“Who are you?” they asked.
I pointed to the wall where hung a drawing—the very one which had won me the hundred francs in the contest. Instantly everyone in the room was on his knees.
The tears streamed down my cheeks; I was not disappointed. My old Paris had come back to me!
Chapter VI: The Middle Ages
Brittany; Spain
America is a country without tradition, and the large cities of Europe are too cosmopolitan to impress one with the fact of fixed manners and morals. But not so in the provinces. From ’81 to ’86, I lived in Concarneau, on the Breton coast, and made a trip of several months into Elche, Spain. I felt as if I had suddenly plunged back into the Middle Ages. The superstitions, manners, customs, and dress, as well as ideas, of both those places, were unchanged from centuries ago.
Around the part of Concarneau where the poor live is a wall built by Vauban; inside is a fortress with the sea making a moat. The bridge, which could originally be drawn up, is now stationary, but the doorway for a passage is still there. On the other side is the ferry to Pont Aven. Inside the inclosure the streets are narrow and paved, with little houses on either side. Outside is the smart part of the town. The beauties of the sea, and, as usual, the low cost of living, brought the artist to Concarneau.
My studio was a wheat loft, and any peasant was a model for a few cents. We painted them in their native dress, which was picturesque enough, and, besides, no virtuous Breton woman would allow you to see her hair, so that it was obvious that the coif stayed on. These headdresses gave them a distinctly mediæval air, and each town has a certain style, more fixed than the laws of the Medes and Persians, so that you can tell immediately where a woman comes from. Underneath this white coif, which is always beautifully laundered and starched, is a tight cap which holds the hair, and this, I think, is seldom removed. The remainder of the costume (which makes them look like Noah’s Ark women) is a heavy woolen skirt and a double-breasted blouse. This is held together by a huge shawl pin of brass, and under no circumstances can they be persuaded to use buttons. Of course there are stockings and sabots.
Blanch Willis Howard wrote her book called Guenn in my studio and it afterward became one of the popular novels of the day. I think she greatly exaggerated the romantic quality of the artist who fell in love with his model, however, as all the Breton peasants I ever saw washed below the chin only twice in their lives—once when they were born and once when married.
The peasants dance all day long. Every day seems a fête day, and the celebrations are always held in the market place. The dance starts with a procession, with a man at the head playing a biniou, an instrument (the same in every Celtic country) very much like a bagpipe. They serpentine, as do the college boys of to-day, and whirl madly, couple by couple, with nothing but a clatter of sabots. The virtue lies not in the grace or time, but in keeping it up the longest.
The Bretons seine their fish (sardines) in a long net with large corks at the top and weights at the bottom. Myriads of forty-ton boats start out before sunrise, making a picturesque sight with their few feet of deck and large fore and aft sails, originally dyed brilliant colors, but always faded to lovely tones of rose, gray, and tan. The sails drop at the fishing grounds, they let out their nets, and the men begin to row, while one, the boss, stands in the stern to throw the bait. This imported egg of cod is called “rogue,” and as he throws it from side to side the play of his body in action is more beautifully Greek than anything in all Europe. Whenever I saw this I wondered if Christ might not have performed his Miracle of the Fishes in somewhat the same way. The catch is enormous. I have seen a net sink, breaking a manila rope the size of my thumb. When the boat comes in it looks as if it were entirely full of shiny fifty-cent pieces in a flutter, and every scoop of the bucket is one of pure silver. When cooked in that flapping condition, in beef drippings, and served with a boiled potato, they come nearer to being perfect human food than anything I know of.