Legends & Romances of Brittany
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Title: Legends & Romances of Brittany
Author: Lewis Spence
Illustrator: Otway McCannell
Release date: January 6, 2010 [eBook #30871]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGENDS & ROMANCES OF BRITTANY ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Katherine Ward, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
LEGENDS & ROMANCES OF BRITTANY
[Illustration: GRAELENT AND THE FAIRY-WOMAN _Fr._]
LEGENDS & ROMANCES
OF BRITTANY
_BY_
LEWIS SPENCE F.R.A.I.
AUTHOR OF "HERO TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE RHINE"
"A DICTIONARY OF MEDIEVAL ROMANCE AND ROMANCE WRITERS"
"THE MYTHS OF MEXICO AND PERU"
ETC. ETC.
_WITH THIRTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS BY_
W. OTWAY CANNELL A.R.C.A.(Lond.)
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
GREAT BRITAIN
PREFACE
Although the folk-tales and legends of Brittany have received
ample attention from native scholars and collectors, they have not as
yet been presented in a popular manner to English-speaking readers.
The probable reasons for what would appear to be an otherwise
incomprehensible omission on the part of those British writers who
make a popular use of legendary material are that many Breton
folk-tales strikingly resemble those of other countries, that from
a variety of considerations some of them are unsuitable for
presentation in an English dress, and that most of the folk-tales
proper certainly possess a strong family likeness to one another.
But it is not the folk-tale alone which goes to make up the
romantic literary output of a people; their ballads, the heroic
tales which they have woven around passages in their national
history, their legends (employing the term in its proper sense),
along with the more literary attempts of their romance-weavers,
their beliefs regarding the supernatural, the tales which cluster
around their ancient homes and castles--all of these, although
capable of separate classification, are akin to folk-lore, and I
have not, therefore, hesitated to use what in my discretion I
consider the best out of immense stores of material as being much
more suited to supply British readers with a comprehensive view of
Breton story. Thus, I have included chapters on the lore which
cleaves to the ancient stone monuments of the country, along with
some account of the monuments themselves. The Arthurian matter
especially connected with Brittany I have relegated to a separate
chapter, and I have considered it only fitting to include such of
the _lais_ of that rare and human songstress Marie de France as deal
with the Breton land. The legends of those sainted men to whom
Brittany owes so much will be found in a separate chapter, in
collecting the matter for which I have obtained the kindest
assistance from Miss Helen Macleod Scott, who has the preservation of
the Celtic spirit so much at heart. I have also included chapters on
the interesting theme of the black art in Brittany, as well as on
the several species of fays and demons which haunt its moors and
forests; nor will the heroic tales of its great warriors and
champions be found wanting. To assist the reader to obtain the
atmosphere of Brittany and in order that he may read these tales
without feeling that he is perusing matter relating to a race of
which he is otherwise ignorant, I have afforded him a slight
sketch of the Breton environment and historical development, and in
an attempt to lighten his passage through the volume I have here and
there told a tale in verse, sometimes translated, sometimes original.
As regards the folk-tales proper, by which I mean stories collected
from the peasantry, I have made a selection from the works of Gaidoz,
Sébillot, and Luzel. In no sense are these translations; they are
rather adaptations. The profound inequality between Breton folk-tales
is, of course, very marked in a collection of any magnitude, but as
this volume is not intended to be exhaustive I have had no difficulty
in selecting material of real interest. Most of these tales were
collected by Breton folk-lorists in the eighties of the last century,
and the native shrewdness and common sense which characterize much of
the editors' comments upon the stories so carefully gathered from
peasants and fishermen make them deeply interesting.
It is with a sense of shortcoming that I offer the reader this volume
on a great subject, but should it succeed in stimulating interest in
Breton story, and in directing students to a field in which their
research is certain to be richly rewarded, I shall not regret the
labour and time which I have devoted to my task.
L. S.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Land, the People and their Story 13
II Menhirs And Dolmens 37
III The Fairies of Brittany 54
IV Sprites And Demons of Brittany 96
V World-Tales in Brittany 106
VI Breton Folk-Tales 156
VII Popular Legends of Brittany 173
VIII Hero-Tales of Brittany 211
IX The Black Art and Its Ministers 241
X Arthurian Romance in Brittany 254
XI The Breton Lays of Marie De France 283
XII The Saints of Brittany 332
XIII Costumes and Customs of Brittany 372
Glossary and Index 392
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Graelent and the Fairy-Woman _Frontispiece_
Nomenoë 23
The Death of Marguerite in the Castle of Trogoff 34
Raising a Menhir 44
The Seigneur of Nann And the Korrigan 58
Merlin And Vivien 66
The Fairies of Broceliande Find the Little Bruno 72
Fairies in a Breton 'Houle' 81
The Poor Boy And the Three Fairy Damsels 88
The Demon-Dog 102
N'Oun Doare And the Princess Golden Bell 112
The Bride of Satan 144
Gwennolaïk and Nola 170
The Devil in the Form of a Leopard appears before
the Alchemist 179
The Escape of King Gradlon from the Flooded City of
Ys 186
A Peasant Insurrection 197
Morvan returns to his Ruined Home 214
The Finding of Silvestik 232
Héloïse as Sorceress 250
King Arthur and Merlin at the Lake 257
Tristrem and Ysonde 268
King Arthur and the Giant of Mont-Saint-Michel 276
The Were-Wolf 288
Gugemar comes upon the Magic Ship 294
Gugemar's Assault on the Castle of Meriadus 300
Eliduc carries Guillardun to the Forest Chapel 312
Convoyon and his Monks carry off the Relics of St
Apothemius 336
St Tivisiau, the Shepherd Saint 339
St Yves instructing Shepherd-boys in the Use of the
Rosary 352
Queen Queban stoned to Death 369
Modern Brittany 377
The Souls of the Dead 385
CHAPTER I: THE LAND, THE PEOPLE AND THEIR STORY
The romantic region which we are about to traverse in search of the
treasures of legend was in ancient times known as Armorica, a
Latinized form of the Celtic name, Armor ('On the Sea'). The Brittany
of to-day corresponds to the departments of Finistère, Côtes-du-Nord,
Morbihan, Ille-et-Vilaine, and Loire-Inférieure. A popular division of
the country is that which partitions it into Upper, or Eastern, and
Lower, or Western, Brittany, and these tracts together have an area of
some 13,130 square miles.
Such parts of Brittany as are near to the sea-coast present marked
differences to the inland regions, where raised plateaux are covered
with dreary and unproductive moorland. These plateaux, again, rise
into small ranges of hills, not of any great height, but, from their
wild and rugged appearance, giving the impression of an altitude much
loftier than they possess. The coast-line is ragged, indented, and
inhospitable, lined with deep reefs and broken by the estuaries of
brawling rivers. In the southern portion the district known as 'the
Emerald Coast' presents an almost subtropical appearance; the air is
mild and the whole region pleasant and fruitful. But with this
exception Brittany is a country of bleak shores and grey seas, barren
moorland and dreary horizons, such a land as legend loves, such a
region, cut off and isolated from the highways of humanity, as the
discarded genii of ancient faiths might seek as a last stronghold.
Regarding the origin of the race which peoples this secluded
peninsula there are no wide differences of opinion. If we take the
word 'Celt' as describing any branch of the many divergent races which
came under the influence of one particular type of culture, the true
originators of which were absorbed among the folk they governed and
instructed before the historic era, then the Bretons are 'Celts'
indeed, speaking the tongue known as 'Celtic' for want of a more
specific name, exhibiting marked signs of the possession of 'Celtic'
customs, and having those racial characteristics which the science of
anthropology until recently laid down as certain indications of
'Celtic' relationship--the short, round skull, swarthy complexion, and
blue or grey eyes.
It is to be borne in mind, however, that the title 'Celtic' is shared
by the Bretons with the fair or rufous Highlander of Scotland, the
dark Welshman, and the long-headed Irishman. But the Bretons exhibit
such special characteristics as would warrant the new anthropology in
labelling them the descendants of that 'Alpine' race which existed in
Central Europe in Neolithic times, and which, perhaps, possessed
distant Mongoloid affinities. This people spread into nearly all parts
of Europe, and later in some regions acquired Celtic speech and custom
from a Celtic aristocracy.
It is remarkable how completely this Celtic leaven--the true history
of which is lost in the depths of prehistoric darkness--succeeded in
impressing not only its language but its culture and spirit upon the
various peoples with whom it came into contact. To impose a special
type of civilization upon another race must always prove a task of
almost superhuman proportions. To compel the use of an alien tongue by
a conquered folk necessitates racial tact as well as strength of
purpose. But to secure the adoption of the racial _spirit_ by the
conquered, and adherence to it for centuries, so that men of widely
divergent origins shall all have the same point of view, the same mode
of thought, manner of address, aye, even the same _facies_ or general
racial appearance, as have Bretons, some Frenchmen, Cornishmen,
Welshmen, and Highlanders--that surely would argue an indwelling
racial strength such as not even the Roman or any other world-empire
might pretend to.
But this Celtic civilization was not one and undivided. In late
prehistoric times it evolved from one mother tongue two dialects which
afterward displayed all the differences of separate languages
springing from a common stock. These are the Goidelic, the tongue
spoken by the Celts of Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man, and the
Brythonic, the language of the Welsh, the Cornish, and the people of
Brittany.
_The Breton Tongue_
The Brezonek, the Brythonic tongue of Brittany, is undoubtedly the
language of those Celtic immigrants who fled from Britain the Greater
to Britain the Less to escape the rule of the Saxon invaders, and who
gave the name of the country which they had left to that Armorica in
which they settled. In the earliest stages of development it is
difficult to distinguish Breton from Welsh. From the ninth to the
eleventh centuries the Breton language is described as 'Old Breton.'
'Middle Breton' flourished from the eleventh to the seventeenth
centuries, since when 'Modern Breton' has been in use. These stages
indicate changes in the language more or less profound, due chiefly to
admixture with French. Various distinct dialects are indicated by
writers on the subject, but the most marked difference in Breton
speech seems to be that between the dialect of Vannes and that of the
rest of Brittany. Such differences do not appear to be older than the
sixteenth century.[1]
_The Ancient Armoricans_
The written history of Brittany opens with the account of Julius
Cæsar. At that period (57 B.C.) Armorica was inhabited by five
principal tribes: the Namnetes, the Veneti, the Osismii, the
Curiosolitæ, and the Redones. These offered a desperate resistance to
Roman encroachment, but were subdued, and in some cases their people
were sold wholesale into slavery. In 56 B.C. the Veneti threw off the
yoke and retained two of Cæsar's officers as hostages. Cæsar advanced
upon Brittany in person, but found that he could make no headway while
he was opposed by the powerful fleet of flat-bottomed boats, like
floating castles, which the Veneti were so skilful in manoeuvring.
Ships were hastily constructed upon the waters of the Loire, and a
desperate naval engagement ensued, probably in the Gulf of Morbihan,
which resulted in the decisive defeat of the Veneti, the Romans
resorting to the stratagem of cutting down the enemy's rigging with
sickles bound upon long poles. The members of the Senate of the
conquered people were put to death as a punishment for their
defection, and thousands of the tribesmen went to swell the
slave-markets of Europe.
Between A.D. 450 and 500, when the Roman power and population were
dwindling, many vessels brought fugitives from Britain to Armorica.
These people, fleeing from the conquering barbarians, Saxons, Picts,
and Scots, sought as asylum a land where a kindred race had not yet
been disturbed by invasion. Says Thierry, in his _Norman Conquest_:
"With the consent of the ancient inhabitants, who acknowledged them as
brethren of the same origin, the new settlers distributed themselves
over the whole northern coast, as far as the little river Coesoron,
and southward as far as the territory of the city of the Veneti, now
called Vannes. In this extent of country they founded a sort of
separate state, comprising all the small places near the coast, but
not including within its limits the great towns of Vannes, Nantes, and
Rennes. The increase of the population of this western corner of the
country, and the great number of people of the Celtic race and
language thus assembled within a narrow space, preserved it from the
irruption of the Roman tongue, which, under forms more or less
corrupted, was gradually becoming prevalent in every other part of
Gaul. The name of _Brittany_ was attached to these coasts, and the
names of the various indigenous tribes disappeared; while the island
which had borne this name for so many ages now lost it, and, taking
the name of its conquerors, began to be called the land of the Saxons
and Angles, or, in one word, _England_."
_Samson_
One of these British immigrants was the holy Samson, who laboured to
convert pagan Brittany to Christianity. He hailed from Pembrokeshire,
and the legend relates that his parents, being childless, constructed
a menhir[2] of pure silver and gave it to the poor in the hope that a
son might be born to them. Their desire was fulfilled, and Samson, the
son in question, became a great missionary of the Church. Accompanied
by forty monks, he crossed the Channel and landed on the shores of the
Bay of Saint-Brieuc, a savage and deserted district.
As the keel of his galley grated on the beach the Saint beheld a man
on the shore seated at the door of a miserable hut, who endeavoured to
attract his attention by signs. Samson approached the shore-dweller,
who took him by the hand and, leading him into the wretched dwelling,
showed him his wife and daughter, stricken with sickness. Samson
relieved their pain, and the husband and father, who, despite his
humble appearance, was chief of the neighbouring territory, gave him a
grant of land hard by. Here, close to the celebrated menhir of Dol, he
and his monks built their cells. Soon a chapel rose near the ancient
seat of pagan worship--in later days the site of a great cathedral.
Telio, a British monk, with the assistance of St Samson, planted near
Dol an orchard three miles in length, and to him is attributed the
introduction of the apple-tree into Brittany. Wherever the monks went
they cultivated the soil; all had in their mouths the words of the
Apostle: "If any would not work, neither should he eat." The people
admired the industry of the new-comers, and from admiration they
passed to imitation. The peasants joined the monks in tilling the
ground, and even the brigands from the hills and forests became
agriculturists. "The Cross and the plough, labour and prayer," was the
motto of these early missionaries.
_Wax for Wine_
The monks of Dol were renowned bee-farmers, as we learn from an
anecdote told by Count Montalembert in his _Moines d'Occident_. One
day when St Samson of Dol, and St Germain, Bishop of Paris, were
conversing on the respective merits of their monasteries, St Samson
said that his monks were such good and careful preservers of their
bees that, besides the honey which the bees yielded in abundance, they
furnished more wax than was used in the churches for candles during
the year, but that the climate not being suitable for the growth of
vines, there was great scarcity of wine. Upon hearing this St Germain
replied: "We, on the contrary, produce more wine than we can consume,
but we have to buy wax; so, if you will furnish us with wax, we will
give you a tenth of our wine." Samson accepted this offer, and the
mutual arrangement was continued during the lives of the two saints.
Two British kingdoms were formed in Armorica--Domnonia and Cornubia.
The first embraced the Côtes-du-Nord and Finistère north of the river
Élorn, Cornubia, or Cornouaille, as it is now known, being situated
below that river, as far south as the river Ellé. At first these
states paid a nominal homage to their native kings in Britain, but on
the final fall of the British power they proclaimed a complete
independence.
_The Vision of Jud-Hael_
A striking story relating to the migration period is told concerning a
Cambrian chieftain of Brittany, one Jud-Hael, and the famous British
bard Taliesin. Shortly after the arrival of Taliesin in Brittany
Jud-Hael had a remarkable vision. He dreamt that he saw a high
mountain, on the summit of which was placed a lofty column fixed
deeply in the earth, with a base of ivory, and branches which reached
to the heavens. The lower part was iron, brilliantly polished, and to
it were attached rings of the same metal, from which were suspended
cuirasses, casques, lances, javelins, bucklers, trumpets, and many
other warlike trophies. The upper portion was of gold, and upon it
hung candelabra, censers, stoles, chalices, and ecclesiastical symbols
of every description. As the Prince stood admiring the spectacle the
heavens opened and a maiden of marvellous beauty descended and
approached him.
"I salute you, O Jud-Hael," she said, "and I confide to your keeping
for a season this column and all that it supports"; and with these
words she vanished.
On the following day Jud-Hael made public his dream, but, like
Nebuchadnezzar of old, he could find no one to interpret it, so he
turned to the bard Taliesin as to another Daniel. Taliesin, says the
legend, then an exile from his native land of Britain, dwelt on the
seashore. To him came the messenger of Jud-Hael and said: "O thou who
so truly dost interpret all things ambiguous, hear and make clear the
strange vision which my lord hath seen." He then recounted Jud-Hael's
dream to the venerable bard.
For a time the sage sat pondering deeply, and then replied: "Thy
master reigneth well and wisely, O messenger, but he has a son who
will reign still more happily even than himself, and who will become
one of the greatest men in the Breton land. The sons of his loins will
be the fathers of powerful counts and pious Churchmen, but he himself,
the greatest man of that race, shall be first a valiant warrior and
later a mighty champion of heaven. The earlier part of his life shall
be given to the world; the latter portion shall be devoted to God."
The prophecy of Taliesin was duly fulfilled. For Judik-Hael, the son
of Jud-Hael, realized the bard's prediction, and entered the cloister
after a glorious reign.
_Taliesin_
Taliesin ('Shining Forehead') was in the highest repute in the middle
of the twelfth century, and he was then and afterward, unless we
except Merlin, the bardic hero of the greatest number of romantic
legends. He is said to have been the son of Henwg the bard, or St
Henwg, of Caerleon-upon-Usk, and to have been educated in the school
of Cattwg, at Llanvithin, in Glamorgan, where the historian Gildas was
his fellow-pupil. Seized when a youth by Irish pirates, he is said,
probably by rational interpretation of a later fable of his history,
to have escaped by using a wooden buckler for a boat. Thus he came
into the fishing weir of Elphin, one of the sons of Urien. Urien made
him Elphin's instructor, and gave him an estate of land. But, once
introduced into the Court of that great warrior-chief, Taliesin became
his foremost bard, followed him in his wars, and sang his victories.
He celebrates triumphs over Ida, the Anglian King of Bernicia (_d._
559) at Argoed about the year 547, at Gwenn-Estrad between that year
and 559, at Menao about the year 559. After the death of Urien,
Taliesin was the bard of his son Owain, by whose hand Ida fell. After
the death of all Urien's sons Taliesin retired to mourn the downfall
of his race in Wales, dying, it is said, at Bangor Teivi, in
Cardiganshire. He was buried under a cairn near Aberystwyth.
_Hervé the Blind_
There is nothing improbable in the statement that Taliesin dwelt in
Brittany in the sixth century. Many other British bards found a refuge
on the shores of Britain the Less. Among these was Kyvarnion, a
Christian, who married a Breton Druidess and who had a son, Hervé.
Hervé was blind from birth, and was led from place to place by a wolf
which he had converted (!) and pressed into the service of Mother
Church.
One day, when a lad, Hervé had been left in charge of his uncle's
farm, when a ploughman passed him in full flight, crying out that a
savage wolf had appeared and had killed the ass with which he had been
ploughing. The man entreated Hervé to fly, as the wolf was hard upon
his heels; but the blind youth, undaunted, ordered the terrified
labourer to seize the animal and harness it to the plough with the
harness of the dead ass. From that time the wolf dwelt among the sheep
and goats on the farm, and subsisted upon hay and grass.
_Nomenoë_
Swarms of Irish from Ossory and Wexford began to arrive about the
close of the fifth century, settling along the west and north coasts.
The immigrants from Britain the Greater formed by degrees the
counties of Vannes, Cornouaille, Léon, and Domnonée, constituted a
powerful aristocracy, and initiated a long and arduous struggle
against the Frankish monarchs, who exercised a nominal suzerainty over
Brittany. Louis the Pious placed a native chief, Nomenoë, at the head
of the province, and a long period of peace ensued. But in A.D. 845
Nomenoë revolted against Charles the Bald, defeated him, and forced
him to recognize the independence of Brittany, and to forgo the annual
tribute which he had exacted. A ballad by Villemarqué describes the
incident. Like Macpherson, who in his enthusiasm for the fragments of
Ossianic lore 'reconstructed' them only too well, Villemarqué
unfortunately tampered very freely with such matter as he collected,
and it may even be that the poem on Nomenoë, for which he claims
authority, is altogether spurious, as some critics consider. But as it
affords a spirited picture of the old Breton chief the story is at
least worth relating.
The poem describes how an aged chieftain waits on the hills of Retz
for his son, who has gone over to Rennes to pay the Breton tribute to
the Franks. Many chariots drawn by horses has he taken with him, but
although a considerable time has elapsed there is no indication of his
return. The chieftain climbs to an eminence in the hope of discerning
his son in the far distance, but no sign of his appearance is to be
seen on the long white road or on the bleak moors which fringe it.
The anxious father espies a merchant wending slowly along the highway
and hails him.
"Ha, good merchant, you who travel the land from end to end, have you
seen aught of my son Karo, who has gone to conduct the tribute
chariots to Rennes?"
[Illustration: NOMENOË]
"Alas! chieftain, if your son has gone with the tribute it is in vain
you wait for him, for the Franks found it not enough, and have weighed
his head against it in the balance."
The father gazes wildly at the speaker, sways, and falls heavily with
a doleful cry.
"Karo, my son! My lost Karo!"
The scene changes to the fortress of Nomenoë, and we see its master
returning from the chase, accompanied by his great hounds and laden
with trophies. His bow is in his hand, and he carries the carcass of a
boar upon his shoulder. The red blood drops from the dead beast's
mouth and stains his hand. The aged chief, well-nigh demented, awaits
his coming, and Nomenoë greets him courteously.
"Hail, honest mountaineer!" he cries. "What is your news? What would
you with Nomenoë?"
"I come for justice, Lord Nomenoë," replies the aged man. "Is there a
God in heaven and a chief in Brittany? There is a God above us, I
know, and I believe there is a just Duke in the Breton land. Mighty
ruler, make war upon the Frank, defend our country, and give us
vengeance--vengeance for Karo my son, Karo, slain, decapitated by the
Frankish barbarians, his beauteous head made into a balance-weight for
their brutal sport."
The old man weeps, and the tears flow down his grizzled beard.
Then Nomenoë rises in anger and swears a great oath. "By the head of
this boar, and by the arrow which slew him," cries he, "I will not
wash this blood from off my hand until I free the country from mine
enemies."
Nomenoë has gone to the seashore and gathered pebbles, for these are
the tribute he intends to offer the bald King.[3] Arrived at the gates
of Rennes, he asks that they shall be opened to him so that he may pay
the tribute of silver. He is asked to descend, to enter the castle,
and to leave his chariot in the courtyard. He is requested to wash his
hands to the sound of a horn before eating (an ancient custom), but he
replies that he prefers to deliver the tribute-money there and then.
The sacks are weighed, and the third is found light by several
pounds.
"Ha, what is this?" cries the Frankish castellan. "This sack is under
weight, Sir Nomenoë."
Out leaps Nomenoë's sword from the scabbard, and the Frank's head is
smitten from his shoulders. Then, seizing it by its gory locks, the
Breton chief with a laugh of triumph casts it into the balance. His
warriors throng the courtyard, the town is taken; young Karo is
avenged!
_Alain Barbe-torte_
The end of the ninth century and the beginning of the tenth were
remarkable for the invasions of the Northmen. On several occasions
they were driven back--by Salomon (_d._ 874), by Alain, Count of
Vannes (_d._ 907)--but it was Alain Barbe-torte, 'Alain of the Twisted
Beard,' or 'Alain the Fox' (_d._ 952), who gained the decisive victory
over them, and concerning him an ancient ballad has much to say. It
was taken down by Villemarqué from the lips of a peasant, an old
soldier of the Chouan leader Georges Cadoudal.
In his youth Alain was a mighty hunter of the bear and the boar in the
forests of his native Brittany, and the courage gained in this manly
sport stood him in good stead when he came to employ it against the
enemies of his country, the hated Northmen. Rallying the Bretons who
lurked in the forests or hid in the mountain fastnesses, he led them
against the enemy, whom he surprised near Dol in the middle of the
night, making a great carnage among them. After this battle the
Scandinavian invaders were finally expelled from the Breton land and
Alain was crowned King or Arch-chief in 937.
A free translation of this ballad might run as follows:
Lurks the Fox within the wood,
His teeth and claws are red with blood.
Within his leafy, dark retreat
He chews the cud of vengeance sweet.
Oh, trenchant his avenging sword!
It falls not on the rock or sward,
But on the mail of Saxon foe:
Swift as the lightning falls the blow.
I've seen the Bretons wield the flail,
Scattering the bearded chaff like hail:
But iron is the flail they wield
Against the churlish Saxon's shield.
I heard the call of victory
From Michael's Mount to Élorn fly,
And Alain's glory flies as fast
From Gildas' church to every coast.
Ah, may his splendour never die,
May it live on eternally!
But woe that I may nevermore
Declaim this lay on Armor's shore,
For the base Saxon hand has torn
My tongue from out my mouth forlorn.
But if my lips no longer frame
The glories of our Alain's name,
My heart shall ever sing his praise,
Who won the fight and wears the bays![4]
The Saxons of this lay are, of course, the Norsemen, who, speaking a
Teutonic tongue, would seem to the Celtic-speaking Bretons to be
allied to the Teuton Franks.
_Bretons and Normans_
During the latter half of the tenth and most of the eleventh century
the Counts of Rennes gained an almost complete ascendancy in Brittany,
which began to be broken up into counties and seigneuries in the
French manner. In 992 Geoffrey, son of Conan, Count of Rennes, adopted
the title of Duke of Brittany. He married a Norman lady of noble
family, by whom he had two sons, Alain and Eudo, the younger of whom
demanded a share of the duchy as his inheritance. His brother made
over to him the counties of Penthièvre and Tréguier, part of the old
kingdom of Domnonia in the north. It was a fatal transference, for he
and his line became remorseless enemies of the ducal house, with whom
they carried on a series of disastrous conflicts for centuries. Conan
II, son of Alain, came under the regency of Eudo, his uncle, in
infancy, but later turned his sword against him and his abettor,
William of Normandy, the Conqueror.
Notwithstanding the national enmity of the Normans and Bretons, there
existed between the Dukes of Normandy and the Dukes of Brittany ties
of affinity that rendered the relations between the two states
somewhat complicated. At the time when Duke Robert, the father of
William of Normandy, set out upon his pilgrimage, he had no nearer
relative than Alain, Duke of Brittany, the father of Conan II,
descended in the female line from Rollo, the great Norse leader, and
to him he committed on his departure the care of his duchy and the
guardianship of his son.
Duke Alain declared the paternity of his ward doubtful, and favoured
that party which desired to set him aside from the succession; but
after the defeat of his faction at Val-ès-Dunes he died, apparently of
poison, doubtless administered by the contrivance of the friends of
William. His son, Conan II, succeeded, and reigned at the period when
William was making his preparations for the conquest of England. He
was a prince of ability, dreaded by his neighbours, and animated by a
fierce desire to injure the Duke of Normandy, whom he regarded as a
usurper and the murderer of his father Alain. Seeing William engaged
in a hazardous enterprise, Conan thought it a favourable moment to
declare war against him, and dispatched one of his chamberlains to him
with the following message: "I hear that you are ready to pass the sea
to make conquest of the kingdom of England. Now, Duke Robert, whose
son you feign to consider yourself, on his departure for Jerusalem
left all his inheritance to Duke Alain, my father, who was his cousin;
but you and your abettors have poisoned my father, you have
appropriated to yourself the domain of Normandy, and have kept
possession of it until this day, contrary to all right, since you are
not the legitimate heir. Restore to me, therefore, the duchy of
Normandy, which belongs to me, or I shall levy war upon you, and shall
wage it to extremity with all my forces."
_The Poisoned Hunting-Horn_
The Norman historians state that William was much startled by so
hostile a message; for even a feeble diversion might render futile his
ambitious hopes of conquest. But without hesitation he resolved to
remove the Breton Duke. Immediately upon his return to Conan, the
envoy, gained over, doubtless, by a bribe of gold, rubbed poison into
the inside of the horn which his master sounded when hunting, and, to
make his evil measures doubly sure, he poisoned in like manner the
Duke's gloves and his horse's bridle. Conan died a few days after his
envoy's return, and his successor, Eudo, took especial care not to
imitate his relative in giving offence to William with regard to the
validity of his right; on the contrary, he formed an alliance with
him, a thing unheard of betwixt Breton and Norman, and sent his two
sons to William's camp to serve against the English.
These two youths, Brian and Alain, repaired to the rendezvous of the
Norman forces, accompanied by a body of Breton knights, who styled
them Mac-tierns.[5] Certain other wealthy Bretons, who were not of the
pure Celtic race, and who bore French names, as Robert de Vitry,
Bertrand de Dinan, and Raoul de Gael, resorted likewise to the Court
of the Duke of Normandy with offers of service.
Later Brittany became a bone of contention between France and
Normandy. Hoel, the native Duke, claimed the protection of France
against the Norman duchy. A long period of peace followed under Alain
Fergant and Conan III, but on the death of the latter a fierce war of
succession was waged (1148-56). Conan IV secured the ducal crown by
Norman-English aid, and gave his daughter Constance in marriage to
Geoffrey Plantagenet, son of Henry II of England. Geoffrey was crowned
Duke of Brittany in 1171, but after his death his son Arthur met with
a dreadful fate at the hands of his uncle, John of England. Constance,
his mother, the real heiress to the duchy, married again, her choice
falling upon Guy de Thouars, and their daughter was wed to Pierre de
Dreux, who became Duke, and who defeated John Lackland, the slayer of
his wife's half-brother, under the walls of Nantes in 1214.
_French Influence_
The country now began to flourish apace because of the many
innovations introduced into it by the wisdom of its French rulers. A
new way of life was adopted by the governing classes, among whom
French manners and fashions became the rule. But the people at large
retained their ancient customs, language, and dress; nor have they
ever abandoned them, at least in Lower Brittany. On the death of John
III (1341) the peace of the duchy was once more broken by a war of
succession. John had no love for his half-brother, John of Montfort,
and bequeathed the ducal coronet to his niece, Joan of Penthièvre,
wife of Charles of Blois, nephew of Philip VI of France. This
precipitated a conflict between the rival parties which led to years
of bitter strife.
_The War of the Two Joans_
Just as two women, Fredegonda and Brunhilda, swayed the fortunes of
Neustria and Austrasia in Merovingian times, and Mary and Elizabeth
those of England and Scotland at a later day, so did two heroines
arise to uphold the banners of either party in the civil strife which
now convulsed the Breton land. England took the side of Montfort and
the French that of Charles. Almost at the outset (1342) John of
Montfort was taken prisoner, but his heroic wife, Joan of Flanders,
grasped the leadership of affairs, and carried on a relentless war
against her husband's enemies. After five years of fighting, in 1347,
and two years subsequent to the death of her lord, whose health had
given way after his imprisonment, she captured her arch-foe, Charles
of Blois himself, at the battle of La Roche-Derrien, on the Jaudy. In
this encounter she had the assistance of a certain Sir Thomas Dagworth
and an English force. Three times was Charles rescued, and thrice was
he retaken, until, bleeding from eighteen wounds, he was compelled to
surrender. He was sent to London, where he was confined in the Tower
for nine years. Meanwhile his wife, Joan, imitating her rival and
namesake, in turn threw her energies into the strife. But another
victory for the Montfort party was gained at Mauron in 1352. On the
release of Charles of Blois in 1356 he renewed hostilities with the
help of the famous Bertrand Du Guesclin.
_Bertrand Du Guesclin_
Bertrand Du Guesclin (_c._ 1320-80), Constable of France, divides with
Bayard the Fearless the crown of medieval French chivalry as a mighty
leader of men, a great soldier, and a blameless knight. He was born of
an ancient family who were in somewhat straitened circumstances, and
in childhood was an object of aversion to his parents because of his
ugliness.
One night his mother dreamt that she was in possession of a casket
containing portraits of herself and her lord, on one side of which
were set nine precious stones of great beauty encircling a rough,
unpolished pebble. In her dream she carried the casket to a lapidary,
and asked him to take out the rough stone as unworthy of such goodly
company; but he advised her to allow it to remain, and afterward it
shone forth more brilliantly than the lustrous gems. The later
superiority of Bertrand over her nine other children fulfilled the
mother's dream.
At the tournament which was held at Rennes in 1338 to celebrate the
marriage of Charles of Blois with Joan of Penthièvre, young Bertrand,
at that time only some eighteen years old, unhorsed the most famous
competitors. During the war between Blois and Montfort he gathered
round him a band of adventurers and fought on the side of Charles V,
doing much despite to the forces of Montfort and his ally of England.
Du Guesclin's name lives in Breton legend as Gwezklen, perhaps the
original form, and approximating to that on his tomb at Saint-Denis,
where he lies at the feet of Charles V of France. In this inscription
it is spelt "Missire Bertram du Gueaquien," perhaps a French rendering
of the Breton pronunciation. Not a few legendary ballads which recount
the exploits of this manly and romantic figure remain in the Breton
language, and I have made a free translation of the following, as it
is perhaps the most interesting of the number:
THE WARD OF DU GUESCLIN
Trogoff's strong tower in English hands
Has been this many a year,
Rising above its subject-lands
And held in hate and fear.
That rosy gleam upon the sward
Is not the sun's last kiss;
It is the blood of an English lord
Who ruled the land amiss.
"O sweetest daughter of my heart,
My little Marguerite,
Come, carry me the midday milk
To those who bind the wheat."
"O gentle mother, spare me this!
The castle I must pass
Where wicked Roger takes a kiss
From every country lass."
"Oh! fie, my daughter, fie on thee!
The Seigneur would not glance
On such a chit of low degree
When all the dames in France
Are for his choosing." "Mother mine,
I bow unto your word.
Mine eyes will ne'er behold you more.
God keep you in His guard."
Young Roger stood upon the tower
Of Trogoff's grey château;
Beneath his bent brows did he lower
Upon the scene below.
"Come hither quickly, little page,
Come hither to my knee.
Canst spy a maid of tender age?
Ha! she must pay my fee."
Fair Marguerite trips swiftly by
Beneath the castle shade,
When villain Roger, drawing nigh,
Steals softly on the maid.
He seizes on the milking-pail
She bears upon her head;
The snow-white flood she must bewail,
For all the milk is shed.
"Ah, cry not, pretty sister mine,
There's plenty and to spare
Of milk and eke of good red wine
Within my castle fair.
Ah, feast with me, or pluck a rose
Within my pleasant garth,
Or stroll beside yon brook which flows
In brawling, sylvan mirth."
"Nor feast nor flowers nor evening air
I wish; I do entreat,
Fair Seigneur, let me now repair
To those who bind the wheat."
"Nay, damsel, fill thy milking-pail:
The dairy stands but here.
Ah, foolish sweeting, wherefore quail,
For thou hast naught to fear?"
The castle gates behind her close,
And all is fair within;
Above her head the apple glows,
The symbol of our sin.
"O Seigneur, lend thy dagger keen,
That I may cut this fruit."
He smiles and with a courteous mien
He draws the bright blade out.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF MARGUERITE IN THE CASTLE OF TROGOFF]
She takes it, and in earnest prayer
Her childish accents rise:
"O mother, Virgin, ever fair,
Pray, pray, for her who dies
For honour!" Then the blade is drenched
With blood most innocent.
Vile Roger, now, thine ardour quenched,
Say, art thou then content?
"Ha, I will wash my dagger keen
In the clear-running brook.
No human eye hath ever seen,
No human eye shall look
Upon this gore." He takes the blade
From out that gentle heart,
And hurries to the river's shade.
False Roger, why dost start?
Beside the bank Du Guesclin stands,
Clad in his sombre mail.
"Ha, Roger, why so red thy hands,
And why art thou so pale?"
"A beast I've slain." "Thou liest, hound!
But I a beast will slay."
The woodland's leafy ways resound
To echoings of fray.
Roger is slain. Trogoff's château
Is level with the rock.
Who can withstand Du Guesclin's blow,
What towers can brave his shock?
The combat is his only joy,
The tournament his play.
Woe unto those who would destroy
The peace of Brittany!
In the decisive battle of Auray (1364) Charles was killed and Du
Guesclin taken prisoner. John of Montfort, son of the John who had
died, became Duke of Brittany. But he had to face Oliver de Clisson,
round whom the adherents of Blois rallied. From a war the strife
degenerated into a vendetta. Oliver de Clisson seized the person of
John V and imprisoned him. But in the end John was liberated and the
line of Blois was finally crushed.
_Anne of Brittany_
The next event of importance in Breton history is the enforced
marriage of Anne of Brittany, Duchess of that country in her own
right, to Charles VIII of France, son of Louis XI, which event took
place in 1491. Anne, whose father, Duke Francis II, had but recently
died, had no option but to espouse Charles, and on his death she
married Louis XII, his successor. Francis I, who succeeded Louis XII
on the throne of France, and who married Claude, daughter of Louis XII
and Anne, annexed the duchy in 1532, providing for its privileges. But
beneath the cramping hand of French power the privileges of the
province were greatly reduced. From this time the history of Brittany
is merged in that of France, of which country it becomes one of the
component parts in a political if not a racial sense.
We shall not in this place deal with the people of modern Brittany,
their manners and customs, reserving the subject for a later chapter,
but shall ask the reader to accompany us while we traverse the
enchanted ground of Breton story.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Consult E. Ernault, _Petite Grammaire bretonne_ (Saint-Brieuc,
1897); L. Le Clerc, _Grammaire bretonne_ (Saint-Brieuc,
1908); J. P. Treasure, _An Introduction to Breton Grammar_
(Carmarthen, 1903). For the dialect of Vannes see A.
Guillevic and P. Le Goff, _Grammaire bretonne du Dialect de
Vannes_ (Vannes, 1902).
[2] Lit. 'long stone,' a megalithic monument. See Chapter II,
"Menhirs and Dolmens." Students of folk-lore will recognize the
symbolic significance of the offering. We seem to have here
some connexion with pillar-worship, as found in ancient Crete,
and the adoration of the Irminsul among the ancient Saxons.
[3] Charles the Bald.
[4] For the Breton original and the French translation from which the
above is adapted see Villemarqué, _Barzaz-Breiz_, p. 112.
[5] 'Sons of the Chief.' MacTier is a fairly common name in Scotland
to-day.
CHAPTER II: MENHIRS AND DOLMENS
In the mind of the general reader Brittany is unalterably associated
with the prehistoric stone monuments which are so closely identified
with its folk-lore and national life. In other parts of the world
similar monuments are encountered, in Great Britain and Ireland,
Scandinavia, the Crimea, Algeria, and India, but nowhere are they
found in such abundance as in Brittany, nor are these rivalled in
other lands, either as regards their character or the space they
occupy.
To speculate as to the race which built the primitive stone monuments
of Brittany is almost as futile as it would be to theorize upon the
date of their erection.[6] A generation ago it was usual to refer all
European megalithic monuments to a 'Celtic' origin, but European
ethnological problems have become too complicated of late years to
permit such a theory to pass unchallenged, especially now that the
term 'Celt' is itself matter for fierce controversy. In the immediate
neighbourhood of certain of these monuments objects of the Iron Age
are recovered from the soil, while near others the finds are of Bronze
Age character, so that it is probably correct to surmise that their
construction continued throughout a prolonged period.
_What Menhirs and Dolmens are_
Regarding the nomenclature of the several species of megalithic
monuments met with in Brittany some definitions are necessary. A
menhir is a rude monolith set up on end, a great single stone, the
base of which is buried deep in the soil. A dolmen is a large,
table-shaped stone, supported by three, four, or even five other
stones, the bases of which are sunk in the earth. In Britain the term
'cromlech' is synonymous with that of 'dolmen,' but in France and on
the Continent generally it is exclusively applied to that class of
monument for which British scientists have no other name than 'stone
circles.' The derivation of the words from Celtic and their precise
meaning in that tongue may assist the reader to arrive at their exact
significance. Thus 'menhir' seems to be derived from the Welsh or
Brythonic _maen_, 'a stone,' and _hir_, 'long,' and 'dolmen' from
Breton _taol_, 'table,' and _men_, 'a stone.'[7] 'Cromlech' is also of
Welsh or Brythonic origin, and is derived from _crom_, 'bending' or
'bowed' (hence 'laid across'), and _llech_, 'a flat stone.' The _allée
couverte_ is a dolmen on a large scale.
_The Nature of the Monuments_
The nature of these monuments and the purpose for which they were
erected were questions which powerfully exercised the minds of the
antiquaries of a century ago, who fiercely contended for their use as
altars, open-air temples, and places of rendezvous for the discussion
of tribal affairs. The cooler archæologists of a later day have
discarded the majority of such theories as untenable in the light of
hard facts. The dolmens, they say, are highly unsuitable for the
purpose of altars, and as it has been proved that this class of
monument was invariably covered in prehistoric times by an earthen
tumulus its ritualistic use is thereby rendered improbable. Moreover,
if we chance upon any rude carving or incised work on dolmens we
observe that it is invariably executed on the _lower_ surface of the
table stone, the upper surface being nearly always rough, unhewn,
often naturally rounded, and as unlike the surface of an altar as
possible.
Recent research has established the much more reasonable theory that
these monuments are sepulchral in character, and that they mark the
last resting-places of persons of tribal importance, chiefs, priests,
or celebrated warriors. Occasionally legend assists us to prove the
mortuary character of menhir and dolmen. But, without insisting any
further for the present upon the purpose of these monuments, let us
glance at the more widely known of Brittany's prehistoric structures,
not so much in the manner of the archæologist as in that of the
observant traveller who is satisfied to view them as interesting
relics of human handiwork bequeathed from a darker age, rather than as
objects to satisfy the archæological taste for discussion.
For this purpose we shall select the best known groups of Breton
prehistoric structures, and shall begin our excursion at the
north-eastern extremity of Brittany, following the coast-line, on
which most of the principal prehistoric centres are situated, and, as
occasion offers, journeying into the interior in search of famous or
interesting examples.
_Dol_
Dol is situated in the north of the department of Ille-et-Vilaine,
not far from the sea-coast. Near it, in a field called the Champ
Dolent ('Field of Woe'), stands a gigantic menhir, about thirty feet
high and said to measure fifteen more underground. It is composed of
grey granite, and is surmounted by a cross. The early Christian
missionaries, finding it impossible to wean the people from
frequenting pagan neighbourhoods, surmounted the standing stones
with the symbol of their faith, and this in time brought about the
result desired.[8]
_The Legend of Dol_
A strange legend is connected with this rude menhir. On a day in the
dark, uncharted past of Brittany a fierce battle was fought in the
Champ Dolent. Blood ran in streams, sufficient, says the tale, to turn
a mill-wheel in the neighbourhood of the battlefield. When the combat
was at its height two brothers met and grappled in fratricidal strife.
But ere they could harm one another the great granite shaft which now
looms above the field rose up between them and separated them.
There appears to be some historical basis for the tale. Here, or in
the neighbourhood, A.D. 560, met Clotaire, King of the Franks, and his
son, the rebel Chramne. The rebellious son was signally defeated. He
had placed his wife and two little daughters in a dwelling hard by,
and as he made his way thence to convey them from the field he was
captured. He was instantly strangled, by order of his brutal father,
in the sight of his wife and little ones, who were then burned alive
in the house where they had taken refuge. The Champ Dolent does not
belie its name, and even thirteen centuries and a half have failed to
obliterate the memory of a savage and unnatural crime, which, its
remoteness notwithstanding, fills the soul with loathing against its
perpetrators and with deep pity for the hapless and innocent victims.
_A Subterranean Dolmen Chapel_
At Plouaret, in the department of Côtes-du-Nord, is a curious
subterranean chapel incorporating a dolmen. The dolmen was formerly
partially embedded in a tumulus, and the chapel, erected in 1702, was
so constructed that the great table-stone of the dolmen has become the
chapel roof, and the supporting stones form two of its sides. The
crypt is reached by a flight of steps, and here may be seen an altar
to the Seven Sleepers, represented by seven dolls of varying size. The
Bretons have a legend that this structure dates from the creation of
the world, and they have embodied this belief in a ballad, in which it
is piously affirmed that the shrine was built by the hand of the
Almighty at the time when the world was in process of formation.
_Camaret_
Camaret, on the coast of Finistère, is the site of no less than
forty-one standing stones of quartz, which outline a rectangular space
600 yards in length at its base. Many stones have been removed, so
that the remaining sides are incomplete. None of these monoliths is of
any considerable size, however, and the site is not considered to be
of much importance, save as regards its isolated character. At
Penmarch, in the southern extremity of Finistère, there is an
'alignment' of some two hundred small stones, and a dolmen of some
importance is situated at Trégunc, but it is at Carnac, on the coast
of Morbihan, that we arrive at the most important archæological
district in Brittany.
_Carnac_
The Carnac district teems with prehistoric monuments, the most
celebrated of which are those of Plouharnel, Concarneau, Concurrus,
Locmariaquer, Kermario, Kerlescant, Erdeven, and Sainte-Barbe. All
these places are situated within a few miles of one another, and a
good centre from which excursions can be made to each is the little
town of Auray, with its quaint medieval market-house and shrine of St
Roch. Archæologists, both Breton and foreign, appear to be agreed that
the groups of stones at Ménéac, Kermario, and Kerlescant are portions
of one original and continuous series of alignments which extended for
nearly two miles in one direction from south-west to north-east. The
monolithic avenue commences quite near the village of Ménéac,
stretching away in eleven rows, and here the large stones are
situated, these at first rising to a height of from 10 to 13 feet, and
becoming gradually smaller, until they attain only 3 or 4 feet. In all
there are 116 menhirs at Ménéac. For more than three hundred yards
there is a gap in the series, which passed, we come to the Kermario
avenue, which consists of ten rows of monoliths of much the same size
as those of Ménéac, and 1120 in number.
Passing on to Kerlescant, with its thirteen rows of menhirs made up of
570 individual stones, we come to the end of the avenue and gaze
backward upon the plain covered with these indestructible symbols of a
forgotten past.
Carnac! There is something vast, Egyptian, in the name! There is,
indeed, a Karnak in Egypt, celebrated for its Avenue of Sphinxes and
its pillared temple raised to the goddess Mut by King Amenophis III.
Here, in the Breton Carnac, are no evidences of architectural skill.
These sombre stones, unworked, rude as they came from cliff or
seashore, are not embellished by man's handiwork like the rich temples
of the Nile. But there is about this stone-littered moor a mystery, an
atmosphere no less intense than that surrounding the most solemn ruins
of antiquity. Deeper even than the depths of Egypt must we sound if we
are to discover the secret of Carnac. What mean these stones? What
means faith? What signifies belief? What is the answer to the Riddle
of Man? In the words of Cayot Délandre, a Breton poet:
Tout cela eut un sens, et traduisit
Une pensée; mais clé de ce mystère,
Où est elle? et qui pourrait dire aujourd'hui
Si jamais elle se retrouvera?[9]
_A Vision_
Over this wild, heathy track, covered with the blue flowers of the
dwarf gentian, steals a subtle change. Nor air nor heath has altered.
The lichen-covered grey stones are the same. Suddenly there arises the
burden of a low, fierce chant. A swarm of skin-clad figures appears,
clustering around a gigantic object which they are painfully dragging
toward a deep pit situated at the end of one of the enormous alleys of
monoliths. On rudely shaped rollers rests a huge stone some twenty
feet in length, and this they drag across the rough moor by ropes of
hide, lightening their labours by the chant, which relates the
exploits of the warrior-chief who has lately been entombed in this
vast pantheon of Carnac. The menhir shall serve for his headstone. It
has been vowed to him by the warriors of his tribe, his henchmen, who
have fought and hunted beside him, and who revere his memory. This
stone shall render his fame immortal.
And now the task of placing the huge monolith in position begins.
Ropes are attached to one extremity, and while a line of brawny
savages strains to raise this, others guide that end of the monolith
destined for enclosure in the earth toward the pit which has been dug
for its reception. Higher and higher rises the stone, until at last it
sinks slowly into its earthy bed. It is held in an upright position
while the soil is packed around it and it is made secure. Then the
barbarians stand back a space and gaze at it from beneath their low
brows, well pleased with their handiwork. He whom they honoured in
life rests not unrecognized in death.
[Illustration: RAISING A MENHIR]
_The Legend of Carnac_
The legend of Carnac which explains these avenues of monoliths bears a
resemblance to the Cornish story of 'the Hurlers,' who were turned
into stone for playing at hurling on the Lord's Day, or to that other
English example from Cumberland of 'Long Meg' and her daughters. St
Cornely, we are told, pursued by an army of pagans, fled toward the
sea. Finding no boat at hand, and on the point of being taken, he
transformed his pursuers into stones, the present monoliths.
The Saint had made his flight to the coast in a bullock-cart, and
perhaps for this reason he is now regarded as the patron of cattle.
Should a bullock fall sick, his owner purchases an image of St Cornely
and hangs it up in the stable until the animal recovers. The church at
Carnac contains a series of fresco paintings which outline events in
the life of the Saint, and in the churchyard there is a representation
of the holy man between two bullocks. The head of St Cornely is said
to be preserved within the edifice as a relic. On the 13th of
September is held at Carnac the festival of the 'Benediction of the
Beasts,' which is celebrated in honour of St Cornely. The cattle of
the district are brought to the vicinity of the church and blessed by
the priests--should sufficient monetary encouragement be forthcoming.
_Mont-Saint-Michel_
In the neighbourhood is Mont-Saint-Michel,[10] a great tumulus with a
sepulchral dolmen, first excavated in 1862, when late Stone Age
implements, jade celts, and burnt bones were unearthed. Later M.
Zacharie Le Rouzic, the well-known Breton archæologist, tunnelled into
the tumulus, and discovered a mortuary chamber, in which were the
incinerated remains of two oxen. To this tumulus each pilgrim added a
stone or small quantity of earth, as has been the custom in Celtic
countries from time immemorial, and so the funerary mound in the
course of countless generations grew into quite a respectable hill,
on which a chapel was built, dedicated to St Michael, from the doorway
of which a splendid prospect of the great stone alignments can be had,
with, for background, the Morbihan and the long, dreary peninsula of
Quiberon, bleak, treeless, and deserted.
_Rocenaud_
Near Carnac is the great dolmen of Rocenaud, the 'cup-and-ring'
markings on which are thought by the surrounding peasantry to have
been made by the knees and elbows of St Roch, who fell upon this stone
when he landed from Ireland. When the natives desire a wind they knock
upon the depressions with their knuckles, murmuring spells the while,
just as in Scotland in the seventeenth century a tempest was raised by
dipping a rag in water and beating it on a stone thrice in the name of
Satan.
_Cup-and-Ring Markings_
What do these cup-and-ring markings so commonly discovered upon the
monuments of Brittany portend? The question is one well worth
examining at some length, as it appears to be almost at the
foundations of Neolithic religion. Recent discoveries in New Caledonia
have proved the existence in these far-off islands, as in Brittany,
Scotland, and Ireland, of these strange symbols, coupled with the
concentric and spiral designs which are usually associated with the
genius of Celtic art. In the neighbourhood of Glasgow, and in the
south-west of Scotland generally, stones inscribed with designs
closely resembling those on the New Caledonian rocks have been found
in abundance, as at Auchentorlie and Cockno, Shewalton Sands, and in
the Milton of Colquhoun district, where the famous 'cup-and-ring
altar' was discovered. At Shewalton Sands in particular, in 1904, a
number of stones were found bearing crosses like those discovered in
Portugal by Father José Brenha and Father Rodriguez. These symbols
have a strong resemblance to certain markings on the Breton rocks, and
are thought to possess an alphabetic or magical significance. In
Scotland spirals are commonly found on stones marked with ogham
inscriptions, and it is remarkable that they should occur in New
Caledonia in connexion with a dot 'alphabet.' The New Caledonian
crosses, however, approximate more to the later crosses of Celtic art,
while the spirals resemble those met with in the earlier examples of
Celtic work. But the closest parallel to the New Caledonian
stone-markings to be found in Scotland is supplied by the examples at
Cockno, in Dumbartonshire, where the wheel symbol is associated with
the cup-and-ring markings.
The cup-and-ring stones used to be considered the peculiar product of
a race of 'Brythonic' or British origin, and it is likely that the
stones so carved were utilized in the ritual of rain-worship or
rain-making by sympathetic magic. The grooves in the stone were
probably filled with water to typify a country partially covered with
rain-water.[11]
From these analogies, then, we can glean the purpose of the
cup-and-ring markings upon the dolmens of Brittany, and may conclude,
if our considerations are well founded, that they were magical in
purpose and origin. Do the cup-shaped depressions represent water, or
are they receptacles for rain, and do the spiral symbols typify the
whirling winds?
_The Gallery of Gavr'inis_
Nowhere are these mysterious markings so well exemplified as in the
wonderful tumulus of Gavr'inis. This ancient place of sepulture, the
name of which means 'Goat Island,' lies in the Morbihan, or 'Little
Sea,' an inland sea which gives its name to a department in the south
of Brittany. The tumulus is 25 feet high, and covers a fine gallery 40
feet long, the stones of which bear the markings alluded to. Whorls
and circles abound in the ornamentation, serpent-like figures, and the
representation of an axe, similar to those to be seen in some of the
Grottes aux Fées, or on the Dol des Marchands. The sculptures appear
to have been executed with metal tools. The passage ends in a square
sepulchral chamber, the supports of which are eight menhirs of grained
granite, a stone not found on the island. Such of the menhirs as are
carved were obviously so treated before they were placed _in situ_, as
the design passes round the edges.
_The Ile aux Moines_
The Ile aux Moines ('Monks' Island') is also situated in the Morbihan,
and has many prehistoric monuments, the most extensive of which are
the circle of stones at Kergonan and the dolmen of Penhapp. On the Ile
d'Arz, too, are megalithic monuments, perhaps the best example of
which is the cromlech or circle at Penraz.
The folk-beliefs attached to the megalithic monuments of Brittany are
numerous, but nearly all of them bear a strong resemblance to each
other. Many of the monuments are called Grottes aux Fées or Roches aux
Fées, in the belief that the fairies either built them or used them as
dwelling-places, and variants of these names are to be found in the
Maison des Follets ('House of the Goblins') at Cancoet, in Morbihan,
and the Château des Paulpiquets, in Questembert, in the same district.
Ty en Corygannt ('The House of the Korrigans') is situated in the same
department, while near Penmarch, in Finistère, at the other end of the
province, we find Ty C'harriquet ('The House of the Gorics' or
'Nains'). Other mythical personages are also credited with their
erection, most frequently either the devil or Gargantua being held
responsible for their miraculous creation. The phenomenon, well known
to students of folk-lore, that an unlettered people speedily forgets
the origin of monuments that its predecessors may have raised in times
past is well exemplified in Brittany, whose peasant-folk are usually
surprised, if not amused, at the question "Who built the dolmens?"
Close familiarity with and contiguity to uncommon objects not
infrequently dulls the sense of wonder they should otherwise naturally
excite. But lest we feel tempted to sneer at these poor folk for their
incurious attitude toward the visible antiquities of their land, let
us ask ourselves how many of us take that interest in the antiquities
of our own country or our own especial locality that they demand.[12]
_Fairy Builders_
For the most part, then, the megaliths, in the opinion of the Breton
peasant, are not the handiwork of man. He would rather refer their
origin to spirits, giants, or fiends. If he makes any exception to
this supernatural attribution, it is in favour of the saints he
reverences so profoundly. The fairies, he says, harnessed their oxen
to the mighty stones, selected a site, and dragged them thither to
form a dwelling, or perhaps a cradle for the infant fays they were so
fond of exchanging for human children. Thus the Roches aux Fées near
Saint-Didier, in Ille-et-Vilaine, were raised by fairy hands, the
elves collecting "all the big stones in the country" and carrying them
thither in their aprons. These architectural sprites then mounted on
each other's shoulders in order that they might reach high enough to
place the mighty monoliths securely in position. This practice they
also followed in building the dolmen near the wood of Rocher, on the
road from Dinan to Dol, say the people of that country-side.
But the actual purpose of the megaliths has not been neglected by
tradition, for a venerable farmer at Rouvray stated that the fairies
were wont to honour after their death those who had made good use of
their lives and built the dolmens to contain their ashes. The presence
of such a shrine in a country-side was a guarantee of abundance and
prosperity therein, as a subtle and indefinable charm spread from the
saintly remnants and communicated itself to everything in the
neighbourhood.[13] The fairy builders, says tradition, went about
their work in no haphazard manner. Those among them who possessed a
talent for design drew the plans of the proposed structure, the less
gifted acting as carriers, labourers, and masons. Apron-carrying was
not their only method of porterage, for some bore the stones on their
heads, or one under each arm, as when they raised the Roche aux Fées
in Retiers, or the dolmen in La Lande Marie.[14] The space of a night
was usually sufficient in which to raise a dolmen. But though 'run up'
with more than Transatlantic dispatch, in view of the time these
structures have endured for, any charge of jerry-building against
their elfin architects must fall to the ground. Daylight, too,
frequently surprised the fairy builders, so that they could not finish
their task, as many a 'roofless' dolmen shows.
There are many Celtic parallels to this belief. For example, it is
said that the Picts, or perhaps the fairies, built the original church
of Corstorphine, near Edinburgh, and stood in a row handing the stones
on, one to another, from Ravelston Quarry, on the adjacent hill of
Corstorphine. Such is the local folk-tale; and it has its congeners in
Celtic and even in Hindu myth. Thus in the Highland tale of Kennedy
and the _claistig_, or fairy, whom he captured, and whom he compelled
to build him a house in one night, we read that she set her people to
work speedily:
And they brought flags and stones
From the shores of Cliamig waterfall,
Reaching them from hand to hand.[15]
Again, the Round Tower of Ardmore, in Ireland, was built with stones
brought from Slieve Grian, a mountain some four or five miles distant,
"without horse or wheel," the blocks being passed from hand to hand
from the quarry to the site of the building. The same tradition
applied to the Round Tower of Abernethy, in Perthshire, only it is in
this case demonstrated that the stone of which the tower is composed
was actually taken from the traditional quarry, even the very spot
being geologically identified.[16] In like manner, too, was Rama's
bridge built by the monkey host in Hindu myth, as recounted in the
_Mah[=a]bh[=a]rata_ and the _R[=a]m[=a]yana_.
Tales, as apart from beliefs, are not often encountered in connexion
with the monuments. Indeed, Sébillot, in the course of his researches,
found only some dozen of these all told.[17] They are very brief,
and appear for the most part to deal with fairies who have been shut
up by the power of magic in a dolmen. Tales of spirits enclosed in
trees, and even in pillars, are not uncommon, and lately I have
heard a peculiarly fearsome ghost story which comes from Belgium, in
which it is related how certain spirits had become enclosed in a
pillar in an ancient abbey, for the saintly occupants of which they
made it particularly uncomfortable. Mr George Henderson, in one of
the most masterly and suggestive studies of Celtic survivals ever
published, states that stones in the Highlands of Scotland were
formerly believed to have souls, and that those too large to be moved
"were held to be in intimate connexion with spirits." Pillared
stones are not employed in building dwellings in the Highlands,
ill luck, it is believed, being sure to follow their use in this
manner, while to 'meddle' with stones which tradition connects with
Druidism is to court fatality.[18]
_Stones that Travel_
M. Salomon Reinach tells us of the Breton belief that certain sacred
stones go once a year or once a century to 'wash' themselves in the
sea or in a river, returning to their ancient seats after their
ablutions.[19] The stones in the dolmen of Essé are thought to change
their places continually, like those of Callernish and Lewis, and,
like the Roman Penates, to have the gift of coming and going if
removed from their habitual site.
The megalithic monuments of Brittany are undoubtedly the most
remarkable relics of that epoch of prehistoric activity which is now
regarded as the immediate forerunner of civilization. Can it be that
they were miraculously preserved by isolation from the remote
beginnings of that epoch, or is it more probable that they were
constructed at a relatively late period? These are questions of
profound difficulty, and it is likely that both theories contain a
certain amount of truth. Whatever may have been the origin of her
megaliths, Brittany must ever be regarded as a great prehistoric
museum, a unique link with a past of hoary antiquity.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] That it was Neolithic seems undoubted, and in all probability
Alpine--_i.e._ the same race as presently inhabits Brittany.
See Dottin, _Anciens Peuples de l'Europe_ (Paris, 1916).
[7] But _tolmen_ in Cornish meant 'pole of stone.'
[8] Ostensibly, at least; but see the remarks upon modern pagan
survivals in Chapter IX, p. 246.
[9] Which might be rendered:
All here is symbol; these grey stones translate
A thought ineffable, but where the key?
Say, shall it be recovered soon or late,
To ope the temple of this mystery?
[10] Not to be confused, of course, with the well-known island mount
of the same name.
[11] A Scottish sixteenth-century magical verse was chanted over such
a stone:
"I knock this rag wpone this stone,
And ask the divell for rain thereon."
[12] The writer's experience is that unlettered British folk often
possess much better information concerning the antiquities of a
district than its 'educated' inhabitants. If this information
is not scientific it is full and displays deep personal
interest.
[13] _Collectionneur breton_, t. iii, p.55.
[14] See _Comptes rendus de la Société des Antiquaries de France_, pp.
95 ff. (1836).
[15] J. G. Campbell, _Superstitions of the Scottish Highlands_.
[16] Small, _Antiquities of Fife_.
[17] _Traditions de la Haute-Bretagne_, t. i, p. 26.
[18] Henderson, _Survivals in Belief among the Celts_ (1911).
[19] _Cultes, Mythes, et Religiones_, t. iii, pp. 365-433.
CHAPTER III: THE FAIRIES OF BRITTANY
Whatever the origin of the race which conceived the demonology
of Brittany--and there are indications that it was not wholly
Celtic--that weird province of Faëry bears unmistakable evidence
of having been deeply impressed by the Celtic imagination, if it
was not totally peopled by it, for its various inhabitants act in
the Celtic spirit, are moved by Celtic springs of thought and
fancy, and possess not a little of that irritability which has
forced anthropologists to include the Celtic race among those
peoples described as 'sanguine-bilious.' As a rule they are by
no means friendly or even humane, these fays of Brittany, and if
we find beneficent elves within the green forests of the duchy we
may feel certain that they are French immigrants, and therefore
more polished than the choleric native sprites.
_Broceliande_
Of all the many localities celebrated in the fairy lore of Brittany
none is so famous as Broceliande. Broceliande! "The sound is like a
bell," a far, faëry chime in a twilit forest. In the name Broceliande
there seems to be gathered all the tender charm, the rich and haunting
mystery, the remote magic of Brittany and Breton lore. It is, indeed,
the title to the rarest book in the library of poetic and traditional
romance.
"I went to seek out marvels," said old Wace. "The forest I saw, the
land I saw. I sought marvels, but I found none. A fool I came back, a
fool I went; a fool I went, a fool I came back; foolishness I sought;
a fool I hold myself."[20]
Our age, even less sceptical than his, sees no folly in questing for
the beautiful, and if we expect no marvels, nor any sleight of faëry,
however desirous we are, we do not hold it time lost to plunge into
the enchanted forest and in its magic half-gloom grope for, and
perchance grasp, dryad draperies, or be trapped in the filmy webs of
fancy which are spun in these shadows for unwary mortals.
Standing in dream-girt Broceliande of a hundred legends, its shadows
mirrored by dim meres that may never reflect the stars, one feels the
lure of Brittany more keenly even than when walking by its fierce and
jagged coasts menaced by savage grey seas, or when wandering on its
vast moors where the monuments of its pagan past stand in gigantic
disarray. For in the forest is the heart of Arthurian story, the
shrine of that wonder which has drawn thousands to this land of
legend, who, like old Wace, trusted to have found, if not elfin
marvels, at least matter of phantasy conjured up by the legendary
associations of Broceliande.
But we must beware of each step in these twilit recesses, for the fays
of Brittany are not as those of other lands. Harsh things are spoken
of them. They are malignant, say the forest folk. The note of Brittany
is scarce a joyous one. It is bitter-sweet as a sad chord struck on an
ancient harp.
The fays of Brittany are not the friends of man. They are not 'the
good people,' 'the wee folk'; they have no endearing names, the gift
of a grateful peasantry. Cold and hostile, they hold aloof from human
converse, and, should they encounter man, vent their displeasure at
the interruption in the most vindictive manner.
Whether the fairies of Brittany be the late representatives of the
gods of an elder day or merely animistic spirits who have haunted
these glades since man first sheltered in them, certain it is that in
no other region in Europe has Mother Church laid such a heavy ban upon
all the things of faëry as in this strange and isolated peninsula. A
more tolerant ecclesiastical rule might have weaned them to a timid
friendship, but all overtures have been discouraged, and to-day they
are enemies, active, malignant, swift to inflict evil upon the pious
peasant because he is pious and on the energetic because of his
industry.
_The Korrigan_
Among those forest-beings of whom legend speaks such malice none is
more relentless than the Korrigan, who has power to enmesh the heart
of the most constant swain and doom him to perish miserably for love
of her. Beware of the fountains and of the wells of this forest of
Broceliande, for there she is most commonly to be encountered, and you
may know her by her bright hair--"like golden wire," as Spenser says
of his lady's--her red, flashing eyes, and her laughing lips. But if
you would dare her wiles you must come alone to her fountain by night,
for she shuns even the half-gloom that is day in shadowy Broceliande.
The peasants when they speak of her will assure you that she and her
kind are pagan princesses of Brittany who would have none of
Christianity when the holy Apostles brought it to Armorica, and who
must dwell here under a ban, outcast and abhorred.
_The Seigneur of Nann_[21]
The Seigneur of Nann was high of heart, for that day his bride of a
year had presented him with two beautiful children, a boy and a girl,
both white as May-blossom. In his joy the happy father asked his wife
her heart's desire, and she, pining for that which idle fancy urged
upon her, begged him to bring her a dish of woodcock from the lake in
the dale, or of venison from the greenwood. The Seigneur of Nann
seized his lance and, vaulting on his jet-black steed, sought the
borders of the forest, where he halted to survey the ground for track
of roe or slot of the red deer. Of a sudden a white doe rose in front
of him, and was lost in the forest like a silver shadow.
At sight of this fair quarry the Seigneur followed into the greenwood.
Ever his prey rustled among the leaves ahead, and in the hot chase he
recked not of the forest depths into which he had plunged. But coming
upon a narrow glade where the interlacing leaves above let in the sun
to dapple the moss-ways below, he saw a strange lady sitting by the
broken border of a well, braiding her fair hair and binding it with
golden pins.
The Seigneur louted low, begged that he might drink, and bending down
set his lips to the water; but she, turning strange eyes upon
him--eyes not blue like those of his bride, nor grey, nor brown, nor
black, like those of other women, but red in their depths as the
heart's blood of a dove--spoke to him discourteously.
"Who are you who dare to trouble the waters of my fountain?" she
asked. "Do you not know that your conduct merits death? This well is
enchanted, and by drinking of it you are fated to die, unless you
fulfil a certain condition."
"And what is that?" asked the Seigneur.
"You must marry me within the hour," replied the lady.
"Demoiselle," replied the Seigneur, "it may not be as you desire, for
I am already espoused to a fair bride who has borne me this very day a
son and a daughter. Nor shall I die until it pleases the good God.
Nevertheless, I wot well who you are. Rather would I die on the
instant than wed with a Korrigan."
Leaping upon his horse, he turned and rode from the woodland as a man
possessed. As he drew homeward he was overshadowed by a sense of
coming ill. At the gate of his château stood his mother, anxious to
greet him with good news of his bride. But with averted eyes he
addresses her in the refrain so familiar to the folk-poetry of all
lands:
"My good mother, if you love me, make my bed. I am sick unto
death. Say not a word to my bride. For within three days I shall
be laid in the grave. A Korrigan has done me evil."
Three days later the young spouse asks of her mother-in-law:
"Tell me, mother, why do the bells sound? Wherefore do the priests
chant so low?"
"'Tis nothing, daughter," replies the elder woman. "A poor stranger
who lodged here died this night."
"Ah, where is gone the Seigneur of Nann? Mother, oh, where is he?"
[Illustration: THE SEIGNEUR OF NANN AND THE KORRIGAN]
"He has gone to the town, my child. In a little he will come to see
you."
"Ah, mother, let us speak of happy things. Must I wear my red or my
blue robe at my churching?"
"Neither, daughter. The mode is changed. You must wear black."
Unconscious in its art, the stream of verse carries us to the church,
whence the young wife has gone to offer up thanks for the gift of
children. She sees that the ancestral tomb has been opened, and a
great dread is at her heart. She asks her mother-in-law who has died,
and the old woman at last confesses that the Seigneur of Nann has just
been buried.
That same night the young mother was interred beside her husband-lover.
And the peasant folk say that from that tomb arose two saplings, the
branches of which intertwined more closely as they grew.
_A Goddess of Eld_
In the depths of Lake Tegid in our own Wales dwelt Keridwen, a
fertility goddess who possessed a magic cauldron--the sure symbol of a
deity of abundance.[22] Like Demeter, she was strangely associated
with the harmless necessary sow, badge of many earth-mothers, and
itself typical of fertility. Like Keridwen, the Korrigan is associated
with water, with the element which makes for vegetable growth.
Christian belief would, of course, transform this discredited goddess
into an evil being whose one function was the destruction of souls.
May we see a relation of the Korrigan and Keridwen in Tridwan, or St
Triduana, of Restalrig, near Edinburgh, who presided over a certain
well there, and at whose well-shrine offerings were made by sightless
pilgrims for many centuries?
Many are the traditions which tell of human infants abducted by the
Korrigan, who at times left an ugly changeling in place of the babe
she had stolen. But it was more as an enchantress that she was
dreaded. By a stroke of her magic wand she could transform the leafy
fastnesses in which she dwelt into the semblance of a lordly hall,
which the luckless traveller whom she lured thither would regard as a
paradise after the dark thickets in which he had been wandering. This
seeming castle or palace she furnished with everything that could
delight the eye, and as the doomed wretch sat ravished by her beauty
and that of her nine attendant maidens a fatal passion for her entered
his heart, so that whatever he cherished most on earth--honour, wife,
demoiselle, or affianced bride--became as naught to him, and he cast
himself at the feet of this forest Circe in a frenzy of ardour. But
with the first ray of daylight the charm was dissolved and the
Korrigan became a hideous hag, as repulsive as before she had been
lovely; the walls of her palace and the magnificence which had
furnished it became once more tree and thicket, its carpets moss, its
tapestries leaves, its silver cups wild roses, and its dazzling
mirrors pools of stagnant water.
_The Unbroken Vow_[23]
Sir Roland of Brittany rides through gloomy Broceliande a league ahead
of his troop, unattended by squire or by page. The red cross upon his
shoulder is witness that he is vowed to service in Palestine, and as
he passes through the leafy avenues on his way to the rendezvous he
fears that he will be late, most tardy of all the knights of Brittany
who have sworn to drive the paynim from the Holy Land. Fearful of such
disgrace, he spurs his jaded charger on through the haunted forest,
and with anxious eye watches the sun sink and the gay white moon sail
high above the tree-tops, pouring light through their branches upon
the mossy ways below.
A high vow has Roland taken ere setting out upon the crusade--a vow
that he will eschew the company of fair ladies, in which none had
delighted more than he. No more must he mingle in the dance, no more
must he press a maiden's lips with his. He has become a soldier of the
Cross. He may not touch a lady's hand save with his mailed glove, he
must not sit by her side. Also must he fast from dusk till dawn upon
that night of his setting forth. "Small risk," he laughs a little
sadly, as he spurs his charger onward, "small risk that I be mansworn
ere morning light."
But the setting of the moon tells him that he must rest in the forest
until dawn, as without her beams he can no longer pursue his way. So
he dismounts from his steed, tethers it to a tree, and looks about for
a bed of moss on which to repose. As he does so his wandering gaze
fixes upon a beam of light piercing the gloom of the forest. Well
aware of the traditions of his country, he thinks at first that it is
only the glimmer of a will-o'-the-wisp or a light carried by a
wandering elf. But no, on moving nearer the gleam he is surprised to
behold a row of windows brilliantly lit as if for a festival.
"Now, by my vow," says Roland, "methought I knew well every château in
this land of Brittany, nor wist I that seigneur or count held court
in this forest of Broceliande."
Resolved to view the château at still closer quarters, he draws near
it. A great court fronts him where neither groom nor porter keeps
guard, and within he can see a fair hall. This he enters, and
immediately his ears are ravished by music which wanders through the
chamber like a sighing zephyr. The murmur of rich viols and the call
of flutes soft as distant bird-song speak to his very soul. Yet
through the ecstasy comes, like a serpent gliding among flowers, the
discord of evil thoughts. Grasping his rosary, he is about to retire
when the doors at the end of the hall fly open, and he beholds a
rapturous vision. Upon a couch of velvet sits a lady of such dazzling
beauty that all other women compared with her would seem as
kitchen-wenches. A mantle of rich golden hair falls about her, her
eyes shine with the brightness of stars, her smile seems heavenly.
Round her are grouped nine maidens only less beautiful than herself.
As the moon moving among attendant stars, so the lady comes toward
Roland, accompanied by her maidens. She welcomes him, and would
remove his gauntlet, but he tells her of the vow he has made to wear
it in lady's bower, and she is silent. Next she asks him to seat
himself beside her on the couch, but he will not. In some confusion
she orders a repast to be brought. A table is spread with fragrant
viands, but as the knight will partake of none of them, in chagrin the
lady takes a lute, which she touches with exquisite skill. He listens
unmoved, till, casting away her instrument, she dances to him,
circling round and round about him, flitting about his chair like a
butterfly, until at length she sinks down near him and lays her head
upon his mailed bosom. Upward she turns her face to him, all
passion-flushed, her eyes brimming with love. Sir Roland falters.
Fascinated by her unearthly beauty, he is about to stoop down to
press his lips to hers. But as he bends his head she shrinks from
him, for she sees the tender flush of morning above the eastern
tree-tops. The living stars faint and fail, and the music of awakening
life which accompanies the rising of the young sun falls upon the
ear. Slowly the château undergoes transformation. The glittering roof
merges into the blue vault of heaven, the tapestried walls become
the ivied screens of great forest trees, the princely furnishings
are transformed into mossy banks and mounds, and the rugs and carpets
beneath Roland's mailed feet are now merged in the forest ways.
But the lady? Sir Roland, glancing down, beholds a hag hideous as sin,
whose malicious and distorted countenance betrays baffled hate and
rage. At the sound of a bugle she hurries away with a discordant
shriek. Into the glade ride Roland's men, to see their lord clasping
his rosary and kneeling in thanksgiving for his deliverance from the
evils which beset him. He had been saved from breaking his vow!
The nine attendant maidens of the Korrigan bring to mind a passage in
Pomponius Mela[24]: "Sena [the Ile de Sein, not far from Brest], in
the British Sea, opposite the Ofismician coast, is remarkable for an
oracle of the Gallic god. Its priestesses, holy in perpetual
virginity, are said to be nine in number. They are called Gallicenæ,
and are thought to be endowed with singular powers. By their charms
they are able to raise the winds and seas, to turn themselves into
what animals they will, to cure wounds and diseases incurable by
others, to know and predict the future. But this they do only for
navigators, who go thither purposely to consult them."
Like the sylphs and salamanders so humorously described by the Abbé de
Villars in _Le Comte de Gabalis_,[25] the Korrigans desired union with
humanity in order that they might thus gain immortality. Such, at
least, is the current peasant belief in Brittany. "For this end they
violate all the laws of modesty." This belief is common to all lands,
and is typical of the fay, the Lorelei, countless well and water
sprites, and that enchantress who rode off with Thomas the Rhymer:
For if you dare to kiss my lips
Sure of your bodie I shall be.
Unlike the colder Sir Roland, 'True Thomas' dared, and was wafted to a
realm wondrously described by the old balladeer in the vivid phrase
that marks the poetry of vision.
_Merlin and Vivien_
It was in this same verdant Broceliande that Vivien, another fairy,
that crafty dame of the enchanted lake, the instructress of Lancelot,
bound wise Merlin so that he might no more go to Camelot with oracular
lips to counsel British Arthur.
But what say the folk of Broceliande themselves of this? Let us hear
their version of a tale which has been so battered by modern
criticism, and which has been related in at least half a score of
versions, prose and poetic. Let us have the Broceliande account of
what happened in Broceliande.[26] Surely its folk, in the very forest
in which he wandered with Vivien, must know more of Merlin's
enchantment than we of that greater Britain which he left to find a
paradise in Britain the Less, for, according to Breton story, Merlin
was not imprisoned by magic art, but achieved bliss through his love
for the fairy forest nymph.
Disguised as a young student, Merlin was wandering one bright May
morning through the leafy glades of Broceliande, when, like the
Seigneur of Nann, he came to a beautiful fountain in the heart of the
forest which tempted him to rest. As he sat there in reverie, Vivien,
daughter of the lord of the manor of Broceliande, came to the water's
edge. Her father had gained the affection of a fay of the valley, who
had promised on behalf of their daughter that she should be loved by
the wisest man in the world, who should grant all her wishes, but
would never be able to compel her to consent to his.
Vivien reclined upon the other side of the fountain, and the eyes of
the sage and maiden met. At length Merlin rose to depart, and gave the
damsel courteous good-day. But she, curious and not content with a
mere salutation, wished him all happiness and honour. Her voice was
beautiful, her eyes expressive, and Merlin, moved beyond anything in
his experience, asked her name. She told him she was a daughter of a
gentleman of that country, and in turn asked him who he might be.
"A scholar returning to his master," was the reply.
"Your master? And what may he teach you, young sir?"
"He instructs me in the magic art, fair dame," replied Merlin, amused.
"By aid of his teaching I can raise a castle ere a man could count a
score, and garrison it with warriors of might. I can make a river flow
past the spot on which you recline, I can raise spirits from the great
deeps of ether in which this world rolls, and can peer far into the
future--aye, to the extreme of human days."
"Would that I shared your wisdom!" cried Vivien, her voice thrilling
with the desire of hidden things which she had inherited from her
fairy mother. "Teach me these secrets, I entreat of you, noble
scholar, and accept in return for your instruction my most tender
friendship."
Merlin, willing to please her, arose, and traced certain mystical
characters upon the greensward. Straightway the glade in which they
sat was filled with knights, ladies, maidens, and esquires, who danced
and disported themselves right joyously. A stately castle rose on the
verge of the forest, and in the garden the spirits whom Merlin the
enchanter had raised up in the semblance of knights and ladies held
carnival. Vivien, delighted, asked of Merlin in what manner he had
achieved this feat of faëry, and he told her that he would in time
instruct her as to the manner of accomplishing it. He then dismissed
the spirit attendants and dissipated the castle into thin air, but
retained the garden at the request of Vivien, naming it 'Joyous
Garden.'
Then he made a tryst with Vivien to meet her in a year on the Vigil of
St John.
[Illustration: MERLIN AND VIVIEN]
Now Merlin had to be present at the espousal of Arthur, his King,
with Guinevere, at which he was to assist the archbishop, Dubric, as
priest. The festivities over, he recalled his promise to Vivien, and
on the appointed day he once more assumed the guise of a travelling
scholar and set out to meet the maiden in the forest of Broceliande.
She awaited him patiently in Joyous Garden, where they partook of a
dainty repast. But the viands and the wines were wasted upon Merlin,
for Vivien was beside him and she alone filled his thoughts. She was
fair of colour, and fresh with the freshness of all in the forest, and
her hazel eyes made such fire within his soul that he conceived a
madness of love for her that all his wisdom, deep as it was, could not
control.
But Vivien was calm as a lake circled by trees, where no breath of the
passion of tempest can come. Again and again she urged him to impart
to her the secrets she so greatly longed to be acquainted with. And
chiefly did she desire to know three things; these at all hazards must
she have power over. How, she asked, could water be made to flow in a
dry place? In what manner could any form be assumed at will? And,
lastly, how could one be made to fall asleep at the pleasure of
another?
"Wherefore ask you this last question, demoiselle?" said Merlin,
suspicious even in his great passion for her.
"So that I may cast the spell of sleep over my father and my mother
when I come to you, Merlin," she replied, with a beguiling glance,
"for did they know that I loved you they would slay me."
Merlin hesitated, and so was lost. He imparted to her that hidden
knowledge which she desired. Then they dwelt together for eight days
in the Joyous Garden, during which time the sage, to Vivien's delight
and amaze, related to her the marvellous circumstances of his birth.
Next day Merlin departed, but came again to Broceliande when the
eglantine was flowering at the edge of the forest. Again he wore the
scholar's garments. His aspect was youthful, his fair hair hung in
ringlets on his shoulders, and he appeared so handsome that a tender
flower of love sprang up in Vivien's heart, and she felt that she must
keep him ever near her. But she knew full well that he whom she loved
was in reality well stricken in years, and she was sorrowful. But she
did not despair.
"Beloved," she whispered, "will you grant me but one other boon? There
is one secret more that I desire to learn."
Now Merlin knew well ere she spoke what was in her mind, and he sighed
and shook his head.
"Wherefore do you sigh?" she asked innocently.
"I sigh because my fate is strong upon me," replied the sage. "For it
was foreseen in the long ago that a lady should lead me captive and
that I should become her prisoner for all time. Neither have I the
power to deny you what you ask of me."
Vivien embraced him rapturously.
"Ah, Merlin, beloved, is it not that you should always be with me?"
she asked passionately. "For your sake have I not given up father and
mother, and are not all my thoughts and desires toward you?"
Merlin, carried away by her amorous eloquence, could only answer: "It
is yours to ask what you will."
Vivien then revealed to him her wish. She longed to learn from his
lips an enchantment which would keep him ever near her, which would so
bind him to her in the chains of love that nothing in the world could
part him from her. Hearkening to her plea, he taught her such
enchantment as would render him love's prisoner for ever.
Evening was shrouding the forest in soft shadows when Merlin sank to
rest. Vivien, waiting until his deep and regular breathing told her
that he was asleep, walked nine times around him, waving her cloak
over his head, and muttering the mysterious words he had taught her.
When the sage awoke he found himself in the Joyous Garden with Vivien
by his side.
"You are mine for ever," she murmured. "You can never leave me now."
"My delight will be ever to stay with you," he replied, enraptured.
"And oh, beloved, never leave me, I pray you, for I am bespelled so as
to love you throughout eternity!"
"Never shall I leave you," she replied; and in such manner the wise
Merlin withdrew from the world of men to remain ever in the Joyous
Garden with Vivien. Love had triumphed over wisdom.
The Arthurian version of the story does not, of course, represent
Vivien as does the old Breton legend. In Geoffrey of Monmouth's book
and in the _Morte d'Arthur_ she is drawn as the scheming enchantress
who wishes to lure Merlin to his ruin for the joy of being able to
boast of her conquest. In some romances she is alluded to as Nimue,
and in others is described as the daughter of Dyonas, who perhaps is
the same as Dylan, a Brythonic (British) sea-god. As the Lady of the
Lake she is the foster-mother of Lancelot, and we should have no
difficulty in classing her as a water deity or spirit very much like
the Korrigan.
_Merlin_
But Merlin is a very different character, and it is probable that the
story of his love for Vivien was composed at a comparatively late date
for the purpose of rounding off his fate in Arthurian legend. A recent
hypothesis concerning him is to the effect that "if he belongs to the
pagan period [of Celtic lore] at all, he was probably an ideal
magician or god of magicians."[27] Canon MacCulloch smiles at the late
Sir John Rhys's belief that Merlin was "a Celtic Zeus," but his later
suggestion seems equally debatable. We must remember that we draw our
conception of Merlin as Arthurian archimagus chiefly from late
Norman-French sources and Celtic tradition. Ancient Brythonic
traditions concerning beings of much the same type as Merlin appear to
have existed, however, and the character of Lailoken in the life of St
Kentigern recalls his life-story. So far research on the subject seems
to show that the legend of Merlin is a thing of complex growth,
composed of traditions of independent and widely differing origin,
most of which were told about Celtic bards and soothsayers. Merlin is,
in fact, the typical Druid or wise man of Celtic tradition, and there
is not the slightest reason for believing that he was ever paid divine
honours. As a soothsayer of legend, he would assuredly belong to the
pagan period, however much he is indebted to Geoffrey of Monmouth for
his late popularity in pure romance.
_The Fountain of Baranton_
In the country of Broceliande lies the magic fountain of Baranton,
sequestered among hills and surrounded by deep woods. Says a
thirteenth-century writer of this fountain:
"Oh, amazing wonder of the Fountain of Brecelien! If a drop be taken
and poured on a certain rock beside the spring, immediately the water
changes into vapour, forms itself into great clouds filled with hail;
the air becomes thick with shadows, and resonant with the muttering of
thunder. Those who have come through curiosity to behold the prodigy
wish that they had never done so, so filled are their hearts with
terror, and so does fear paralyse their limbs. Incredible as the
marvel may seem, yet the proofs of its reality are too abundant to be
doubted."
Huon de Méry was more fortunate than Wace. He sprinkled the magic
stone which lay behind the fountain with water from the golden basin
that hung from the oak that shaded it, and beheld many marvels. And so
may he who has the seeing eye to-day.
BROCELIANDE
Ah, how remote, forlorn
Sounded the sad, sweet horn
In forest gloom enchanted!
I saw the shadows of kings go riding by,
But cerements mingled and paled with their panoply,
And the moss-ways deadened the steps of steeds that never panted.
Ah, what had phantasy
In that sad sound to say,
Sad as a spirit's wailing?
A call from over the seas of shadowland,
A call the soul of the soul might understand,
But never, ah, never the mind, the steeps of soul assailing.
_Bruno of La Montagne_
The old fragmentary romance of Bruno of La Montagne is eloquent of the
faëry spirit which informs all Breton lore. Butor, Baron of La
Montagne, had married a young lady when he was himself of mature
years, and had a son, whom he resolved to take to a fountain where the
fairies came to repose themselves. The Baron, describing this magic
well to the child's mother, says (we roughly translate):
"Some believe 'tis in Champagne,
And others by the Rock Grifaigne;
Perchance it is in Alemaigne,
Or Bersillant de la Montagne;
Some even think that 'tis in Spain,
Or where sleeps Artus of Bretaigne."
The Seigneur gave his infant son into the keeping of Bruyant, a trusty
friend of his, and they set out for the fairy fountain with a troop of
vassals. They left the infant in the forest of Broceliande. Here the
fairies soon found him.
"Ha, sisters," said one whose skin was as white as the robe of
gossamer she wore, and whose golden crown betokened her the queen of
the others, "come hither and see a new-born infant. How, I wonder,
does he come to be here? I am sure I did not behold him in this spot
yesterday. Well, at all events, he must be baptized and suitably
endowed, as is our custom when we discover a mortal child. Now what
will you give him?"
"I will give him," said one, "beauty and grace."
"I endow him," said a second, "with generosity."
[Illustration: THE FAIRIES OF BROCELIANDE FIND THE LITTLE BRUNO]
"And I," said a third, "with such valour that he will overthrow all
his enemies at tourney and on the battlefield."
The Queen listened to these promises. "Surely you have little sense,"
she said. "For my part, I wish that in his youth he may love one who
will be utterly insensible to him, and although he will be as you
desire, noble, generous, beautiful, and valorous, he will yet, for his
good, suffer keenly from the anguish of love."
"O Queen," said one of the fairies, "what a cruel fate you have
ordained for this unfortunate child! But I myself shall watch over him
and nurse him until he comes to such an age as he may love, when I
myself will try to engage his affections."
"For all that," said the Queen, "I will not alter my design. You shall
not nurse this infant."
The fairies then disappeared. Shortly afterward Bruyant returned, and
carried the child back to the castle of La Montagne, where presently a
fairy presented herself as nurse.
Unfortunately the manuscript from which this tale is taken breaks off
at this point, and we do not know how the Fairy Queen succeeded with
her plans for the amorous education of the little Bruno. But the
fragment, although tantalizing in the extreme, gives us some insight
into the nature of the fairies who inhabit the green fastnesses of
Broceliande.
_Fairies in Folk-lore_
Nearly all fairy-folk have in time grown to mortal height. Whether
fairies be the decayed poor relations of more successful deities, gods
whose cult has been forgotten and neglected (as the Irish _Sidhe_, or
fairy-folk), or diminutive animistic spirits, originating in the
belief that every object, small or great, possessed a personality, it
is noticeable that Celtic fairies are of human height, while those of
the Teutonic peoples are usually dwarfish. Titania may come originally
from the loins of Titans or she may be Diana come down in the world,
and Oberon may hail from a very different and more dwarfish source,
but in Shakespeare's England they have grown sufficiently to permit
them to tread the boards of the Globe Theatre with normal humans.
Scores of fairies mate with mortal men, and men, as a rule, do not
care for dwarf-wives. Among Celts, at least, the fay, whatever her
original stature, in later times had certainly achieved the height of
mortal womanhood.
In Upper Brittany, where French is the language in general use, the
usual French ideas concerning fairies prevail. They are called _fées_
or _fetes_ (Latin _fata_), and sometimes _fions_, which reminds us of
the _fions_ of Scottish and Irish folk-lore.[28] There are old people
still alive who claim to have seen the fairies, and who describe them
variously, but the general belief seems to be that they disappeared
from the land several generations ago. One old man described them as
having teeth as long as one's hand, and as wearing garments of
sea-weed or leaves. They were human in aspect, said another ancient
whom Sébillot questioned; their clothes were seamless, and it was
impossible to say by merely looking at them whether they were male or
female. Their garments were of the most brilliant colours imaginable,
but if one approached them too closely these gaudy hues disappeared.
They wore a kind of bonnet shaped like a crown, which appeared to be
part of their person.
The people of the coast say that the fairies are an accursed race who
are condemned to walk the earth for a certain space. Some even think
them rebellious angels who have been sent to earth for a time to
expiate their offences against heaven. For the most part they inhabit
the dolmens and the grottos and caverns on the coast.[29]
On the shores of the Channel are numerous grottos or caverns which the
Bretons call _houles_, and these are supposed to harbour a distinct
class of fairy. Some of these caverns are from twenty to thirty feet
high, and so extensive that it is unwise to explore them too far.
Others seem only large enough to hold a single person, but if one
enters he will find himself in a spacious natural chamber. The
inhabitants of these depths, like all their kind, prefer to sally
forth by night rather than by day. In the day-time they are not seen
because they smear themselves with a magic ointment which renders them
invisible; but at night they are visible to everybody.
_The Lost Daughter_
There was once upon a time a labourer of Saint-Cast named Marc
Bourdais, but, according to the usage of the country, he had a
nickname and was called Maraud. One day he was returning home when he
heard the sound of a horn beneath his feet, and asked a companion who
chanced to be with him if he had heard it also.
"Of course I did," replied the fellow; "it is a fairy horn."
"Umph," said Maraud. "Ask the fairies, then, to bring us a slice of
bread."
His companion knelt down and shouted out the request, but nothing
happened and they resumed their way.
They had not gone far, however, when they beheld a slice of beautiful
white bread lying on a snowy napkin by the roadside. Maraud picked it
up and found that it was well buttered and as toothsome as a cake, and
when they had divided and eaten it they felt their hunger completely
satisfied. But he who has fed well is often thirsty, so Maraud,
lowering his head, and speaking to the little folk beneath, cried:
"Hullo, there! Bring us something to drink, if you please."
He had hardly spoken when they beheld a pot of cider and a glass
reposing on the ground in front of them. Maraud filled the glass, and,
raising it to his lips, quaffed of the fairy cider. It was clear and
of a rich colour, and he declared that it was by far the best that he
had ever tasted. His friend drank likewise, and when they returned to
the village that night they had a good story to tell of how they had
eaten and drunk at the expense of the fairies. But their friends and
neighbours shook their heads and regarded them sadly.
"Alas! poor fellows," they said, "if you have eaten fairy food and
drunk fairy liquor you are as good as dead men."
Nothing happened to them within the next few days, however, and it was
with light hearts that one morning they returned to work in the
neighbourhood of the spot where they had met with such a strange
adventure. When they arrived at the place they smelt the odour of
cakes which had been baked with black corn, and a fierce hunger at
once took possession of them.
"Ha!" said Maraud, "the fairies are baking to-day. Suppose we ask them
for a cake or two." "No, no!" replied his friend. "Ask them if you
wish, but I will have none of them."
"Pah!" cried Maraud, "what are you afraid of?" And he cried: "Below
there! Bring me a cake, will you?"
Two fine cakes at once appeared. Maraud seized upon one, but when he
had cut it he perceived that it was made of hairs, and he threw it
down in disgust.
"You wicked old sorcerer!" he cried. "Do you mean to mock me?"
But as he spoke the cakes disappeared.
Now there lived in the village a widow with seven children, and a hard
task she had to find bread for them all. She heard tell of Maraud's
adventure with the fairies, and pondered on the chance of receiving a
like hospitality from them, that the seven little mouths she had to
provide for might be filled. So she made up her mind to go to a fairy
grotto she knew of and ask for bread. "Surely," she thought, "what the
good people give to others who do not require it they will give to me,
whose need is so great." When she had come to the entrance of the
grotto she knocked on the side of it as one knocks on a door, and
there at once appeared a little old dame with a great bunch of keys
hanging at her side. She appeared to be covered with limpets, and
mould and moss clung to her as to a rock. To the widow she seemed at
least a thousand years old.
"What do you desire, my good woman?" she asked.
"Alas! madame," said the widow, "might I have a little bread for my
seven children? Give me some, I beseech you, and I will remember you
in my prayers."
"I am not the mistress here," replied the old woman. "I am only the
porteress, and it is at least a hundred years since I have been out.
But return to-morrow and I will promise to speak for you."
Next day at the same time the widow returned to the cave, and found
the old porteress waiting for her.
"I have spoken for you," said she, "and here is a loaf of bread for
you, and those who send it wish to speak to you."
"Bring me to them," said the widow, "that I may thank them."
"Not to-day," replied the porteress. "Return to-morrow at the same
hour and I will do so."
The widow returned to the village and told her neighbours of her
success. Every one came to see the fairy loaf, and many begged a
piece.
Next day the poor woman returned to the grotto in the hope that she
would once more benefit from the little folks' bounty. The porteress
was there as usual.
"Well, my good woman," said she, "did you find my bread to your taste?
Here is the lady who has befriended you," and she indicated a
beautiful lady, who came smilingly from the darkness of the cavern.
"Ah, madame," said the widow, "I thank you with all my heart for your
charity."
"The loaf will last a long time," said the fairy, "and you will find
that you and your family will not readily finish it."
"Alas!" said the widow, "last night all my neighbours insisted on
having a piece, so that it is now entirely eaten."
"Well," replied the fay, "I will give you another loaf. So long as you
or your children partake of it it will not grow smaller and will
always remain fresh, but if you should give the least morsel to a
stranger the loaf will disappear. But as I have helped you, so must
you help me. I have four cows, and I wish to send them out to
pasture. Promise me that one of your daughters will guard them for
me."
The widow promised, and next morning sent one of her daughters out to
look for the cows, which were to be pastured in a field where there
was but little herbage. A neighbour saw her there, and asked what she
was doing in that deserted place.
"Oh, I am watching the fairy cows," replied she. The woman looked at
her and smiled, for there were no cows there and she thought the girl
had become half-witted.
With the evening the fairy of the grotto came herself to fetch the
cows, and she said to the little cowherd:
"How would you like to be godmother to my child?"
"It would be a pleasure, madame," replied the girl.
"Well, say nothing to any one, not even to your mother," replied the
fairy, "for if you do I shall never bring you anything more to eat."
A few days afterward a fairy came to tell the girl to prepare to come
to the cavern on the morrow, as on that day the infant was to be
named. Next day, according to the fairy's instructions, she presented
herself at the mouth of the grotto, and in due course was made
godmother to the little fairy. For two days she remained there, and
when she left her godchild was already grown up. She had, as a matter
of fact, unconsciously remained with the 'good people' for ten years,
and her mother had long mourned her as dead. Meanwhile the fairies had
requested the poor widow to send another of her daughters to watch
their cows.
When at last the absent one returned to the village she went straight
home, and her mother on beholding her gave a great cry. The girl could
not understand her agitation, believing as she did that she had been
absent for two days only.
"Two days!" echoed the mother. "You have been away ten years! Look how
you have grown!"
After she had overcome her surprise the girl resumed her household
duties as if nothing particular had happened, and knitted a pair of
stockings for her godchild. When they were finished she carried them
to the fairy grotto, where, as she thought, she spent the afternoon.
But in reality she had been away from home this time for five years.
As she was leaving, her godchild gave her a purse, saying: "This purse
is full of gold. Whenever you take a piece out another one will come
in its place, but if any one else uses it it will lose all its
virtue."
When the girl returned to the village at last it was to find her
mother dead, her brothers gone abroad, and her sisters married, so
that she was the only one left at home. As she was pretty and a good
housewife she did not want for lovers, and in due time she chose one
for a husband. She did not tell her spouse about the purse she had had
from the fairies, and if she wanted to give him a piece of gold she
withdrew it from the magic purse in secret. She never went back to the
fairy cavern, as she had no mind to return from it and find her
husband an old man.
_The Fisherman and the Fairies_
A fisherman of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer, walking home to his cottage from
his boat one evening along the wet sands, came, unawares, upon a
number of fairies in a _houle_. They were talking and laughing gaily,
and the fisherman observed that while they made merry they rubbed
their bodies with a kind of ointment or pomade. All at once, to the
old salt's surprise, they turned into ordinary women. Concealing
himself behind a rock, the fisherman watched them until the now
completely transformed immortals quitted their haunt and waddled away
in the guise of old market-women.
[Illustration: FAIRIES IN A BRETON 'HOULE']
The fisherman waited until they were well out of sight, and then
entered the cavern, where the first object that met his gaze was the
pot of ointment which had effected the marvellous change he had
witnessed. Taking some of the pomade on his forefinger, he smeared it
around his left eye. He afterward found that he could penetrate the
various disguises assumed by the fairies wherever he met them, and
that these were for the most part adopted for the purposes of
trickery. Thus he was able to see a fairy in the assumed shape of a
beggar-woman going from door to door demanding alms, seeking an
opportunity to steal or work mischief, and all the while casting
spells upon those who were charitable enough to assist her. Again, he
could distinguish real fish caught in his net at sea from merwomen
disguised as fish, who were desirous of entangling the nets or
otherwise distressing and annoying the fishermen.
But nowhere was the disguised fairy race so much in evidence as at the
fair of Ploubalay, where he recognized several of the elusive folk in
the semblance of raree-showmen, fortune-tellers, and the like, who had
taken these shapes in order to deceive. He was quietly smiling at
their pranks, when some of the fairies who composed a troupe of
performers in front of one of the booths regarded him very earnestly.
He felt certain that they had penetrated his secret, but ere he could
make off one of them threw a stick at him with such violence that it
struck and burst the offending left eye.
Fairies in all lands have a constitutional distaste for being
recognized, but those of Brittany appear to visit their vengeance upon
the members with which they are actually beheld. "See what thieves the
fairies are!" cried a woman, on beholding one abstract apples from a
countrywoman's pocket. The predatory elf at once turned round and tore
out the eye that had marked his act.
A Cornish woman who chanced to find herself the guardian of an
elf-child was given certain water with which to wash its face. The
liquid had the property of illuminating the infant's face with a
supernatural brightness, and the woman ventured to try it upon
herself, and in doing so splashed a little into one eye. This gave her
the fairy sight. One day in the market-place she saw a fairy man
stealing, and gave the alarm, when the enraged sprite cried:
"Water for elf, not water for self.
You've lost your eye, your child, and yourself."
She was immediately stricken blind in the right eye, her fairy
foster-child vanished, and she and her husband sank into poverty and
want.
Another Breton tale recounts how a mortal woman was given a polished
stone in the form of an egg wherewith to rub a fairy child's eyes. She
applied it to her own right eye, and became possessed of magic sight
so far as elves were concerned. Still another case, alluded to in the
_Revue Celtique_,[30] arose through 'the sacred bond' formed between a
fairy man and a mortal woman where both stood as godparents to a
child. The association enabled the woman to see magically. The fairy
maiden Rockflower bestows a similar gift on her lover in a Breton tale
from Saint-Cast, and speaks of "clearing his eyes like her own."[31]
_Changelings_
The Breton fairies, like others of their race, are fond of kidnapping
mortal children and leaving in their places wizened elves who cause
the greatest trouble to the distressed parents. The usual method of
ridding a family of such a changeling is to surprise it in some
manner so that it will betray its true character. Thus, on suspicion
resting upon a certain Breton infant who showed every sign of
changeling nature, milk was boiled on the fire in egg-shells,
whereupon the impish youngster cried: "I shall soon be a hundred
years old, but I never saw so many shells boiling! I was born in
Pif and Paf, in the country where cats are made, but I never saw
anything like it!" Thus self-revealed, the elf was expelled from
the house. In most Northern tales where the changeling betrays itself
it at once takes flight and a train of elves appears, bringing back
the true infant. Again, if the wizened occupant of the cradle can be
made to laugh that is accepted as proof of its fairy nature.
"Something ridiculous," says Simrock, "must be done to cause him to
laugh, for laughter brings deliverance."[32] The same stratagem
appears to be used as the cure in English and Scots changeling tales.
_The King of the Fishes_
The Breton fays were prone, too, to take the shape of animals,
birds, and even of fish. As we have seen, the sea-fairies of
Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer were in the habit of taking the shape of fish
for the purpose of annoying fishermen and damaging their gear.
Another Breton tale from Saint-Cast illustrates their penchant for
the fish shape. A fisherman of that town one day was lucky enough to
catch the King of the Fishes disguised as a small golden fish. The
fish begged hard to be released, and promised, if he were set free, to
sacrifice as many of his subjects as would daily fill the fisherman's
nets. On this understanding the finny monarch was given his liberty,
and fulfilled his promise to the letter. Moreover, when the
fisherman's boat was capsized in a gale the Fish King appeared, and,
holding a flask to the drowning man's lips, made him drink a magic
fluid which ensured his ability to exist under water. He conveyed the
fisherman to his capital, a place of dazzling splendour, paved
with gold and gems. The rude caster of nets instantly filled his
pockets with the spoil of this marvellous causeway. Though probably
rather disturbed by the incident, the Fish King, with true royal
politeness, informed him that whenever he desired to return the way
was open to him. The fisherman expressed his sorrow at having to
leave such a delightful environment, but added that unless he
returned to earth his wife and family would regard him as lost. The
Fish King called a large tunny-fish, and as Arion mounted the dolphin
in the old Argolian tale, so the fisherman approached the tunny,
which
Hollowed his back and shaped it as a selle.[33]
The fisherman at once
Seized the strange sea-steed by his bristling fin
And vaulted on his shoulders; the fleet fish
Swift sought the shallows and the friendly shore.[34]
Before dismissing the fisherman, however, the Fish King presented him
with an inexhaustible purse--probably as a hint that it would be
unnecessary for him on a future visit to disturb his paving
arrangements.
_Fairy Origins_
Two questions which early obtrude themselves in the consideration of
Breton fairy-lore are: Are all the fays of Brittany malevolent? And,
if so, whence proceeds this belief that fairy-folk are necessarily
malign? Example treads upon example to prove that the Breton fairy is
seldom beneficent, that he or she is prone to ill-nature and
spitefulness, not to say fiendish malice on occasion. There appears to
be a deep-rooted conviction that the elfish race devotes itself to the
annoyance of mankind, practising a species of peculiarly irritating
trickery, wanton and destructive. Only very rarely is a spirit of
friendliness evinced, and then a motive is usually obvious. The
'friendly' fairy invariably has an axe to grind.
Two reasons may be advanced to account for this condition of things.
First, the fairy-folk--in which are included house and field
spirits--may be the traditional remnant of a race of real people,
perhaps a prehistoric race, driven into the remote parts of the
country by strange immigrant conquerors. Perhaps these primitive folk
were elfish, dwarfish, or otherwise peculiar in appearance to the
superior new-comers, who would in pride of race scorn the small,
swarthy aborigines, and refuse all communion with them. We may be sure
that the aborigines, on their part, would feel for their tall,
handsome conquerors all the hatred of which a subject race is capable,
never approaching them unless under compulsion or necessity, and
revenging themselves upon them by every means of annoyance in their
power. We may feel certain, too, that the magic of these conquered and
discredited folk would be made full use of to plague the usurpers of
the soil, and trickery, as irritating as any elf-pranks, would be
brought to increase the discomfort of the new-comers.
There are, however, several good objections to this view of the origin
of the fairy idea. First and foremost, the smaller prehistoric
aboriginal peoples of Europe themselves possessed tales of little
people, of spirits of field and forest, flood and fell. It is unlikely
that man was ever without these.
Yea, I sang, as now I sing, when the Prehistoric Spring
Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove,
And the troll, and gnome, and dwerg, and the gods of cliff and berg
Were about me and beneath me and above.[35]
The idea of animism, the belief that everything had a personality of
its own, certainly belonged to the later prehistoric period, for among
the articles which fill the graves of aboriginal peoples, for use on
the last journey, we find weapons to enable the deceased to drive off
the evil spirits which would surround his own after death. Spirits, to
early man, are always relatively smaller than himself. He beholds the
"picture of a little man" in his comrade's eyes, and concludes it to
be his 'soul.' Some primitive peoples, indeed, believe that several
parts of the body have each their own resident soul. Again, the spirit
of the corn or the spirit of the flower, the savage would argue, must
in the nature of things be small. We can thus see how the belief in
'the little folk' may have arisen, and how they remained little until
a later day.
A much more scientific theory of the origin of the belief in fairies
is that which sees in them the deities of a discredited religion, the
gods of an aboriginal people, rather than the people themselves. Such
were the Irish _Daoine Sidhe_, and the Welsh _y Mamau_ ('the
Mothers')--undoubtedly gods of the Celts. Again, although in many
countries, especially in England, the fairies are regarded as small of
stature, in Celtic countries the fay proper, as distinct from the
brownie and such goblins, is of average mortal height, and this would
seem to be the case in Brittany. Whether the gorics and courils of
Brittany, who seem sufficiently small, are fairies or otherwise is a
moot point. They seem to be more of the field spirit type, and are
perhaps classed more correctly with the gnome race; we thus deal with
them in our chapter on sprites and demons. It would seem, too, as if
there might be ground for the belief that the normal-sized fairy race
of Celtic countries had become confounded with the Teutonic idea of
elves (Teut. _Elfen_) in Germany and England, from which, perhaps,
they borrowed their diminutive size.
But these are only considerations, not conclusions. Strange as it may
seem, folk-lore has by no means solved the fairy problem, and much
remains to be accomplished ere we can write 'Finis' to the study of
fairy origins.
_The Margots_
Another Breton name for the fairies is _les Margots la fée_, a title
which is chiefly employed in several districts of the Côtes-du-Nord,
principally in the _arrondissements_ of Saint-Brieuc and Loudéac, to
describe those fairies who have their abode in large rocks and on the
wild and extensive moorlands which are so typical of the country.
These, unlike the _fées houles_, are able to render themselves
invisible at pleasure. Like human beings, they are subject to
maladies, and are occasionally glad to accept mortal succour. They
return kindness for kindness, but are vindictive enemies to those who
attempt to harm them.
But fairy vindictiveness is not lavished upon those unwitting mortals
who do them harm alone. If one chances to succeed in a task set by the
immortals of the forest, one is in danger of death, as the following
story shows.
_The Boy who Served the Fairies_
A poor little fellow was one day gathering faggots in the forest when
a gay, handsomely dressed gentleman passed him, and, noticing the
lad's ragged and forlorn condition, said to him: "What are you doing
there, my boy?"
"I am looking for wood, sir," replied the boy. "If I did not do so we
should have no fire at home."
"You are very poor at home, then?" asked the gentleman.
"So poor," said the lad, "that sometimes we only eat once a day, and
often go supperless to bed."
[Illustration: THE POOR BOY AND THE THREE FAIRY DAMSELS]
"That is a sad tale," said the gentleman. "If you will promise to
meet me here within a month I will give you some money, which will
help your parents and feed and clothe your small brothers and
sisters."
Prompt to the day and the hour, the boy kept the tryst in the forest
glade, at the very spot where he had met the gentleman. But though he
looked anxiously on every side he could see no signs of his friend. In
his anxiety he pushed farther into the forest, and came to the borders
of a pond, where three damsels were preparing to bathe. One was
dressed in white, another in grey, and the third in blue. The boy
pulled off his cap, gave them good-day, and asked politely if they had
not seen a gentleman in the neighbourhood. The maiden who was dressed
in white told him where the gentleman was to be found, and pointed out
a road by which he might arrive at his castle.
"He will ask you," said she, "to become his servant, and if you accept
he will wish you to eat. The first time that he presents the food to
you, say: 'It is I who should serve you.' If he asks you a second time
make the same reply; but if he should press you a third time refuse
brusquely and thrust away the plate which he offers you."
The boy was not long in finding the castle, and was at once shown into
the gentleman's presence. As the maiden dressed in white had foretold,
he requested the youth to enter his service, and when his offer was
accepted placed before him a plate of viands. The lad bowed politely,
but refused the food. A second time it was offered, but he persisted
in his refusal, and when it was proffered to him a third time he
thrust it away from him so roughly that it fell to the ground and the
plate was broken.
"Ah," said the gentleman, "you are just the kind of servant I require.
You are now my lackey, and if you are able to do three things that I
command you I will give you one of my daughters for your wife and you
shall be my son-in-law."
The next day he gave the boy a hatchet of lead, a saw of paper, and a
wheelbarrow made of oak-leaves, bidding him fell, bind up, and measure
all the wood in the forest within a radius of seven leagues. The new
servant at once commenced his task, but the hatchet of lead broke at
the first blow, the saw of paper buckled at the first stroke, and the
wheelbarrow of oak-leaves was broken by the weight of the first little
branch he placed on it. The lad in despair sat down, and could do
nothing but gaze at the useless implements. At midday the damsel
dressed in white whom he had seen at the pond came to bring him
something to eat.
"Alas!" she cried, "why do you sit thus idle? If my father should come
and find that you have done nothing he would kill you."
"I can do nothing with such wretched tools," grumbled the lad.
"Do you see this wand?" said the damsel, producing a little rod. "Take
it in your hand and walk round the forest, and the work will take care
of itself. At the same time say these words: 'Let the wood fall, tie
itself into bundles, and be measured.'"
The boy did as the damsel advised him, and matters proceeded so
satisfactorily that by a little after midday the work was completed.
In the evening the gentleman said to him:
"Have you accomplished your task?"
"Yes, sir. Do you wish to see it? The wood is cut and tied into
bundles of the proper weight and measurement."
"It is well," said the gentleman. "To-morrow I will set you the second
task."
On the following morning he took the lad to a knoll some distance from
the castle, and said to him:
"You see this rising ground? By this evening you must have made it a
garden well planted with fruit-trees and having a fish-pond in the
middle, where ducks and other water-fowl may swim. Here are your
tools."
The tools were a pick of glass and a spade of earthenware. The boy
commenced the work, but at the first stroke his fragile pick and spade
broke into a thousand fragments. For the second time he sat down
helplessly. Time passed slowly, and as before at midday the damsel in
white brought him his dinner.
"So I find you once more with your arms folded," she said.
"I cannot work with a pick of glass and an earthenware spade,"
complained the youth.
"Here is another wand," said the damsel. "Take it and walk round this
knoll, saying: 'Let the place be planted and become a beautiful garden
with fruit-trees, in the middle of which is a fish-pond with ducks
swimming upon it.'"
The boy took the wand, did as he was bid, and the work was speedily
accomplished. A beautiful garden arose as if by enchantment, well
furnished with fruit-trees of all descriptions and ornamented with a
small sheet of water.
Once more his master was quite satisfied with the result, and on the
third morning set him his third task. He took him beneath one of the
towers of the castle.
"Behold this tower," he said. "It is of polished marble. You must
climb it, and at the top you will find a turtle-dove, which you must
bring to me."
The gentleman, who was of opinion that the damsel in white had helped
his servant in the first two tasks, sent her to the town to buy
provisions. When she received this order the maiden retired to her
chamber and burst into tears. Her sisters asked her what was the
matter, and she told them that she wished to remain at the castle, so
they promised to go to the town in her stead. At midday she found the
lad sitting at the foot of the tower bewailing the fact that he could
not climb its smooth and glassy sides.
"I have come to help you once more," said the damsel. "You must get a
cauldron, then cut me into morsels and throw in all my bones, without
missing a single one. It is the only way to succeed."
"Never!" exclaimed the youth. "I would sooner die than harm such a
beautiful lady as you."
"Yet you must do as I say," she replied.
For a long time the youth refused, but at last he gave way to the
maiden's entreaties, cut her into little pieces, and placed the bones
in a large cauldron, forgetting, however, the little toe of her left
foot. Then he rose as if by magic to the top of the tower, found the
turtle-dove, and came down again.[36] Having completed his task, he
took a wand which lay beside the cauldron, and when he touched the
bones they came together again and the damsel stepped out of the
great pot none the worse for her experience.
When the young fellow carried the dove to his master the gentleman
said:
"It is well. I shall carry out my promise and give you one of my
daughters for your wife, but all three shall be veiled and you must
pick the one you desire without seeing her face."
The three damsels were then brought into his presence, but the lad
easily recognized the one who had assisted him, because she lacked the
small toe of the left foot. So he chose her without hesitation, and
they were married.
But the gentleman was not content with the marriage. On the day of the
bridal he placed the bed of the young folks over a vault, and hung it
from the roof by four cords. When they had gone to bed he came to the
door of the chamber and said:
"Son-in-law, are you asleep?"
"No, not yet," replied the youth.
Some time afterward he repeated his question, and met with a similar
answer.
"The next time he comes," said the bride, "pretend that you are
sleeping."
Shortly after that his father-in-law asked once more if he were
asleep, and receiving no answer retired, evidently well satisfied.
When he had gone the bride made her husband rise at once. "Go
instantly to the stables," said she, "and take there the horse which
is called Little Wind, mount him, and fly."
The young fellow hastened to comply with her request, and he had
scarcely left the chamber when the master of the castle returned and
asked if his daughter were asleep. She answered "No," and, bidding her
arise and come with him, he cut the cords, so that the bed fell into
the vault beneath. The bride now heard the trampling of hoofs in the
garden outside, and rushed out to find her husband in the act of
mounting.
"Stay!" she cried. "You have taken Great Wind instead of Little Wind,
as I advised you, but there is no help for it," and she mounted behind
him. Great Wind did not belie his name, and dashed into the night like
a tempest.
"Do you see anything?" asked the girl.
"No, nothing," said her husband.
"Look again," she said. "Do you see anything now?"
"Yes," he replied, "I see a great flame of fire."
The bride took her wand, struck it three times, and said: "I change
thee, Great Wind, into a garden, myself into a pear-tree, and my
husband into a gardener."
The transformation had hardly been effected when the master of the
castle and his wife came up with them.
"Ha, my good man," cried he to the seeming gardener, "has any one on
horseback passed this way?"
"Three pears for a sou," said the gardener.
"That is not an answer to my question," fumed the old wizard, for such
he was. "I asked if you had seen any one on horseback in this
direction."
"Four for a sou, then, if you will," said the gardener.
"Idiot!" foamed the enchanter, and dashed on in pursuit. The young
wife then changed herself, her horse, and her husband into their
natural forms, and, mounting once more, they rode onward.
"Do you see anything now?" asked she.
"Yes, I see a great flame of fire," he replied.
Once more she took her wand. "I change this steed into a church," she
said, "myself into an altar, and my husband into a priest."
Very soon the wizard and his wife came to the doors of the church and
asked the priest if a youth and a lady had passed that way on
horseback.
"Dominus vobiscum," said the priest, and nothing more could the wizard
get from him.
Pursued once more, the young wife changed the horse into a river,
herself into a boat, and her husband into a boatman. When the wizard
came up with them he asked to be ferried across the river. The boatman
at once made room for them, but in the middle of the stream the boat
capsized and the enchanter and his wife were drowned.
The young lady and her husband returned to the castle, seized the
treasure of its fairy lord, and, says tradition, lived happily ever
afterward, as all young spouses do in fairy-tale.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] _Roman de Rou_, v. 6415 ff.
[21] Consult original ballad in Vicomte de la Villemarqué's _Chants
populaires de la Bretagne_.
[22] MacCulloch, _The Religion of the Ancient Celts_, p. 116
(Edinburgh, 1911).
[23] See _Ballads and Metrical Tales, illustrating the Fairy Mythology
of Europe_ (anonymous, London, 1857) for a metrical version of
this tale.
[24] Lib. III, cap. vi.
[25] Paris, 1670. Strange that this book should have been seized upon
by students of the occult as a 'text-book' furnishing
longed-for details of the 'lost knowledge' concerning
elementary spirits, when it is, in effect, a very whole-hearted
satire upon belief in such beings!
[26] Villemarqué, _Myrdhinn, ou l'Enchanteur Merlin_ (1861).
[27] MacCulloch, _The Religion of the Ancient Celts_, p. 122.
[28] Or subterranean dwellers. See D. MacRitchie's _Fians, Fairies,
and Picts_ (1893).
[29] See the chapter on "Menhirs and Dolmens."
[30] Vol. i, p. 231.
[31] _Contes populaires de la Haute-Bretagne_ (Paris, 1880).
[32] _Handbuch der deutschen Mythologie._
[33] Saddle.
[34] See the author's _Le Roi d'Ys and other Poems_ (London, 1910).
[35] Kipling, "Primum Tempus."
[36] In folk-tales of this nature a ladder is usually made of the
bones, but this circumstance seems to have been omitted in the
present instance.
CHAPTER IV: SPRITES AND DEMONS OF BRITTANY
The idea of the evil spirit, malicious and revengeful, is common to
all primitive peoples, and Brittany has its full share of demonology.
Wherever, in fact, a primitive and illiterate peasantry is found the
demon is its inevitable accompaniment. But we shall not find these
Breton devils so very different from the fiends of other lands.
_The Nain_
The nain is a figure fearsomely Celtic in its hideousness, resembling
the gargoyles which peer down upon the traveller from the carven
'top-hamper' of so many Breton churches. Black and menacing of
countenance, these demon-folk are armed with feline claws, and their
feet end in hoofs like those of a satyr. Their dark elf-locks, small,
gleaming eyes, red as carbuncles, and harsh, cracked voices are all
dilated upon with fear by those who have met them upon lonely heaths
or unfrequented roads. They haunt the ancient dolmens built by a
vanished race, and at night, by the pale starlight, they dance around
these ruined tombs to the music of a primitive refrain:
"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday and Friday."
Saturday and Sunday they dare not mention as being days sacred from
fairy influence. We all remember that in the old tale of Tom Thumb the
elves among whom the hero fell sang such a refrain. But wherefore? It
would indeed be difficult to say. Deities, credited and discredited,
have often a connexion with the calendar, and we may have here some
calendric reference, or again the chant may be merely a nonsense
rhyme. Bad luck attached itself to the human who chanced to behold the
midnight revels of the nains, and if he entered the charmed circle and
danced along with them his death was certain to ensue before the year
was out. Wednesday was the nains' high-day, or rather night, and their
great _nuit festale_ was the first Wednesday in May. That they should
have possessed a fixed festival at such a period, full of religious
significance for most primitive peoples, would seem to show that they
must at one time have been held in considerable esteem.
But although the nains while away their time in such simple fashion as
dancing to the repetition of the names of the days of the week, they
have a less innocent side to their characters, for they are forgers of
false money, which they fabricate in the recesses of caverns. We all
recall stories of fairy gold and its perishable nature. A simple youth
sells something on market day to a fairy, and later on turning over in
his pocket the money he has received he finds that it has been
transformed into beans. The housewife receives gold from a fairy for
services rendered, and carefully places it in a drawer. A day when she
requires it arrives, but, alas! when she opens the cabinet to take it
out she finds nothing but a small heap of withered leaves. It is such
money that the nains manufacture in their subterranean mints--coin
which bears the fairy impress of glamourie for a space, but on later
examination proves to be merely dross.
The nains are also regarded as the originators of a cabalistic
alphabet, the letters of which are engraved on several of the
megalithic monuments of Morbihan, and especially those of Gavr'inis.
He who is able to decipher this magic script, says tradition, will be
able to tell where hidden treasure is to be found in any part of the
country. Lest any needy folk be of a mind to fare to Brittany to try
their luck in this respect it is only right to warn them that in all
probability they will find the treasure formula in ogham characters or
serpentine markings, and that as the first has long ago been
deciphered and the second is pure symbolism they will waste their time
and money in any event.
Sorcery hangs about the nain like a garment. Here he is a prophet and
a diviner as well as an enchanter, and as much of his magic power is
employed for ill, small wonder that the Breton peasant shudders and
frowns when the name of the fearsome tribe is spoken and gives the
dolmens they are supposed to haunt the widest of wide berths _au clair
de la lune_.
_Crions, Courils, and Gorics_
Brittany has a species of dwarfs or gnomes peculiar to itself which in
various parts of the country are known as crions, courils, or
gorics. It will at once be seen how greatly the last word resembles
Korrigan, and as all of them perhaps proceed from a root meaning
'spirit' the nominal resemblance is not surprising. Like the nains,
these smaller beings inhabit abandoned Druidical monuments or dwell
beneath the foundations of ancient castles. Carnac is sometimes
alluded to in Breton as 'Ty C'harriquet,' 'the House of the Gorics,'
the country-folk in this district holding the belief that its
megalithic monuments were reared by these manikins, whom they
describe as between two and three feet high, but exceedingly
strong, just as the Scottish peasantry speak of the Picts of
folk-lore--'wee fouk but unco' strang.' Every night the gorics
dance in circles round the stones of Carnac, and should a mortal
interrupt their frolic he is forced to join in the dance, until,
breathless and exhausted, he falls prone to the earth amid peals of
mocking laughter. Like the nains, the gorics are the guardians of
hidden treasure, for the tale goes that beneath one of the menhirs of
Carnac lies a golden hoard, and that all the other stones have been
set up the better to conceal it, and so mystify those who would
discover its resting-place. A calculation, the key to which is to
be found in the Tower of London, will alone indicate the spot where
the treasure lies. And here it may be of interest to state that
the ancient national fortalice of England occurs frequently in Breton
and in Celtic romance.[37] Some of the immigrant Britons into
Armorica probably came from the settlement which was later to grow
into London, and may have carried tales of its ancient British
fortress into their new home.
The courils are peculiar to the ruins of Tresmalouen. Like the gorics,
they are fond of dancing, and they are quite as malignantly inclined
toward the unhappy stranger who may stumble into their ring. The
castle of Morlaix, too, is haunted by gorics not more than a foot
high, who dwell beneath it in holes in the ground. They possess
treasures as great as those of the gnomes of Norway or Germany, and
these they will sometimes bestow on lucky mortals, who are permitted,
however, to take but one handful. If a person should attempt to seize
more the whole of the money vanishes, and the offender's ears are
soundly boxed by invisible hands.
The night-washers (_eur tunnerez noz_) are evil spirits who appear at
night on the banks of streams and call on the passers-by to assist
them to wash the linen of the dead. If they are refused, they seize
upon the person who denies them, drag him into the water, and break
his arms. These beings are obviously the same as the Bean Nighe, 'the
Washing Woman' of the Scottish Highlands, who is seen in lonely places
beside a pool or stream, washing the linen of those who will shortly
die. In Skye she is said to be short of stature. If any one catches
her she tells all that will befall him in after life. In Perthshire
she is represented as "small and round and dressed in pretty green."
_The Teurst_
In the district of Morlaix the peasants are terribly afraid of beings
they call teursts. These are large, black, and fearsome, like the
Highland ourisk, who haunted desert moors and glens. The _teursta
poulict_ appears in the likeness of some domestic animal. In the
district of Vannes is encountered a colossal spirit called Teus or
Bugelnoz, who appears clothed in white between midnight and two in the
morning. His office is to rescue victims from the devil, and should he
spread his mouth over them they are secure from the Father of Evil.
The Dusii of Gaul are mentioned by St Augustine, who regarded them as
_incubi_, and by Isidore of Seville, and in the name we may perhaps
discover the origin of our expression 'the deuce!'
_The Nicole_
The Nicole is a spirit of modern creation who torments the honest
fishermen of the Bay of Saint-Brieuc and Saint-Malo. Just as they are
about to draw in their nets this mischievous spirit leaps around them,
freeing the fish, or he will loosen a boat's anchor so that it will
drift on to a sand-bank. He may divide the cable which holds the
anchor to the vessel and cause endless trouble. This spirit received
its name from an officer who commanded a battalion of fishermen
conscripts, and who from his intense severity and general reputation
as a martinet obtained a bad reputation among the seafaring
population.
_The Mourioche_
The Mourioche is a malicious demon of bestial nature, able, it would
seem, to transform himself into any animal shape he chooses. In
general appearance he is like a year-old foal. He is especially
dangerous to children, and Breton babies are often chided when noisy
or mischievous with the words: "Be good, now, the Mourioche is
coming!" Of one who appears to have received a shock, also, it is
said: "He has seen the Mourioche." Unlucky is the person who gets in
his way; but doubly so the unfortunate who attempts to mount him in
the belief that he is an ordinary steed, for after a fiery gallop he
will be precipitated into an abyss and break his neck.
_The Ankou_
Perhaps there is no spirit of evil which is so much dreaded by the
Breton peasantry as the Ankou, who travels the duchy in a cart,
picking up souls. In the dead of night a creaking axle-tree can be
heard passing down the silent lanes. It halts at a door; the summons
has been given, a soul quits the doomed house, and the wagon of the
Ankou passes on. The Ankou herself--for the dread death-spirit of
Brittany is probably female--is usually represented as a skeleton. M.
Anatole le Braz has elaborated a study of the whole question in his
book on the legend of death in Brittany,[38] and it is probable that
the Ankou is a survival of the death-goddess of the prehistoric
dolmen-builders of Brittany. MacCulloch[39] considers the Ankou to be
a reminiscence of the Celtic god of death, who watches over all things
beyond the grave and carries off the dead to his kingdom, but greatly
influenced by medieval ideas of 'Death the skeleton.' In some Breton
churches a little model or statuette of the Ankou is to be seen, and
this is nothing more nor less than a cleverly fashioned skeleton. The
peasant origin of the belief can be found in the substitution of a
cart or wagon for the more ambitious coach and four of other lands.
_The Youdic_
Dark and gloomy are many of the Breton legends, of evil things, gloomy
as the depths of the forests in which doubtless many of them were
conceived. Most folk-tales are tinged with melancholy, and it is
rarely in Breton story that we discover a vein of the joyous.
[Illustration: THE DEMON-DOG]
Among the peaks of the Montagnes d'Arrée lies a vast and dismal peat
bog known as the Yeun, which has long been regarded by the Breton folk
as the portal to the infernal regions. This Stygian locality has
brought forth many legends. It is, indeed, a remarkable territory. In
summer it seems a vast moor carpeted by glowing purple heather, which
one can traverse up to a certain point, but woe betide him who would
advance farther, for, surrounded by what seems solid ground, lies a
treacherous quagmire declared by the people of the neighbourhood to be
unfathomable. This part of the bog, whose victims have been many, is
known as the Youdic. As one leans over it its waters may sometimes be
seen to simmer and boil, and the peasants of the country-side devoutly
believe that when this occurs infernal forces are working beneath,
madly revelling, and that it is only the near presence of St Michael,
whose mount is hard by, which restrains them from doing active harm to
those who may have to cross the Yeun.
Countless stories are afloat concerning this weird maelstrom of mud
and bubbling water. At one time it was the custom to hurl animals
suspected of being evil spirits into its black depths. Malevolent
fiends, it was thought, were wont to materialize in the form of great
black dogs, and unfortunate animals of this type, if they evinced such
peculiarities as were likely to place them under suspicion, were taken
forthwith to the Youdic by a member of the enlightened priesthood of
the district, and were cast into its seething depths with all the
ceremonies suitable to such an occasion.
A story typical of those told about the place is that of one Job Ann
Drez, who seems to have acted as sexton and assisted the parish priest
in his dealings with the supernatural. Along with the priest, Job
repaired one evening after sunset to the gloomy waters of the Youdic,
dragging behind him a large black dog of the species most likely to
excite distrust in the priestly mind. The priest showed considerable
anxiety lest the animal should break loose.
"If he should get away," he said nervously, "both of us are lost."
"I will wager he does not," replied Job, tying the cord by which the
brute was led securely to his wrist.
"Forward, then," said the priest, and he walked boldly in front, until
they came to the foot of the mountain on the summit of which lies the
Youdic.
The priest turned warningly to Job. "You must be circumspect in this
place," he said very gravely. "Whatever you may hear, be sure not to
turn your head. Your life in this world and your salvation in the next
depend absolutely on this. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir, I understand."
A vast desolation surrounded them. So dark was the night that it
seemed to envelop them like a velvet curtain. Beneath their feet they
heard the hissing and moaning of the bog, awaiting its prey like a
restless and voracious wild beast. Through the dense blackness they
could see the iridescent waters writhing and gleaming below.
"Surely," said Job half to himself, "this must be the gateway to
hell!"
At that word the dog uttered a frightful howl--such a howl as froze
Job's blood in his veins. It tugged and strained at the cord which
held it with the strength of a demon, striving to turn on Job and rend
him.
"Hold on!" cried the priest in mortal terror, keeping at a safe
distance, however. "Hold on, I entreat you, or else we are undone!"
Job held on to the demon-dog with all his strength. Indeed, it was
necessary to exert every thew and sinew if the animal were to be
prevented from tearing him to pieces. Its howls were sufficient to
strike terror to the stoutest heart. "Iou! Iou!" it yelled again and
again.
But Job held on desperately, although the cord cut his hands and blood
ran from the scarified palms. Inch by inch he dragged the brute toward
the Youdic. The creature in a last desperate effort turned and was
about to spring on him open-mouthed, when all at once the priest,
darting forward, threw his cloak over its head. It uttered a shriek
which sounded through the night like the cry of a lost soul.
"Quick!" cried the priest. "Lie flat on the earth and put your face on
the ground!"
Scarcely had the two men done so than a frightful tumult ensued. First
there was the sound of a body leaping into the morass, then such an
uproar as could only proceed from the mouth of the infernal regions.
Shrieks, cries, hissings, explosions followed in quick succession for
upward of half an hour; then gradually they died away and a horrible
stillness took their place. The two men rose trembling and unnerved,
and slowly took their way through the darkness, groping and stumbling
until they had left the awful vicinity of the Yeun behind them.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] See Nutt, _Celtic and Mediæval Romance_.
[38] _La Légende de la Mort._
[39] _Religion of the Ancient Celts_, p. 345
CHAPTER V: WORLD-TALES IN BRITTANY
I have entitled this chapter 'World-Tales' to indicate that the
stories it contains are in plot or _motif_ if not in substance common
to the whole world--that, in short, although they are found in
Brittany, they are no more Breton than Italian, Russian, American, or
Australian. But although the story which tells of the search for the
golden-haired princess on the magic horse is the possession of no one
particular race, the tales recounted here have the Breton colouring
and the Breton spirit, and in perusing them we encounter numerous
little allusions to Breton customs or manners and obtain not a few
sidelights upon the Breton character, its shrewdness and its goodwill,
while we may note as well the narrowness of view and meanness so
characteristic of peoples who have been isolated for a long period
from contact with other races.
The first two of these tales are striking ones built upon two
world-_motifs_--those of the magic horse and the search for the
golden-haired princess, who is, of course, the sun, two themes which
have been amalgamated in not a few deathless stories.
_The Youth who did not Know_
One day the Marquis of Coat-Squiriou was returning from Morlaix, when
he beheld lying on the road a little fellow of four or five years of
age. He leapt from his horse, picked the child up, and asked him what
he did there.
"I do not know," replied the little boy.
"Who is your father?" asked the Marquis.
"I do not know," said the child for the second time.
"And your mother?" asked the kindly nobleman.
"I do not know."
"Where are you now, my child?"
"I do not know."
"Then what is your name?"
"I do not know."
The Marquis told his serving-man to place the child on the crupper of
his horse, as he had taken a fancy to him and would adopt him. He
called him N'Oun Doare, which signifies in Breton, 'I do not know.' He
educated him, and when his schooling was finished took him to Morlaix,
where they put up at the best inn in the town. The Marquis could not
help admiring his adopted son, who had now grown into a tall, handsome
youth, and so pleased was he with him that he desired to signify his
approval by making him a little present, which he resolved should take
the form of a sword. So they went out into the town and visited the
armourers' shops in search of a suitable weapon. They saw swords of
all kinds, but N'Oun Doare would have none of them, until at last they
passed the booth of a seller of scrap-metal, where hung a rusty old
rapier which seemed fit for nothing.
"Ha!" cried N'Oun Doare, "that is the sword for me. Please buy it, I
beg of you."
"Why, don't you see what a condition it is in?" said the Marquis. "It
is not a fit weapon for a gentleman."
"Nevertheless it is the only sword I wish for," said N'Oun Doare.
"Well, well, you are a strange fellow," said the Marquis, but he
bought the sword nevertheless, and they returned to Coat-Squiriou. The
next day N'Oun Doare examined his sword and discovered that the blade
had the words "I am invincible" engraved upon it.
Some time afterward the Marquis said to him: "It is time that you had
a horse. Come with me to Morlaix and we will purchase one." They
accordingly set out for Morlaix. In the market-place they saw many
fine animals, but with none of them was N'Oun Doare content. On
returning to the inn, however, he espied what looked like a
broken-down mare standing by the roadside, and to this sorry beast he
immediately drew the attention of the Marquis.
"That is the horse for me!" he cried. "I beg of you, purchase it for
me."
"What!" cried the Marquis, "that broken-down beast? Why, only look at
it, my son." But N'Oun Doare persisted, and at last, despite his own
better judgment, the Marquis bought the animal. The man who sold it
was a cunning-looking fellow from Cornouaille, who, as he put the
bridle into N'Oun Doare's hand, whispered:
"You see the knots on the halter of this animal?"
"Yes," replied N'Oun Doare; "what of them?"
"Only this, that each time you loosen one the mare will immediately
carry you five hundred leagues from where you are."
The Marquis and his ward returned once more to the château, N'Oun
Doare riding his new purchase, when it entered into his head to untie
one of the knots on the halter. He did so, and immediately descended
in the middle of Paris--which we must take the story-teller's word for
it is five hundred leagues from Brittany!
Several months afterward the Marquis had occasion to go to Paris, and
one of the first people he met there was N'Oun Doare, who told him of
his adventure. The Marquis was going to visit the King, and took his
_protégé_ along with him to the palace, where he was well received.
Some nights afterward the youth was walking with his old mare outside
the walls of Paris, and noticed something which glittered very
brightly at the foot of an ancient stone cross which stood where four
roads met. He approached it and beheld a crown of gold, set with the
most brilliant precious stones. He at once picked it up, when the old
mare, turning its head, said to him: "Take care; you will repent
this."
Greatly surprised, N'Oun Doare thought that he had better replace the
crown, but a longing to possess it overcame him, and although the mare
warned him once more he finally resolved to take it, and, putting it
under his mantle, rode away.
Now the King had confided to his care part of the royal stables, and
when N'Oun Doare entered them their darkness was immediately lit up by
the radiance of the crown which he carried. So well had the Breton lad
attended to the horses under his charge that the other squires had
become jealous, and, observing the strange light in N'Oun Doare's part
of the stable, they mentioned it to the King, who in turn spoke of it
to the Marquis of Coat-Squiriou. The Marquis asked N'Oun Doare the
meaning of the light, and the youth replied that it came from the
ancient sword they had bought at Morlaix, which was an enchanted
weapon and shone at intervals with strange brilliance. But one night
his enemies resolved to examine into the matter more closely, and,
looking through the keyhole of the stable, they saw that the wondrous
light which had so puzzled them shone from a magnificent crown of
gold. They ran at once to tell the King, and next night N'Oun Doare's
stable was opened with a master-key and the crown removed to the
King's quarters. It was then seen that an inscription was engraved
upon the diadem, but in such strange characters that no one could read
it. The magicians of the capital were called into consultation, but
none of them could decipher the writing. At last a little boy of seven
years of age was found who said that it was the crown of the Princess
Golden Bell. The King then called upon N'Oun Doare to approach, and
said to him:
"You should not have hidden this thing from me, but as you are guilty
of having done so I doom you to find the Princess Golden Bell, whom I
desire shall become my wife. If you fail I shall put you to death."
N'Oun Doare left the royal presence in a very perturbed state of mind.
He went to seek his old mare with tears in his eyes.
"I know," said the mare, "the cause of your sorrow. You should have
left the golden crown alone, as I told you. But do not repine; go to
the King and ask him for money for your journey."
The lad received the money from the King, and set out on his journey.
Arriving at the seashore, one of the first objects he beheld was a
little fish cast up by the waves on the beach and almost at its last
gasp.
"Throw that fish back into the water," said the mare. N'Oun Doare did
so, and the fish, lifting its head from the water, said:
"You have saved my life, N'Oun Doare. I am the King of the Fishes, and
if ever you require my help call my name by the seashore and I will
come." With these words the Fish-King vanished beneath the water.
A little later they came upon a bird struggling vainly to escape from
a net in which it was caught.
"Cut the net and set that poor bird free," said the wise mare.
Upon N'Oun Doare doing so the bird paused before it flew away and
said:
"I am the King of the Birds, N'Oun Doare. I will never forget the
service you have rendered me, and if ever you are in trouble and need
my aid you have only to call me and I shall fly swiftly to help you."
As they went on their way N'Oun Doare's wonderful mare crossed
mountains, forests, vast seas, and streams with a swiftness and ease
that was amazing. Soon they beheld the walls of the Château of the
Golden Bell rising before them, and as they drew near they could hear
a most confused and terrible noise coming from it, which shook N'Oun
Doare's courage and made him rather fearful of entering it. Near the
door a being of the most curious aspect was hung to a tree by a chain,
and this peculiar individual had as many horns on his body as there
are days in the year.
"Cut that unfortunate man down," said the mare. "Will you not give him
his freedom?"
"I am too much afraid to approach him," said N'Oun Doare, alarmed at
the man's appearance.
"Do not fear," said the sagacious animal; "he will not harm you in any
manner."
N'Oun Doare did so, and the stranger thanked him most gratefully,
bidding him, as the others whom he had rescued had done, if he ever
required help to call upon Grifescorne, King of the Demons, for that
was his name, and he would be with him immediately.
"Enter the château boldly and without fear," said the mare, "and I
will await you in the wood yonder. After the Princess Golden Bell has
welcomed you she will show you all the curiosities and marvels of her
dwelling. Tell her you have a horse without an equal, which can dance
most beautifully the dances of every land. Say that your steed will
perform them for her diversion if she will come and behold it in the
forest."
Everything fell out as the mare had said, and the Princess was
delighted and amused by the mare's dancing.
"If you were to mount her," said N'Oun Doare, "I vow she would dance
even more wonderfully than before!"
The Princess after a moment's hesitation did so. In an instant the
adventurous youth was by her side, and the horse sped through the air,
so that in a short space they found themselves flying over the sea.
"You have tricked me!" cried the infuriated damsel. "But do not
imagine that you are at the end of your troubles; and," she added
viciously, "you will have cause to lament more than once ere I wed the
old King of France."
They arrived promptly at Paris, where N'Oun Doare presented the lovely
Princess to the monarch, saying:
"Sire, I have brought to you the Princess Golden Bell, whom you desire
to make your wife."
[Illustration: N'OUN DOARE AND THE PRINCESS GOLDEN BELL]
The King was dazed by the wondrous beauty of the Princess, and was
eager for the marriage to take place immediately, but this the royal
maiden would not hear of, and declared petulantly that she would not
be wed until she had a ring which she had left behind her at her
château, in a cabinet of which she had lost the key.
Summoning N'Oun Doare, the King charged him with the task of finding
the ring. The unfortunate youth returned to his wise mare, feeling
much cast down.
"Why," said the mare, "foolish one! do you not remember the King of
the Birds whom you rescued? Call upon him, and mayhap he will aid you
as he promised to do."
With a return of hope N'Oun Doare did as he was bid, and immediately
the royal bird was with him, and asked him in what way he could help
him. Upon N'Oun Doare explaining his difficulty, the Bird-King
summoned all his subjects, calling each one by name. They came, but
none of them appeared to be small enough to enter the cabinet by way
of the keyhole, which was the only means of entrance. The wren was
decided to be the only bird with any chance of success, and he set out
for the château.
Eventually, with much difficulty and the loss of the greater part of
his feathers, the bird procured the ring, and flew back with it to
Paris. N'Oun Doare hastened to present the ring to the Princess.
"Now, fair one," said the impatient King, "why delay our wedding
longer?"
"Nay," said she, pouting discontentedly, "there is one thing that I
wish, and without it I will do nothing."
"What do you desire? You have only to speak and it shall be brought."
"Well, transport my château with all it contains opposite to yours."
"What!" cried the King, aghast. "Impossible!"
"Well, then, it is just as impossible that I should marry you, for
without my château I shall not consent."
For a second time the King gave N'Oun Doare what seemed an insurmountable
task.
"Now indeed I am as good as lost!" lamented the youth as they came to
the château and he saw its massive walls towering above him.
"Call Grifescorne, King of the Demons, to your assistance," suggested
the wise mare.
With the aid of the Demon-King and his subjects N'Oun Doare's task was
again accomplished, and he and his mare followed the demon army to
Paris, where they arrived as soon as it did.
In the morning the people of Paris were struck dumb to see a wonderful
palace, its golden towers flashing in the sun, rising opposite to the
royal residence.
"We shall be married at last, shall we not?" asked the King.
"Yes," replied the Princess, "but how shall I enter my château and
show you its wonders without a key, for I dropped it in the sea when
N'Oun Doare and his horse carried me over it."
Once more was the youth charged with the task, and through the aid of
the Fish-King was able to procure the key, which was cut from a single
diamond. None of the fishes had seen it, but at last the oldest fish,
who had not appeared when his name was pronounced, came forward and
produced it from his mouth.
With a glad heart the successful N'Oun Doare returned to Paris, and as
the Princess had now no more excuses to make the day of the wedding
was fixed and the ceremony was celebrated with much splendour. To the
astonishment of all, when the King and his betrothed entered the
church N'Oun Doare followed behind with his mare. At the conclusion of
the ceremony the mare's skin suddenly fell to the ground, disclosing a
maiden of the most wonderful beauty.
Smiling upon the bewildered N'Oun Doare, the damsel gave him her hand
and said: "Come with me to Tartary, for the king of that land is my
father, and there we shall be wed amid great rejoicing."
Leaving the amazed King and wedding guests, the pair quitted the
church together. More might have been told of them, but Tartary is a
far land and no news of them has of late years reached Brittany.
_The Princess of Tronkolaine_
There was once an old charcoal-burner who had twenty-six grandchildren.
For twenty-five of them he had no great difficulty in procuring
godparents, but for the twenty-sixth--that, alas! was a different
story. Godmothers, indeed, were to be found in plenty, but he could
not find anyone to act as godfather.
As he wandered disconsolately along the high road, dwelling on his bad
luck, he saw a fine carriage coming toward him, its occupant no less a
personage than the King himself. The old man made an obeisance so low
that the King was amused, and threw him a handful of silver.
"My good man," he said, "here are alms for you."
"Your Majesty," replied the charcoal-burner, "I do not desire alms. I
am unhappy because I cannot find a godfather for my twenty-sixth
grandchild."
The King considered the matter.
"I myself will be godfather to the child," he said at length. "Tell me
when it is to be baptized and I will meet you at the church."
The old man was delighted beyond measure, and in due time he and his
relatives brought the child to be baptized. When they reached the
church, sure enough, there was the King waiting to take part in the
ceremony, and in his honour the child was named Charles. Before taking
leave the King gave to the charcoal-burner the half of a coin which he
had broken in two. This Charles on reaching his eighteenth birthday
was to convey to the Court at Paris, as a token whereby his godfather
should know him. His Majesty also left a thousand crowns, which were
to be utilized in the education and general upbringing of the child.
Time passed and Charles attained his eighteenth birthday. Taking the
King's token, he set out for the royal abode. As he went he
encountered an old man, who warned him on no account to drink from a
certain well which he would pass on his way. The lad promised to
regard the warning, but ere he reached the well he had forgotten it.
A man sat by the side of the well.
"You are hot and tired," he said, feigning courtesy, "will you not
stop to drink?"
The water was cool and inviting. Charles bent his head and drank
thirstily. And while he drank the stranger robbed him of his token;
but this he did not know till afterward.
Gaily Charles resumed his way, while the thief went to Paris by a
quicker route and got there before him.
Boldly the thief demanded audience of the King, and produced the token
so wickedly come by. The sovereign ordered the other half of the coin
to be brought out, and lo! they fitted exactly. And because the thief
had a plausible face the good King did not doubt that he was indeed
his godson. He therefore had him treated with all honour and respect,
and bestowed gifts upon him lavishly.
Meanwhile Charles had arrived in Paris, and, finding that he had been
deprived of his only means of proving his identity to the King, he
accepted the situation philosophically and set about earning his
living. He succeeded in obtaining a post as herdsman on the royal
estates.
One day the robber was greatly disconcerted to find the real Charles
at the very gates of the palace. He determined to be rid of him once
for all, so he straightway approached the King.
"Your Majesty, there is a man among your retainers who has said that
he will demand of the sun why it is so red at sunrise."
"He is indeed a foolish fellow," said the King. "Our decree is that he
shall carry out his rash boast to-morrow ere sunset, or, if it be but
idle folly, lose his head on the following morning."
The thief was delighted with the success of his plot. Poor Charles was
summoned before the King and bidden to ask the sun why he was so red
at sunrise. In vain he denied having uttered the speech. Had not the
King the word of his godson?
Next morning Charles set out on his journey. Ere he had gone very far
he met an old man who asked him his errand, and afterward gave him a
wooden horse on which to ride to the sun. Charles thought this but a
sorry joke. However, no sooner had he mounted his wooden steed than it
rose into the air and flew with him to where the sun's castle towered
on the peak of a lofty mountain.
To the sun, a resplendent warrior, Charles addressed his query.
"In the morning," said the sun, "I pass the castle of the Princess of
Tronkolaine, and she is so lovely that I must needs look my best."
Charles, mounted on his wooden horse, flew with this answer to Paris.
The King was satisfied, but the thief gnashed his teeth in secret
rage, and plotted yet further against the youth.
"Your Majesty," he said, "this herdsman who tends your herds has said
that he will lead hither the Princess of Tronkolaine to be your
bride."
"If he has said so," replied the King, "he shall lead her hither or
forfeit his life."
"Alas!" thought Charles, when he learned of the plot, "I must bid
farewell to my life--there is no hope for me!"
All the same he set out boldly enough, and by and by encountered the
old man who had helped him on his previous mission. To him Charles
confided his troubles, begging for advice and assistance.
The old man pondered.
"Return to the Court," he said, "and ask the King to give you three
ships, one laden with oatmeal, another with bacon, and the third with
salt meat. Then sail on till you come to an island covered with ants.
To their monarch, the Ant-King, make a present of the cargo of
oatmeal. He will direct you to a second island, whereon dwell fierce
lions. Fear them not. Present your cargo of bacon to their King and he
will become your friend. Yet a third island you will touch, inhabited
only by sparrow-hawks. Give to their King your cargo of salt meat and
he will show you the abode of the Princess."
Charles thanked the sage for his advice, which he promptly proceeded
to follow. The King granted him the three ships, and he sailed away
in search of the Princess.
When he came to the first island, which was swarming with ants, he
gave up his cargo of grain, and so won the friendship of the little
creatures. At the second island he unloaded the bacon, which he
presented to the King of the Lions; while at the third he gave up the
salt beef to the King of the Sparrow-hawks, who directed him how to
come at the object of his quest. Each monarch bade Charles summon him
instantly if he had need of assistance.
Setting sail from the island of the sparrow-hawks, the youth arrived
at length at the abode of the Princess.
She was seated under an orange-tree, and as Charles gazed upon her he
thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, as indeed she was.
The Princess, looking up, beheld a comely youth, beneath whose ardent
gaze her eyes fell. Smiling graciously, she invited him into her
castle, and he, nothing loath, followed her into the great hall, where
tempting viands were spread before him.
When he had supped he made known his errand to the Princess, and
begged her to accompany him to Paris. She agreed only on condition
that he would perform three tasks set him, and when Charles was
curious to know what was required of him she led him into another room
where was a large heap of every kind of seed--corn, barley, clover,
flax--all mixed up anyhow.
"This is the first task," said the Princess: "you must put each kind
of seed into a different heap, so that no single seed shall be out of
its place. This you must accomplish ere to-morrow at sunrise." With
that she left the room.
Charles was in despair, until he bethought him of his friend the King
of the Ants, whom he begged to help him. Scarcely had he uttered the
words when ants began to fill the room, coming from he knew not where.
In less time than it takes to tell they had arranged the seeds into
separate heaps, so that no single seed was out of its place.
When the Princess arrived in the morning she was astonished to find
the hero fast asleep and the work accomplished. All day she
entertained him hospitably in her castle, and at nightfall she showed
him the second task. An avenue of great oaks led down from the castle.
Giving him a wooden axe and a wooden saw, the Princess bade him cut
down all the trees ere morning.
When she had left him Charles called upon the King of the Lions.
Instantly a number of lions bounded upon the scene, and with teeth and
claws soon performed the task.
In the morning the Princess, finding Charles asleep and all the trees
cut down, was more astonished than ever.
The third task was the most difficult of all. A high mountain had to
be levelled to the plain in a single night. Without the help of the
sparrow-hawks, Charles would certainly have failed, but these faithful
creatures worked with a will, and soon had the great mountain carried
away piece by piece and dropped into the sea.
When the Princess came for the third time and found the hero asleep by
the finished task she fell in love with him straightway, and kissed
him softly on the brow.
There was now nothing further to hinder his return, and he begged the
Princess to accompany him to Paris. In due time they arrived in that
city, to be welcomed with great warmth by the people. The beauty of
the lady won all hearts. But great was the general astonishment when
she declared that she would marry, not the King, but the youth who had
brought her to Paris! Charles thereupon declared himself the true
godson of the King, and the monarch, far from being angry, gave the
couple his blessing and great estates; and when in course of time he
died they reigned in his stead.
As for the thief, he was ordered to execution forthwith, and was
roasted to death in a large oven.
_The Princess Starbright_
This is another tale which introduces the search for the sun-princess
in a peculiar setting.
In the long ago there lived near the Lake of Léguer a jolly miller who
found recreation after his work in shooting the wild swans and ducks
which frequented that stretch of water. One December day, when it was
freezing hard and the earth was covered with snow, he observed a
solitary duck near the edge of the lake. He shot at it, and went
forward to pick it up, when he saw to his amazement that it had
changed into a beautiful princess. He was ready to drop into the snow
with fright, but the lady came graciously forward to him, saying:
"Fear not, my brave fellow, for know that I have been enchanted these
many years under the form of a wild duck, because of the enmity of
three malicious demons. You can restore me permanently to my human
shape if you choose to show only a little perseverance and courage."
"Why, what do you desire me to do, madam?" stammered the miller,
abashed by the lady's beauty and condescension.
"What only a brave man could accomplish, my friend," she replied; "all
that you have to do is to pass three consecutive nights in the old
manor which you can see over there."
The miller shuddered, for he had heard the most terrible stories in
connexion with the ruined manor, which had an evil name in the
district.
"Alas! madam," he said, "whom might I not encounter there! Even the
devil himself----"
"My good friend," said the Princess, sadly, "if you do as I ask you
will have to encounter not one but a dozen devils, who will torment
you in every possible way. But fear nothing, for I can provide you
with a magic ointment which will preserve you entirely from all the
injuries they would attempt to inflict upon you. Even if you were dead
I could resuscitate you. I assure you that if you will do as I ask you
will never regret it. Beneath the hearthstone in the hall of the manor
are three casks of gold and three of silver, and all these will belong
to you and to me if you assist me; so put your courage to the proof, I
pray you."
The miller squared his shoulders. "Lady," he said, "I will obey you,
even if I have to face a hundred devils instead of twelve."
The Princess smiled encouragingly and disappeared. On the following
night the miller set out for the old manor, carrying a bundle of
faggots to make a fire, and some cider and tobacco to refresh him
during his vigil. When he arrived in the dismal old place he sat
himself down by the hearth, where he had built a good fire, and lit
his pipe. But he had scarcely done so when he heard a most tremendous
commotion in the chimney. Somewhat scared, he hid himself under an old
bed which stood opposite the hearth, and, gazing anxiously from his
place of concealment, beheld eleven grisly fiends descend from the
flue. They seemed astonished to find a fire on the hearth, and did not
appear to be in the best of tempers.
"Where is Boiteux?" cried one. "Oh," growled another, who appeared to
be the chief of the band, "he is always late."
"Ah, behold him," said a third, as Boiteux arrived by the same road as
his companions.
"Well, comrades," cried Boiteux, "have you heard the news?" The others
shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads sulkily.
"Well," said Boiteux, "I am convinced that the miller of Léguer is
here, and that he is trying to free the Princess from the enchantment
which we have placed upon her."
A hurried search at once took place, the demons scrambling from one
part of the room to the other, tearing down the curtains and making
every effort to discover the hiding-place of the intruder. At last
Boiteux, peering under the bed, saw the miller crouching there, and
cried out: "Here is the rogue beneath the bed."
The unlucky miller was then seized by the foot and dragged into the
shrieking and leaping circle. With a gesture of command the chief
demon subdued the antics of his followers.
"So, my jolly miller," said he, "our friend the Princess has found a
champion in you, has she? Well, we are going to have some sport with
you, which I fear will not be quite to your taste, but I can assure
you that you will not again have the opportunity of assisting a
princess in distress."
With this he seized the miller and thrust him from him with great
force. As he flew like a stone from a sling, another of the fiends
seized him, and the unhappy man was thrown violently about from one to
the other. At last they threw him out of the window into the
courtyard, and as he did not move they thought that he was dead. But
in the midst of their laughter and rejoicing at the easy manner in
which they had got rid of him, cockcrow sounded, and the diabolic
company swiftly disappeared. They had scarcely taken their departure
when the Princess arrived. She tenderly anointed the miller's hurts
from the little pot of magic ointment she had brought with her, and,
nothing daunted, now that he was thoroughly revived, the bold fellow
announced his intention of seeing the matter through and remaining in
the manor for the two following nights.
He had scarcely ensconced himself in his seat by the chimney-side on
the second night when the twelve fiends came tumbling down the chimney
as before. At one end of the room was a large heap of wood, behind
which the miller quickly took refuge.
"I smell the smell of a Christian!" cried Boiteux. A search followed,
and once more the adventurous miller was dragged forth.
"Oho!" cried the leader, "so you are not dead after all! Well, I can
assure you that we shall not botch our work on this occasion."
One of the grisly company placed a large cauldron of oil upon the
fire, and when this was boiling they seized their victim and thrust
him into it. The most dreadful agony seized the miller as the liquid
seethed around his body, and he was just about to faint under the
intensity of the torture when once again the cock crew and the
fiendish band took themselves off. The Princess quickly appeared, and,
drawing the miller from the cauldron, smeared him from head to foot
with the ointment.
On the third night the devils once more found the miller in the
apartment. In dismay Boiteux suggested that he should be roasted on a
spit and eaten, but unluckily for them they took a long time to come
to this conclusion, and when they were about to impale their victim on
the spit, the cock crew and they were forced to withdraw, howling in
baffled rage. The Princess arrived as before, and was delighted to see
that this time her champion did not require any assistance.
"All is well now," she said. "You have freed me from my enchantment
and the treasure is ours."
They raised the hearthstone from its place, and, as she had said, the
three casks of gold and the three casks of silver were found resting
beneath it.
"Take what you wish for yourself," said the Princess. "As for me, I
cannot stay here; I must at once make a journey which will last a year
and a day, after which we shall never part again."
With these words she disappeared. The miller was grieved at her
departure, but, consoling himself with the treasure, made over his
mill to his apprentice and, apprising one of his companions of his
good luck, resolved to go upon a journey with him, until such time as
the Princess should return. He visited the neighbouring countries,
and, with plenty of money at his disposal, found existence very
pleasant indeed. After some eight months of this kind of life, he and
his friend resolved to return to Brittany, and set out on their
journey. One day they encountered on the road an old woman selling
apples. She asked them to buy, but the miller was advised by his
friend not to pay any heed to her. Ignoring the well-meant advice, the
miller laughed and bought three apples. He had scarcely eaten one when
he became unwell. Recalling how the fruit had disagreed with him, he
did not touch the other apples until the day on which the Princess had
declared she would return. When on the way to the manor to meet her,
he ate the second apple. He began to feel sleepy, and, lying down at
the foot of a tree, fell into a deep slumber.
Soon after the Princess arrived in a beautiful star-coloured chariot
drawn by ten horses. When she saw the miller lying sleeping she
inquired of his friend what had chanced to him. The man acquainted her
with the adventure of the apples, and the Princess told him that the
old woman from whom he had purchased them was a sorceress.
"Alas!" she said, "I am unable to take him with me in this condition,
but I will come to this place to-morrow and again on the following
day, and if he be awake I will transport him hence in my chariot. Here
are a golden pear and a handkerchief; give him these and tell him that
I will come again."
She disappeared in her star-coloured equipage. Shortly afterward the
miller wakened, and his friend told him what had occurred and gave him
the pear and the kerchief. The next day the friends once more repaired
to the spot where the Princess had vanished, but in thoughtlessness
the miller had eaten of the third apple, and once more the Princess
found him asleep. In sorrow she promised to return next day for the
last time, once more leaving a golden pear and a handkerchief with his
friend, to whom she said:
"If he is not awake when I come to-morrow he will have to cross three
powers and three seas in order to find me."
Unluckily, however, the miller was still asleep when the Princess
appeared on the following day. She repeated what she had said to his
friend concerning the ordeal that the unfortunate miller would have to
face before he might see her again, and ere she took her departure
left a third pear and a third handkerchief behind her. When the miller
awoke and found that she had gone he went nearly crazy with grief, but
nevertheless he declared his unalterable intention of regaining the
Princess, even if he should have to travel to the ends of the earth in
search of her. Accordingly he set out to find her abode. He walked and
walked innumerable miles, until at last he came to a great forest. As
he arrived at its gloomy borders night fell, and he considered it
safest to climb a tree, from which, to his great satisfaction, he
beheld a light shining in the distance. Descending, he walked in the
direction of the light, and found a tiny hut made of the branches of
trees, in which sat a little old man with a long white beard.
"Good evening, grandfather," said the miller.
"Good evening, my child," replied the old man. "I behold you with
pleasure, for it is eighty years since I have seen any human being."
The miller entered the hut and sat down beside the old man, and after
some conversation told him the object of his journey.
"I will help you, my son," said the ancient. "Do you see these
enchanted gaiters? Well, I wore them at your age. When you buckle them
over your legs you will be able to travel seven leagues at a single
step, and you will arrive without any difficulty at the castle of the
Princess you desire so much to see again."
The miller passed the night in the hut with the old hermit, and on the
following morning, with the rising of the sun, buckled on the magic
gaiters and stepped out briskly. All went well to begin with, nothing
arrested his progress, and he sped over rivers, forests, and
mountains. As the sun was setting he came to the borders of a second
forest, where he observed a second hut, precisely similar to that in
which he had passed the previous night. Going toward it, he found it
occupied by an aged woman, of whom he demanded supper and lodging.
"Alas! my son," said the old woman, "you do ill to come here, for I
have three sons, terrible fellows, who will be here presently, and I
am certain that if you remain they will devour you."
The miller asked the names of the sons, and was informed by the old
woman that they were January, February, and March. From this he
concluded that the crone he was addressing was none other than the
mother of the winds, and on asking her if this was so she admitted
that he had judged correctly. While they were talking there was a
terrible commotion in the chimney, from which descended an enormous
giant with white hair and beard, breathing out clouds of frost.
"Aha!" he cried, "I see, mother, that you have not neglected to
provide for my supper!"
"Softly, softly, good son," said the old dame; "this is little Yves,
my nephew and your cousin; you must not eat him." The giant, who
seemed greatly annoyed, retired into a corner, growling. Shortly
afterward his brothers, February and March, arrived, and were told the
same tale regarding the miller's relationship to them.
Our hero, resolved to profit by the acquaintanceship, asked the
gigantic February if he would carry him to the palace of the Princess,
whom he described.
"Ah," said February, "without doubt you speak of the Princess
Starbright. If you wish I will give you a lift on my back part of the
way."
The miller gratefully accepted the offer, and in the morning mounted
on the back of the mighty wind-giant, who carried him over a great
sea. Then, after traversing much land and a second ocean, and while
crossing a third spacious water, February expressed himself as quite
fatigued and said that he could not carry his new cousin any farther.
The miller glanced beneath him at the great waste of waters and begged
him to make an effort to reach the land on the other side. Giving vent
to a deep-throated grumble, February obeyed, and at last set him down
outside the walls of the town where the castle of the Princess
Starbright was situated. The miller entered the town and came to an
inn, and, having dined, entered into conversation with the hostess,
asking her the news of the place.
"Why," said the woman, amazed, "where do you come from that you don't
know that the Princess Starbright is to be married to-day, and to a
husband that she does not love? The wedding procession will pass the
door in a few moments on its way to the church."
The miller was greatly downcast at these words, but plucking up
courage he placed on a little table before the inn the first of the
pears and handkerchiefs that the Princess had left with his friend.
Shortly afterward the wedding procession passed, and the Princess
immediately remarked the pear and the kerchief, and also recognized
the miller standing close by. She halted, and, feigning illness,
begged that the ceremony might be postponed until the morrow. Having
returned to the palace, she sent one of her women to purchase the
fruit and the handkerchief, and these the miller gave the maiden
without question. On the following day the same thing happened, and on
the third occasion of the Princess's passing the same series of events
occurred. This time the Princess sent for the miller, and the pair
embraced tenderly and wept with joy at having recovered each other.
Now the Princess was as clever as she was beautiful, and she had a
stratagem by which she hoped to marry the miller without undue
opposition on the part of her friends. So she procured the marriage
garments of the prince, her _fiancé_, and attiring the miller in them,
took him to the marriage feast, which had been prepared for the fourth
time at a late hour; but she hid her lover in a secluded corner from
the public gaze. After a while she pretended to be looking for
something, and upon being asked what she had lost, replied:
"I have a beautiful coffer, but, alas! I have lost the key of it. I
have found a new key, but it does not fit the casket; should I not
search until I have recovered the old one?"
"Without doubt!" cried every one. Then the Princess, going to the
place where the miller was concealed, led him forth by the hand.
"My lords and gentles," she said, "the coffer I spoke of is my heart;
here is the one key that can fit it, the key that I had lost and have
found again."
The Princess and the miller were married amid universal rejoicings;
and some time after the ceremony they did not fail to revisit the Lake
of Léguer, the scene of their first meeting, the legend of which still
clings like the mists of evening to its shores.
This quaint and curious tale, in which the native folk-lore and French
elements are so strangely mingled, deals, like its predecessor, with
the theme of the search for the fairy princess. We turn now to another
tale of quest with somewhat similar incidents, where the solar nature
of one of the characters is perhaps more obvious--the quest for the
mortal maiden who has been carried off by the sun-hero. We refrain in
this place from indicating the mythological basis which underlies such
a tale as this, as such a phenomenon is already amply illustrated in
other works in this series.
_The Castle of the Sun_
There once lived a peasant who had seven children, six of them boys
and the seventh a girl. They were very poor and all had to work hard
for a living, but the drudges of the family were the youngest son,
Yvon, and his sister, Yvonne. Because they were gentler and more
delicate than the others, they were looked upon as poor, witless
creatures, and all the hardest work was given them to do. But the
children comforted each other, and became but the better favoured as
they grew up.
One day when Yvonne was taking the cattle to pasture she encountered a
handsome youth, so splendidly garbed that her simple heart was filled
with awe and admiration. To her astonishment he addressed her and
courteously begged her hand in marriage. "To-morrow," he said, "I
shall meet you here at this hour, and you shall give me an answer."
Troubled, yet secretly happy, Yvonne made her way home, and told her
parents all that had chanced. At first they laughed her to scorn, and
refused to believe her story of the handsome prince, but when at
length they were convinced they told her she was free to marry whom
she would.
On the following day Yvonne betook herself to the trysting-place,
where her lover awaited her, even more gloriously resplendent than on
the occasion of his first coming. The very trappings of his horse were
of gleaming gold. At Yvonne's request he accompanied her to her home,
and made arrangements with her kindred for the marriage. To all
inquiries regarding his name and place of abode he returned that these
should be made known on the wedding morning.
Time passed, and on the day appointed the glittering stranger came to
claim his wife. The ceremony over, he swept her into a carriage and
was about to drive away, when her brothers reminded him of his promise
to reveal his identity.
"Where must we go to visit our sister?" they asked.
"Eastward," he replied, "to a palace built of crystal, beyond the Sea
of Darkness."
And with that the pair were gone.
A year elapsed, and the brothers neither saw nor heard anything of
their sister, so that at length they decided to go in search of her.
Yvon would have accompanied them, but they bade him stay at home.
"You are so stupid," they said, "you would be of no use to us."
Eastward they rode, and ever eastward, till at length they found
themselves in the heart of a great forest. Then night came on and they
lost the path. Twice a great noise, like the riot of a tempest, swept
over their heads, leaving t
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