In downright bad taste, these cemeteries, in common with most others in France, have an abundance of wire and bead memorial wreaths and crowns. Why it is that the French, with their usually highly developed artistic sense, affect these artificialities, is a question to which no one has had the temerity to devise an answer.
At Ploubazlanec, a tiny village settled upon a cliff overlooking the Bay of Paimpol, are the funeral monuments of many who have lost their lives by drowning in a frozen sea, as you will be told.
In 1901, three ships from these parts disappeared, crew and cargo, following the sinister local expression, in the cold waters off Iceland, whither the little fleet had gone for the fishing. In the cemetery, in the side of the mortuary chapel, is a section known as “the wall of those who disappeared,” and here you may read, many times repeated, such inscriptions as the following:
“En Mémoire de Gilles Brézellec, 17 ans, décédé à Islande.
En Mémoire de Jean-Marie Brézellec, 16 ans, décédé à Islande.
En Mémoire de Yves Brézellec, 37 ans, décédé à Islande.
Priez Dieu pour eux!”
A whole family shattered and broken up, leaving perhaps a wife and an old mother dependent upon charity, or such a scanty living as can be picked up intermittently.
At Kérity, also, is an Icelanders’ cemetery, and here one may read the names, beginning with that of the captain, of the crew of twenty, all hailing from the home port of Kérity, who were lost in the white fiords of Iceland in another catastrophe.
Nowhere in the known world is there anything like the wholesale risk of life which goes on yearly from the ports of Finistère and the Côtes du Nord, unless it be that among the American fishermen on the Grand Banks, hailing from Gloucester, on Massachusetts Bay.
If the visitor to Brittany has not yet made the acquaintance of the heroes of Loti’s “Iceland Fishermen,” he should do so forthwith, for it was at Ploubazlanec that the great Yann Gaos was interred, and near him reposed his father and little Sylvestre.
The Celtic spirit of the modern Breton has preserved the legend or superstition of “An-Ankou,” the spirit of death. In many villages one may interrogate a peasant or a fisherman, who will affirm that it is “Ankou” who leads the way for the funeral-car and who waits at the grave to carry the soul of the departed away with him after the others have left.
Among the superstitious signs which presage the coming of the “Ankou” are, a ball of fire, which rests upon the tiles of the roof over the stricken one,—a most unlikely thing, one would think,—the theft of grain by crows, the tapping of a window-pane by the beak of a sea-bird, the prolonged bellowing of cattle by the light of the moon, a candle which will not light, or for a peasant to split or cleave two pairs of wooden shoes in one week.