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The château of La Garaye, near Dinan, is rendered famous by the virtues and boundless charity of its Count, Claude Toussaint Marot de La Garaye, and his wife. Their interesting story is told in the charming poem of Mrs Norton,The Lady of La Garaye:
Listen to the tale I tell,Grave the story is—not sad;And the peasant plodding byGreets the place with kindly eye,For the inmates that it had.
Listen to the tale I tell,Grave the story is—not sad;And the peasant plodding byGreets the place with kindly eye,For the inmates that it had.
Listen to the tale I tell,
Grave the story is—not sad;
And the peasant plodding by
Greets the place with kindly eye,
For the inmates that it had.
Count Claude de La Garaye and his wife were young, beautiful, and endowed with friends, riches, and all that could make life bright and happy. They entertained generously and enjoyed the pleasures and amusements of the world. But one day misfortune overtook them, for the Countess was thrown from her horse, and she was left a cripple for life, while all expectations of an heir vanished. Both were inconsolable at their disappointment. One day a monk came to visit them, and tried to comfort them, seeking by his conversation to turn their thoughts from earthly afflictions to heavenly consolation.
“Ah, my father,” said the lady, “how happy are you, to love nothing on earth!”
“You are mistaken,” answered the monk; “I love all those who are in sorrow or suffering. But I submit myself to the will of the Almighty, and bend myself with resignation to every blow He strikes.”
He proceeded to show them that there was still a great deal of happiness in store for them in ministering to the needs of others. Following his counsel, they went to195Paris, where for three years the Count studied medicine and surgery, and his wife became a skilful oculist. On their return to La Garaye they gave up all the amusements of society and devoted themselves to relieving the sufferings of their fellow-creatures. Their house was converted into a hospital for the sick and afflicted, under the ministering care of the Count and his benevolent wife:
Her home is made their home; her wealth their dole;Her busy courtyard hears no more the rollOf gilded vehicles, or pawing steeds,But feeble steps of those whose bitter needsAre their sole passport. Through that gateway pressAll varying forms of sickness and distress,And many a poor, worn face that hath not smiledFor years, and many a feeble crippled child,Blesses the tall white portal where they stand,And the dear Lady of the liberal hand.
Her home is made their home; her wealth their dole;Her busy courtyard hears no more the rollOf gilded vehicles, or pawing steeds,But feeble steps of those whose bitter needsAre their sole passport. Through that gateway pressAll varying forms of sickness and distress,And many a poor, worn face that hath not smiledFor years, and many a feeble crippled child,Blesses the tall white portal where they stand,And the dear Lady of the liberal hand.
Her home is made their home; her wealth their dole;
Her busy courtyard hears no more the roll
Of gilded vehicles, or pawing steeds,
But feeble steps of those whose bitter needs
Are their sole passport. Through that gateway press
All varying forms of sickness and distress,
And many a poor, worn face that hath not smiled
For years, and many a feeble crippled child,
Blesses the tall white portal where they stand,
And the dear Lady of the liberal hand.
Nor was their philanthropy confined to their own province. In 1729 they offered themselves to M. de Belsunce—“Marseilles’ good bishop”—to assist him during the visitation of the plague. The fame of their virtues reached even the French Court, and Louis XV sent Count de La Garaye the Order of St Lazarus, with a donation of 50,000 livres and a promise of 25,000 more. They both died at an advanced age, within two years of each other, and were buried among their poor at Taden. Their marble mausoleum in the church was destroyed during the French Revolution. The Count left a large sum to be distributed among the prisoners, principally English, pent up in the crowded gaols of Rennes and Dinan. He had attended the English prisoners at Dinan during a contagious fever called the196‘peste blanche,’ and in acknowledgment of his humanity Queen Caroline sent him two dogs with silver collars round their necks, and an English nobleman made him a present of six more.
The ruined château is approached by an ivy-covered gateway, through an avenue of beeches. As Mrs Norton renders it:
And like a mourner’s mantle, with sad grace,Waves the dark ivy, hiding half the doorAnd threshold, where the weary traveller’s footShall never find a courteous welcome more.
And like a mourner’s mantle, with sad grace,Waves the dark ivy, hiding half the doorAnd threshold, where the weary traveller’s footShall never find a courteous welcome more.
And like a mourner’s mantle, with sad grace,
Waves the dark ivy, hiding half the door
And threshold, where the weary traveller’s foot
Shall never find a courteous welcome more.
The ruin is fast falling to pieces. The principal part remaining is an octagonal turret of three stories, with elegant Renaissance decoration round the windows.
An interesting and picturesque ballad sung in the Black Mountains is that ofThe Falcon. Geoffrey, first Duke of Brittany, was departing for Rome in the year 1008, leaving the government of the country in the hands of his wife Ethwije, sister of Richard of Normandy. As he was about to set out on his pilgrimage the falcon which he carried on his wrist after the manner of the nobles of the period, swooped down on and killed the hen of a poor peasant woman. The woman in a rage seized a large stone and cast it at the bird with such violence that it slew not only the falcon but the Duke himself. The death of the Duke was followed by a most desperate insurrection among the people. History does not enlighten us as to the cause of this rising, but tradition attributes it to the invasion of Brittany by the Normans (whom the widow of Geoffrey at once brought into the country on the demise of her husband) and the197exactions which were wrung from the peasants by these haughty aliens.
A PEASANT INSURRECTION
A PEASANT INSURRECTION
The ballad, which was used as a war-song by the Bretons at a later day, begins in true ballad style: “The falcon has strangled the fowl, the peasant woman has slain the Count who oppressed the people, the poor people, like a brute-beast.”
The hate of the stranger so characteristic of the old Bretons then flashes forth. “The country has been polluted by the foreigner, by the men of the Gallic land, and because of the death of a hen and a falcon Brittany is on fire, blood flows, and there is great dole among the people.”
On the summit of the Black Mountain thirty stout peasants had gathered to celebrate the ancient feast of the good St John. Among them was Kado the Striver, who stood there gravely leaning on his iron pitchfork. For a while he looked upon his comrades; then he opened his lips:
“What say you, fellow-peasants? Do you intend to pay this tax? As for me, I shall certainly not pay it. I had much rather be hanged. Nevermore shall I pay this unjust tax. My sons go naked because of it, my flocks grow less and less. No more shall I pay. I swear it by the red brands of this fire, by Saint Kado my patron, and by Saint John.”
“My fortunes are broken, I am completely ruined,” growled one of his companions. “Before the year is out I shall be compelled to beg my bread.”
Then all rose at once as if by a common impulse.
“None of us will pay this tax! We swear it by the Sun and by the Moon, and by the great sea which encircles this land of Brittany!”
198
Kado, stepping out from the circle, seized a firebrand, and holding it aloft cried: “Let us march, comrades, and strike a blow for freedom!”
The enthusiasm of his companions burst out afresh. Falling into loose ranks they followed him. His wife marched by his side in the first rank, carrying a reaping-hook on her shoulder and singing as she marched.
“Quickly, quickly, my children! We go to strike a blow for liberty! Have I brought thirty sons into the world to beg their bread, to carry firewood or to break stones, or bear burdens like beasts? Are they to till the green land and the grey land with bare feet while the rich feed their horses, their hunting-dogs, and their falcons better than they are fed? No! It is to slay the oppressors that I have borne so many sons!”
Quickly they descended the mountains, gathering numbers as they went. Now they were three thousand strong, five thousand strong, and when they arrived at Langoad nine thousand strong. When they came to Guérande they were thirty thousand strong. The houses of those who had ground them down were wrapped in flames, fiercely ends the old ballad, “and the bones of those who had oppressed them cracked, like those of the damned in Tartarus.”
History tells us nothing concerning Kado the Striver, but it is most unlikely that he is a mere figment of popular imagination. What history does record, however, is that the wicked Duchess and her host of mercenary Normans were forced to flee, and that her place was taken by a more just and righteous ruler.
199
Breton tradition speaks of a wild young nobleman, Louis-François de Guérande, Seigneur of Locmaria, who flourished in the early part of the seventeenth century. He was wealthy, and lived a life of reckless abandon; indeed, he was the terror of the parish and the despair of his pious mother, who, whenever he sallied forth upon adventure bent, rang the bell of the château, to give the alarm to the surrounding peasantry. The ballad which tells of the infamous deeds of this titled ruffian, and which was composed by one Tugdual Salaün, a peasant of Plouber,[46]opens upon a scene of touching domestic happiness. The Clerk of Garlon was on a visit to the family of his betrothed.
“Tell me, good mother,” he asked, “where is Annaïk? I am anxious that she should come with me to dance on the green.”
“She is upstairs asleep, my son. Take care,” added the old woman roguishly, “that you do not waken her.”
The Clerk of Garlon ran lightly up the staircase and knocked at Annaïk’s door.
“Come, Annaïk,” he cried; “why are you asleep when all the others go to dance upon the village green?”
“I do not wish to go to the dance, for I fear the Marquis of Guérande,” replied the girl.
The Clerk of Garlon laughed. “The Marquis of Guérande cannot harm you so long as I am with you,” he said lightly. “Come, Annaïk; were there a hundred such as he I should protect you from them.”
200
Reassured by her lover’s brave words, the girl rose and put on her dress of white delaine. They were a joyous and beautiful pair. The Clerk was gaily dressed, with a peacock’s feather in his hat and a chain on his breast, while his betrothed wore a velvet corsage embroidered with silver.
On that evening the Marquis of Guérande leaped on his great red steed and sallied forth from his château. Galloping along the road, he overtook the Clerk of Garlon and his betrothed on their way to the dance.
“Ha!” he cried, “you go to the dance, I see. It is customary to wrestle there, is it not?”
“It is, Seigneur,” replied the Clerk, doffing his hat.
“Then throw off your doublet and let us try a fall or two,” said Guérande, with a wicked look at Annaïk which was not lost upon her lover.
“Saving your grace, I may not wrestle with you,” said the Clerk, “for you are a gentleman and I am nobody. You are the son of a lord and I am the son of a peasant.”
“Ha! what! The son of a peasant, say you, and you take your choice of the pretty girls of the village?”
“Seigneur, pardon me. I did not choose this maiden; God gave her to me.”
During this parley Annaïk stood by, trembling violently. She had heard of the Marquis of Guérande, and was only too well aware of the evil and reckless character he bore. The Clerk tried to calm her fears by whispered words and pressures of the hand, but the wicked Marquis, observing the state of terror she was in, exulted in the alarm he was causing her.
“Well, fellow,” said he, “since you cannot wrestle with me perhaps you will try a bout of sword-play.”
201
At these words Annaïk’s rosy cheeks became deathly white; but the Clerk of Garlon spoke up like a man.
“My lord,” he said, “I do not wear a sword. The club is my only weapon. Should you use your sword against me it would but stain it.”
The wicked Marquis uttered a fiendish laugh. “If I stain my sword, by the Saints, I shall wash it in your blood,” he cried, and as he spoke he passed his rapier through the defenceless Clerk’s body.
At the sight of her slain lover the gentle heart of Annaïk broke, and a great madness came upon her. Like a tigress she leapt upon the Marquis and tore his sword from his hand. Without his rapier he was as a child in the grasp of the powerful Breton peasant woman. Exerting all her strength, in a frenzy of grief she dragged the wretch to the green where the dance was in progress, haling him round and round it until exhausted. At last she dropped his senseless body on the green turf and hastened homeward.
And once again we encounter the haunting refrain: “My good mother, if you love me make my bed, for I am sick unto death.”
“Why, daughter, you have danced too much; it is that which has made you sick.”
“I have not danced at all, mother; but the wicked Marquis has slain my poor Clerk. Say to the sexton who buries him: ‘Do not throw in much earth, for in a little while you will have to place my daughter beside him in this grave.’ Since we may not share the same marriage-bed we shall at least sleep in the same tomb, and if we have not been married in this world we shall at least be joined in heaven.”
The reader will be relieved to learn that the hero of202this ballad, the Clerk of Garlon, was not killed after all, and that for once fact is enabled to step in to correct the sadness of fiction; for, when one comes to think of it, there are few sadder things in the world than the genuine folk-ballad, which, although at the time it may arouse æsthetic emotions, may yet afterward give rise to haunting pain. We are glad to be able to chronicle, then, that the worthy Clerk did not die of his wound as stated by Tugdual Salaün of the parish of Plouber, author of the ballad, and that the wicked Marquis escaped the halter, which, according to Breton custom, he would not otherwise have done had the Clerk died. His good mother took upon herself the burden of an annual pension to the Clerk’s aged parents, and adopted the second child of Annaïk, who had duly married her sweetheart, and this little one she educated, furthering its interests in every possible manner. As for the Marquis, he actually settled down, and one cannot help feeling chagrined that such a promising rogue should have turned talents so eminently suitable for the manufacture of legendary material into more humdrum courses. Conscious of the gravity of his early misdemeanours, he founded a hospital for the poor of the parish, and each evening in one of the windows of this place the peasants could see a light which burned steadily far into the night. If any asked the reason for this illumination he was told: “It is the Marquis of Guérande, who lies awake praying God to pardon his youth.”
The châteaux of Brittany may truly be called the historical and legendary shrines of the province, for within their halls, keeps, and donjons Breton tradition203and history were made. It is doubtful, indeed, if the castellated mansions of any other country, save, perhaps, those of the Rhine, harbour so many legends, arising either from the actual historical happenings connected with them or from those more picturesque yet terrible associations which they are popularly supposed to have with the powers of evil. The general appearance of such a building as the Breton château admirably lends itself to sombre tradition. The massy walls seem thick enough to retain all secrets, and the cry for vengeance for blood spilt within them cannot pass to the outer world through the narrowmeurtrièresor arrow-slits of theavant-corps. The broad yet lofty towers which flank the front rise into atoitureorcoiffelike an enchanter’s conical cap. Thelucarnes, or attic casements, are guarded on either side by gargoyles grim of aspect, or perhaps by griffins holding the shield-borne arms of dead and gone seigneurs. Seek where you will, among the wizard-houses of old Prague, the witch-dens of ancient Edinburgh, the bat-haunted castles of Drachenfels or Rheinstein, you will come at nothing built of man more informed with the soul of the Middle Ages, more drenched with their peculiar savour of mystery, than these stark keeps whose crests andgirouettesrise above encircling woods or frown upon mirroring rivers over the length and breadth of the Breton land.
One of the most typical of the châteaux of Brittany is that of La Roche-Jagu, at one time the guardian of the mouth of the river Trieux. It is built on the top of a hill which overhangs the Trieux, and from one of its battlemented galleries a splendid view of the windings204of the river can be obtained. The wall on this side of the fortress is so thick as to allow of a chapel being hewn out of its solidity. A most distinctive architectural note is struck by the fourteen wonderful chimney-shafts of cut stone ornamented with iron spikes.
Some miles farther down the river, but on its opposite side, is the imposing castle of Tonquédec, perhaps the finest remnant of the medieval military architecture of Brittany. It has always remained in the family of the Viscounts of Coêtman, who ranked among the foremost of the Breton nobility, though one of them espoused the cause of the Constable Clisson against Duke John IV, and had the anguish of seeing his ancestral fortress razed to the ground. Under Henry IV, however, the castle was restored, only to be again demolished by order of Cardinal Richelieu, who strongly and forcibly disapproved of such powerful fortalices.
It had an outer enclosure, and had to be entered by a drawbridge, and it was strengthened in every way conceivable to the military art of the times. It was surrounded by dwellings for the convenience of the seigneur’s retainers, a finesalle d’armesstill remaining. To the keep, four stories high, a flying bridge led, in order to facilitate the withdrawal of the garrison in case of siege. Behind walls ten feet thick, so long as food and ammunition lasted, the inmates could hold the enemy in scorn.
The château of Clisson, once the property of the great Constable Oliver de Clisson, whom the Viscount of205Coêtman and the Bretons of Penthièvre had championed, is now only a grand old ruin, a touching monument of the architectural splendours of former days. By moonlight it makes a scene not easily forgotten, gaunt and still and ruggedly imposing, the silent reminder of events and people tales of whom will not readily die, the treasurer of secrets it will probably never yield. Its antithesis is the castle of Nantes, with the stamp of the Renaissance upon its delicately sculptured balconies and window-frames. It is now an arsenal, a fact which robs it of some of the romantic interest of Clisson, or, indeed, of ruins in general, yet within its walls are the prison chambers in which Gilles de Laval, the ambitious Finance Minister Fouquet, the Cardinal de Retz, and the Duchess of Berry once languished. For many years it served as one of the political prisons of France, though it is also associated with brighter and happier times; for here, on pleasure bent, lingered many of the Kings of France from Louis XI onward, and here in 1675 Madame de Sévigné sojourned, a circumstance which casts about it a literary as well as a romantic glamour. The great well in the courtyard, with its ornamental railing of wrought iron, is quite equal to the famous well of Quentin Matsys at Antwerp.
The castle of Josselin, also associated with the history of the great Constable Clisson and his allies, as well as with the notorious League whose followers wrought such intolerable misery in Brittany, is built on a rocky foundation near the river Oust. With its imposing front and conically roofed towers it is one of the best examples of a twelfth-century fortress-château. Very206different in tone is the architecture of the interior court, being that of the period when the lighter traceries and more imaginative lines of the Renaissance were in favour. The window-openings of the two first stories are beautiful enough to rival those of Chambord and equal those of Blois. Above the windows an open gallery runs, and in the space between each the device of the Rohans is carved, with their motto,A Plus, this celebrated family having built this part of the château. About the year 1400 Clisson added a keep, walls, and parapets, but in 1629, when the fortress was no longer a stronghold of the League, these were permitted to fall into ruin. Through the courtesy of the family now in residence this wonderfully preserved castle may be visited, a circumstance for which the tourist in Brittany should indeed be grateful. Interest within these massy walls clings around the well, with its ornamental railings, the noble and lofty hall, the library, with its magnificent chimney-piece, repeating again, in stone, the Rohan motto,A Plus, and the equestrian statue of Clisson, by Frémiet, in the dining-room.
Of the old château of Hennebont, where John of Montfort breathed his last after escaping from the Louvre of his day, only a heap of stones remains. The old fortress of Largoet is in much the same condition, nothing of the ancient structure having been conserved save the famous Tour d’Elven, considered to be the most beautiful castle keep in all Brittany, which has also a literary distinction as being the scene of some of the most touching episodes in OctaveFeuillet’sRoman d’un jeune Homme pauvre.
207
At Châteaubriant, which owes its name to the compounding of the word ‘château’ with that of ‘Briant,’ the family style of its original lord, the old feudal fortress is now a ruin, but the castle, built by Jean de Laval, Governor of Brittany under Francis I, is in good repair. An inscription giving the date of the completion of the new château as 1538 is above the portal of the colonnade. There is a gruesome legend associated with the old château, in which for some time dwelt the unfortunate Françoise de Foix, Countess of Châteaubriant and beloved of Francis I. Tiring or becoming suspicious of her royal lover, she decided to return to her husband, the old Count of Laval. The reunion, however, was not productive of happiness, owing to the fever of jealousy in which her elderly husband lived because of the love affair with the King. This jealousy eventually flared into mania when he heard that she had actually visited her former lover in prison after he had been captured at Pavia. Instantly he “shut his young wife up in a darkened and padded cell, and finally had her cut into pieces by two surgeons,” so the story goes. Terrified at what he had done and of the consequences which were sure to follow when the King heard of his savagery, the Count fled the country immediately afterward.
The château of Brodineuf (dating from the twelfth century) and that of Caradeuc are in good repair, but the latter is ancient only in parts. It shelters two Murillos within its walls. The picturesque château of Combourg was in early times a feudal fortress, and in it René Châteaubriand’s infancy was passed. This place208may be visited by interested sightseers, and there they may view the writing-table of the author ofLe Génie du Christianisme, and, in the bedroom he occupied at Combourg, the bed on which he died in Paris. The château of Vitré is also in a state of preservation, and is considered one of the best specimens of military architecture in the province. Comparatively near is the château of Rochers, once the home of Mme de Sévigné, and in consequence one of the famous sights of the country. The many letters she dated from this castle paint a vivid and detailed picture of social life in the seventeenth century, and fortunately the atmosphere of the time has been happily retained in the building itself.
Another twelfth-century structure is that of the château of Rustefan, near Quimperlé. It was built by Stephen, Count of Penthièvre, and belonged in the next century to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St Louis. The ruins now in existence are those of the château built in the fifteenth century, and its cylindrical tower, pinnacled doorway, and the stone mullions of the windows still remain fairly intact. The château of Kerjolet, in Concarneau, is one which has been saved from decay, restored as it was by Countess Chaveau-Narishkine and presented by her to the department. It contains a museum in which are specimens of all the costumes andcoiffesof Lower Brittany, and antiquities of prehistoric and medieval times, which all students of Breton and Celtic lore should see.
The château of Tourlaville is situated among very beautiful surroundings, and is built in the classic style209of the Renaissance, with an angular tower. On chimney-piece and fireplace throughout the castle there are numerous sentimental devices in which Cupids and flaming hearts and torches figure largely, with the occasional accompaniment of verses and mottoes of an equally amatory nature. These are all seventeenth-century examples and may be taken as expressions of the time. In a boudoir called the Blue Chamber, because of the colour of its draperies and decorations, many coats-of-arms are emblazoned; but all the greatness to which these testify has become a thing of the past, for the château has now been turned into a farmhouse.
The château of Dinan may also be classed among the palaces of the past, for now, despite the fact that it was built by the Dukes of Brittany, it has become a prison. From the tourist as well as the romantic point of view this is somewhat of a tragedy. The Tower of Coëtquen, one of the ancient towers of the city wall, is practically part of the castle, and the keep, or Queen Anne’s Tower, is the most distinctive feature remaining. This keep is of four stories, and is over a hundred feet high, the last story being reached by a spiral staircase. What was once the oratory of the Duchess Anne is now the guard-room. There are still several dungeons whose original gruesomeness has been left untouched, and whose use in bygone days can well be imagined.
The château of Suscino is one of the chief sights of the neighbourhood of Vannes, because it is the ruin of what was once a marvellous structure of the thirteenth century, and follows the finest Gothic traditions of the time. All210the roofing of the building has quite disappeared, but its battlemented towers and walls remain to give a good idea of the architectural perfection that must have belonged to it. At one time it fell into the hands of Charles of Blois, only to be retaken by his rival, Montfort, in 1364, and in 1373 it was occupied by an English garrison. Eventually it was bestowed upon John of Châlons, Prince of Orange, by Anne of Brittany, but in time Francis I relieved him of it in order to present it to Françoise de Foix, the celebrated Lady of Châteaubriant. The irregular pentagon formed by the château is possibly somewhat modified from the original plan of 1320, and of the seven towers which flanked its gates and walls in the beginning six have weathered the storms of the times through which they have passed. Its orchid-shaped machicolations have also survived, and even to-day they are noticeably beautiful. The new tower is a fine cylindrical keep, dating from the fourteenth century, and over the entrance this legend still remains:
Ici Est NéLe Duc Arthur IIIle 24 Août, 1393.
Ici Est NéLe Duc Arthur IIIle 24 Août, 1393.
Ici Est Né
Le Duc Arthur III
le 24 Août, 1393.
We have already dealt with many of the stories connected with the ancient castles of Brittany, and these will be found in nearly every chapter of this book, so varied are they. But no tale, however vivid, can hope to capture and retain all the wonder and mystery of these grand old strongholds, which must be seen in order to leave upon the imagination and memory the full impress of their weird and extraordinary fascination.
211CHAPTER VIII: HERO-TALES OF BRITTANY
Soonafter the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué published hisBarzaz-Breiz, a collection of popular ballads from the Breton, critics who possessed a knowledge of the language and were acquainted with its literature exposed the true nature of the work, acting, indeed, as did British critics when Macpherson published his fragments of Ossian. Villemarqué was, in fact, a Breton Macpherson. He would hear a Breton ballad sung or recited, and would then either enlarge upon it and torture it out of all resemblance to its original shape, or he would instigate a literary friend to do so. We must remember that such a proceeding was fashionable at the time, as no less a personage than Sir Walter Scott had led the way, and he had been preceded by Burns in the practice. But whereas Burns made no secret of what he did and greatly enhanced the poetical value of the songs and ballads he altered, Scott and his friends, Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Leyden, and others, indulged in what they described as the “mystification” of their acquaintances by these semi-forgeries. Like theirs, Villemarqué’s work had usually an historical or legendary basis, but it is impossible to say how much of it is original matter of folk-song and how much his own invention, unless we compare his versions with those furnished by M. Luzel in hisGuerziou Breiz-Izel(1868), which, however, only contains a few of the originals of the tales given in theBarzaz-Breiz, and those not the most interesting.
I have cast the following tales into narrative form from the ballads published in theBarzaz-Breiz, where they212obviously appear as traditional tales in a polished, modern dress.[47]They may be regarded, largely, as efforts of the modern imagination regarding the Breton past. In any case the author of a book on Breton romances would not be justified in omitting all mention of Villemarqué and refraining from affording the reader a specimen of his work, any more than he would be in founding solely upon the labours of the Vicomte.
Morvan, chief of Léon, so celebrated in the history of the ninth century as one of the upholders of Breton independence, and known to tradition as ‘the Prop of Brittany,’ is the subject of a remarkable series of ballads or hero-tales in theBarzaz-Breizwhich together constitute what is almost an epic. These tell of his life, death, adventures, travels, and the marvellous feats of derring-do he accomplished. In some measure he is to Breton legend what Arthur is to British or Holger to that of Denmark. That he is familiar to Breton tradition there can be no question, and whether Villemarqué himself wove the following adventures around him or not they are certainly typical of the age in which the hero flourished.
One day the child Morvan was sitting at the edge of the forest when a cavalier issued from its depths213armed at all points and riding a great charger. The boy, excited by his martial appearance, ran from him in terror, calling out that here indeed was St Michael; but the cavalier rode so swiftly that he soon came up with the lad, who devoutly threw himself on his knees and made the sign of the Cross, calling out:
“Seigneur Saint Michael, in the name of God I pray thee do me no harm!”
The knight laughed loudly. “Why, lad,” he said, “I am no more Saint Michael than I am a thief, but merely a belted knight, such as one may meet with by the score in this land of chivalry.”
“I have never seen a knight,” replied Morvan; “and what may that be which you carry?”
“That is called a lance, my boy.”
“And what are these that you wear on your head and breast?”
“The one is a casque and the other a breast-plate. They are intended to protect me from the stroke of sword and spear. But tell me, lad, have you seen any one pass this way?”
“Yes, Seigneur, a man went by this very road not half an hour agone.”
“Thank you, boy,” replied the knight. “If you are asked who spoke to you, say the Count of Quimper,” and with these words he spurred his horse and set off down the road in the direction which the little Morvan had indicated.
Morvan returned to his mother, who had been sitting some distance away, and began to tell her of his meeting. He was so full of the gallantry of the knight he had met, his grace and martial bearing, that the good dame214could not stem the torrent of words which flowed from him.
“Oh, mother,” he babbled on, “you never saw anyone so splendid as him whom I have seen to-day, a man more beautiful than the Lord Michael the Archangel, whose image is in our church.”
His mother smiled and patted him fondly on the cheek.
“Come, my son,” she said, “there is no man so beautiful as the Archangel Michael.”
But little Morvan shook his head.
“Saving your grace, there are, my mother,” he said gravely. “There are many men more splendid than Saint Michael, and they are called knights. How I wish that I might grow up and become a knight too!”
At these words the poor lady, who had lost her husband in battle and who dreaded that her only son might be taken from her, was seized with such dismay that she sank to the ground unconscious. The little Morvan, without turning his head, entered the stables and led out a fresh horse. Jumping lightly on the steed’s back, he turned its head in the direction in which the splendid cavalier had gone and rode hastily after him.
Ten years passed—years full of martial achievement and adventure for young Morvan. Then a desire to return to the ancestral mansion seized upon the youth, and he made his way homeward. But great was his dismay when he entered the courtyard of the manor and looked about him, for the blackberry bushes and the nettles were growing round the threshold of the house and the walls were half ruined and covered with ivy. As he was about to enter he observed a poor old blind woman standing in the entrance.
MORVAN RETURNS TO HIS RUINED HOME
MORVAN RETURNS TO HIS RUINED HOME
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“Pardon me, dame, but perhaps you can give me hospitality for the night,” he said.
“Alas! sir, we have but little,” she replied. “This house has been allowed to go to ruin since its son and heir quitted it.”
As she ceased speaking a young damsel descended the broken stone steps, and after regarding Morvan for a moment burst into tears.
“How now, maiden,” said Morvan, “wherefore do you weep?”
“Alas, Seigneur,” replied the maiden, “I have a brother who left us ten years ago to lead the life of a warrior, and every time that I see a youth about his age I feel myself compelled to weep.”
“Tell me, my child,” said Morvan, “have you no other brother?”
“None in the world, Sir Knight.”
“And your mother, what of her?”
“Alas! sir, she too is gone. There is no one but myself and my old nurse in the house. My poor mother died of grief when my brother rode off to become a knight.”
On hearing these words Morvan was deeply affected.
“Alas!” he cried, “wretch that I am, I have slain her who gave me birth!”
When he spoke thus the damsel turned deadly pale.
“In the name of heaven, sir, who are you?” she cried. “How are you named?”
“I am Morvan, son of Conan, and Lez-Breiz is my surname, my sister.”
The young girl stared for a moment, sighed, and then216fell into his arms; but soon she opened her eyes and praised God that she had found her long-lost brother.
But Lez-Breiz could not remain long at home. The tented field was his fireside, the battle his sport. Adventure followed adventure in his full and stirring life. One day he said to his young squire:
“Arouse you, my squire, and furnish my sword, my casque, and my shield, that I may redden them in the blood of the Franks, for with the help of God and this right arm I shall carry slaughter into their ranks this day.”
“Tell me, my lord,” asked the squire, “shall I not fight along with you to-day?”
Morvan smiled at the lad’s eagerness, perhaps because he remembered his own on the day he met the Count of Quimper, then a grave shadow crossed his face.
“Think of your mother, lad,” said he. “What if you never return to her? Think of her grief should you die this day.”
“Ah, Seigneur,” entreated the stripling, “if you love me, grant my prayer; let me fight along with you.”
When Morvan rode out to battle an hour later his squire rode beside him, knee to knee. Passing near the church of St Anne of Armor they entered.
“O Saint Anne, most holy dame,” prayed Morvan, “I am not yet twenty years old and I have been in twenty battles. All those I have gained by your aid, and if I return again to this land I shall make you a rich gift. I shall give you enough candles to go three times round the walls of your church, and thrice round your churchyard—aye,217thrice round your lands, when I come home again; and further I shall give you a banner of white satin with an ivory staff. Also shall I give you seven silver bells which will ring gaily night and day above your head. And three times on my knees will I draw water for your use.”
The enemy saw Morvan coming from afar. He was mounted on a small white ass with a halter of hemp, to signify his contempt for them. Lorgnez, his chief foe, came against him with a troop of warriors, while Morvan had only his little squire behind him. The foemen came on, ten by ten, until they reached the Wood of Chestnuts. For a moment the little squire was dismayed, but a word from his master rallied him, and, drawing his sword, he spurred forward. Soon they came front to front with Lorgnez and hailed him in knightly fashion.
“Ho! Seigneur Lorgnez, good day to you.”
“Good morrow, Seigneur Morvan. Will you engage in single combat?”
“No; I despise your offer. Go back to your King and tell him that I mock him; and as for yourself, I laugh at you and those with you. Return to Paris, stay among your women, take off your mail and put on the silken armour of fops.”
Lorgnez’s face flamed with anger.
“By heaven!” he cried, “the lowest varlet in my company shall hew your casque from your head for this!”
At these words Morvan drew his great sword.
The old hermit of the wood heard some one knocking on the door of his cell. He opened it quickly and saw the young squire standing before him. He started218back at the sight of the youth’s blood-stained armour and death-pale countenance.
“Ha, my son,” he cried, “you are sorely hurt. Come and wash your wounds at the fountain and repose for a little.”
“I may not rest here, good father,” replied the squire, shaking his head. “I have come to find water to take to my young master, who has fallen in the fight. Thirty warriors lie slain by his hand. Of these the Chevalier Lorgnez was the first.”
“Brave youth!” said the hermit. “Alas that he has fallen!”
“Do not grieve, father. It is true that he has fallen, but it is only from fatigue. He is unwounded and will soon recover himself.”
When he was recovered Morvan betook him to the chapel of St Anne and rendered the gifts he had promised her.
“Praise be to Saint Anne,” cried he, “for she it is who has gained this victory.”
One day the King of the Franks was sitting among his courtiers.
“Would that some one would rid me of this pestilent Morvan, who constantly afflicts the Frankish land and slays my doughtiest warriors,” he said, on hearing of a fresh exploit on the part of the Breton chief.
Then the King’s blackamoor, who heard these words, arose and stood before his master. He was tall and great of thew and sinew—a giant among men, towering head and shoulders even above the tall Frankish warriors.
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“Allow me to fulfil your wishes, sire,” he said. “Sir Morvan has sent me his glove, and if to-morrow I do not bring you his head I will willingly part with my own.”
On the next morning Morvan’s squire came to his master trembling violently.
“Seigneur,” he said, with ashy countenance, “the King’s Moor is here and bids you defiance.”
Morvan rose and took his sword.
“Alas! my dear master,” said the squire, “take heed what you do, I pray you, for I assure you that this Moor is nothing but a demon who practises the most horrible enchantments.”
Morvan laughed. “Well, we shall see whether this demon can withstand cold steel or not,” he said. “Go and saddle my black horse.”
“Saving your grace,” said the page, “if you will hearken to my words you will not fight on the black charger. He has been bewitched. Moreover, you will notice that when you enter the lists to fight the Moor he will cast his mantle to the ground. But do not follow his example, for should your mantle fall beneath his the strength of the black giant will be doubled. When the Moor advances to the attack make the sign of the Cross with the shaft of your lance, and when he rushes upon you in his battle-fury receive him with the steel. If you do this you may be sure that your lance will not break.”
The heroes met within the lists. The King of France and his nobles had followed the giant Moor in order to witness the combat, and when all had been seated the trumpets sounded and the two champions rushed together with the utmost fury. They circled round one220another like eagles seeking an opening to strike. Now one struck, then the other, and the blood flowed down their bright armour. The Frankish King in high excitement called out:
“Ho! black crow of the sea, pierce me now this merle.”
At these words the giant assailed Morvan most furiously, as a great tempest assails a ship. The lances crossed, but that of the Moor broke like matchwood. Both leaped to earth, sword in hand, and rushed at each other like lions. Many lusty strokes were given and taken, and from their armour flew sparks like those from a smith’s anvil. Then the Moor, grasping his sword with both hands, made ready to strike a mighty blow, when swift and trenchantly Morvan thrust his blade far into the arm-pit and the heart and the giant tumbled to the earth like a falling tree. Morvan placed his foot on the dead man’s breast, withdrew his sword, and cut off the Moor’s head. Then, attaching the bleeding trophy to the pommel of his saddle, he rode home with it and affixed it to the gate of his castle. All men praised him for his doughty deed, but he gave the grace of his victory entirely to St Anne, and declared that he would build a house of prayer in her honour on the heights between Léguer and the Guindy.
One day Morvan sallied forth to encounter the King of the Franks himself. The King brought no fewer than five thousand mounted men-at-arms. As this host was about to set out, a great clap of thunder resounded in the vault of heaven, and the King’s nobles perforce regarded it as a bad omen.