too, why such artists—authors of such exquisite works—are so obscure, so unknown. They have not rendered their own ideas simply, but those of their race; the sentiments of their ancestors, of the fathers with whom they have been born and raised, have penetrated their whole being, and they have merely expressed their surroundings. Thus, these monuments of art are not only proof of talent and their sojourn on earth, but witnesses of their piety and faith—the worship of a people.
So, the faith of days past still lives in Brittany: could one doubt it, let him look at the evidences of an unweakened piety which meet him at every step. See the gifts of the women of the aristocracy, beautiful scarfs of cashmere, covering the altars of the cathedral of Tréguier, and the offerings of the poor, bundles of crutches, left at Folgoat by the infirm "made whole." Then the pilgrimages, vast armies of men and women, moving yearly to their favorite shrine of Saint Anne d'Auray, and the miraculous pictures, decking from top to bottom this church of the Mother of the Virgin, too small for a Christian museum replenished so constantly. At every step arise new chapels and churches: at Saint-Brieuc several were built at once; Lorient, a town peopled with soldiers and sailors, has just raised at its gate a church in the style of Louis XIV.; Vitré gives to its church a new bell and a sculptured pulpit; the little villages put up in their cemeteries calvaries with figures of the middle ages; the calvary of Ploëzal, between Tréguier and Guingamp, is dated 1856; Dinan restores and enriches its beautiful church of Saint Malo; Quimper throws to the air two noble spires from the towers of its cathedral; the chapel of Saint Ilan, a model of elegance and grace, rises in pure whiteness on the borders of the sea, in the midst of the calm roofs of its pious colony; Nantes, while she builds several new churches, finishes her immense cathedral, its dome of Cologne and Brittany, to which each age has given a hand, and in constructing this beautiful church of Saint Nicholas, proves what the piety and zeal of a pastor and devoted flock could accomplish, in less than ten years, by alms and gifts. A few years since, at Guingamp, a chapel was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin outside the church; the statues are painted of the twelve apostles, the altar is magnificent, and the roof azure and stars of gold. No expense was spared, no decoration too great to ornament the sanctuary of the Virgin. Fifty thousand persons were there the day of the inauguration. These are the national holy-days of the Bretons. Elsewhere, people rush to the inauguration of princes or the revolutions which presage their downfall; but here they come from all parts of Brittany to assist in the coronation of the Queen of heaven. And what piety, what recollection, what gravity in the deportment of these men and women, kneeling on the pavements of the churches! As at La Trappe, so here is seen the same complete absorption of the human being in the thoughts that fill the soul; the functions of life seem annihilated, and, immovable in prayer, they remain in that absolute contemplation in which the saints are represented, overwhelmed by sentiments of veneration, submission, and humility: the man is forgotten, the Christian only exists. More expressive even than the monuments are these daily acts of devotion, that evidence the habitual state of the soul.
Walk, on a market-day, through the square of some city or town of Finistère. How varied and animated it appears! Rows of little wagons standing around, and on these all sorts of merchandise: velvet ribbons and buckles for the men's caps; woollen ornaments made into rosettes for the head-dresses of the women; variegated pins, ornamented with glass pearls; pipe-holders of wood; little microscopic pipes and instruments to light them, with other useful and ornamental wares. Under the tents of these movable shops, a crowd of men and women are seen. The women with head-dresses of different forms, their large white handkerchiefs rounded at the back and carefully crossed on the breast; the men with their pantaloons narrowly tightened, falling low, and resting on the hips, so that the shirt may be seen between them and the vest, their caps with broad brims covering their long hair, often tucked up behind, and walking with measured steps, carrying their canes, never hurried, always calm and dignified. Twelve o'clock is heard; from the high bell-tower of the neighboring church comes the echoing peal of mid-day; twelve times it slowly strikes, and then all is hushed. Every one pauses, is silent. With simultaneous movement, the men doff their hats and their long hair falls over their shoulders. All are on their knees, the sign of the cross is made, and one low murmur tells the Angelus. A stranger in such a crowd must kneel; involuntarily he bends his knee with the rest. The prayer to the Virgin finished, they rise again; life and motion commence, and a din is heard, the almost deafening noise of the roar of the sea.
Again I see them in the church of Cast, (Finistère.) It was Sunday, at the hour of vespers. The bell of the church-tower had sounded from the break of day, and crowds of men and women surrounded the church, talking in groups, gently and noiselessly. The bell ceased; the groups broke up and separated into two bands, on one side the men, on the other the women, all directing their steps to the church. The women entered first, and in a moment the nave was filled; the young women of the Confraternity of the Blessed Virgin took their places in the middle of the church, all in white, but their costume ornamented with embroidery of gilt and silver, gilded ribbons on their arms, belts of the same encircling their graceful figures, and falling in four bands at the back on the plaited petticoat, and the heart of gold and cross on the breast of each; in the side aisles, the matrons ranged themselves, wives and mothers, in more varied costumes, gayly colored, head-dresses of deep blue and yellow, blue ribbons with silver edges on the brown jackets, red petticoats, and clock stockings embroidered in gold. All knelt on the pavement, their heads inclined, their rosaries in their hands, and in collected silence.
The women all placed, another door opened at the side of the church, and the men's turn came. With grave and measured steps they walked in file, and strange and imposing was the sight—in comparison with the variegated and gay dress of the women, so opposingly sombre was that of the men; and yet the attention was not so much riveted by their uniform attire, their long brown vests, their large puffed breeches; but their squared heads, their long features, the quantity of straight hair, covering their foreheads like thick fleece, and falling in long locks on their shoulders and down their backs. All, children and men grown, wore the same costume, this long black hair, which in the air assumed a sombre reddish tint, and falling on the thick, heavy eyebrows, gave to their eyes an expression of energy, of almost superhuman firmness. They scarcely seemed men of our time and country; the grave, immovable faces, with the brilliant eyes scrutinizing at once the character and appearance of the stranger among them, the uncultivated heads of hair, weighing down their large heads like the manes of wild animals, gave the idea of men apart; men from the wilds of some far country moving among the modern races, with silent gesture and solemn step, and uttering brief and pithy sentences, as if they alone held the secrets of the past, the knowledge of the mysteries and truths of the olden time.
They defiled one by one, prostrating themselves before the altar, and kneeling in turn on the stone floor, surrounding entirely the grating of the choir. True assemblage of the faithful! The men, a strong soldiery in front, the women behind, a more humble crowd, but each forgetting the other, living but for one thought—for God. For God is not for these barbarians what he is for us; we, civilized inhabitants of cities, we try to explain God, and even on our knees in his temples we analyze him, comment upon his acts, and even doubt if he exists. They spend no time in such vain thoughts, barren meditations: for them God is; they know and believe in him. He made the heaven over their heads, the earth that produces their harvests, made them themselves, and preserves them or takes them to him. He is the Invisible who can do everything, from the heights of the heavens, and everywhere at once; and in comparison with this All-Powerful they feel their littleness, prostrate themselves and adore.