The gateway is Flamboyant gothic, of great beauty and refinement. The church is fifteenth century gothic. Its wooden roof is beautifully carved and painted. The interior has no transept, but is composed of three naves under one roof. The west aisle has been shortened to make room for the tower; and in the north nave is a closed-up pointed doorway, which must have belonged to the earlier chapel dedicated to St. Mériadec. The apsis is terminated by a straight wall. The three naves are separated below the choir by prismatic pillars supporting light and bold arches.
The tower is pierced on the four sides by two long, narrow lancet windows, ending in a platform bearing a Flamboyant balustrade, above which rise four bell-turrets in lead, supporting a tall leaden spire.
The churchyard contains two remarkable objects: a mortuary chapel of the date 1577, open on three sides, with a stone altar at the end. The other is an exquisite Renaissance fountain of lead, with admirable figures, the goal of many a pilgrimage. It is a rare work of art, composed of three trenchers or shallow basins united by a slender column, of which the base enters a large reservoir in the form of a basin resting on a pedestal, the water issuing from lions' mouths. The overflow from the upper basins is discharged into the larger basins below by means of a cordon or garland, consisting of angels' heads, full of grace and beauty. The summit of the fountain is crowned by an image of the Father Eternal, leaning forward to watch the Baptism of the Son by John the Baptist. These figures are all in lead, as also are the innumerable heads of the angels pouring out water from the three upper stages. The exquisite composition is said to have been the work of an Italian artist, and was given by Anne of Brittany.
The whole village scene is picturesque and striking. You feel at home at once; it is marked by a certain refinement, a delicious quietness and repose in which there is something singularly soothing. Lying in a hollow, it seems to have carefully withdrawn from the outer world. It is warm and sunny, and marked and beautified by a wealth of flowers. Surrounding the churchyard are some of the small houses of this mediæval village.
The inn opposite the gothic gateway looks the very picture of cleanliness and quiet comfort. Through an open window you see a table spread with a snow-white cloth, a capital ensign for an inn, promising much that is loyal. The whole of the exterior is a wealth of blossom, roses and wisteria covering the white walls, framing the casements, overflowing to the roof.
On the churchyard walls sat some of the village girls knitting; and as we took them with our instantaneous cameras, some rushed shyly across the road and disappeared in the small houses; whilst others, made of bolder material, placed themselves in becoming attitudes, and looked the very image of conscious vanity. The men came and talked to us freely—an exception amongst Breton folk; but it was often difficult to understand their mixture of languages. They were rather less rough and sturdy-looking than the ordinary type of Breton, and had somewhat the look of having descended from the mediæval days of their village, becoming pale and long drawn out in the process. Probably the sheltered position of the village has much to do with it.
St. Jean-du-Doigt takes its name from the fact of the church possessing the index finger of the right hand of St. John the Baptist, carefully preserved in a sheath of gold, silver and enamel, a work of art executed in 1429. The church considers it its greatest possession, and it has been the object of many a pilgrimage. The treasures of St. Jean-du-Doigt are unusually rich and beautiful.
The chief village fête of the year, that in Holland and Belgium would be called Kermesse, in some parts of France Ducasse, is in Brittany called Pardon. These are the occasions when the little country is seen at its best, and when all the costume that has come down to the present day exhibits itself. The Bretons take their pleasures somewhat sadly it is true, but even owls sometimes become excited and frivolous, and the Breton, if ever gay and lively, is so at his Pardon.