Chapter V: The Breton Tongue and Legend

The speech of Brittany, like its legend and folk-lore, has ever been a prolific subject with many writers of many opinions.

The comparison of the speech of the Welshman with that of the Breton has often been made, but by no one so successfully as by Henri Martin, the historian, who, in writing of his travels in Wales, told how he had chatted with the Celtic population there and made himself thoroughly understood through his knowledge of Breton speech.

In its earliest phases, the Breton tongue had a literature of its own, at least a spoken literature, coming from the mouths of its bards and popular poets. In our own day, too, Brittany has its own songs and verses, which, though many of them have not known the medium of printer’s ink, have come down from past generations.

The three ancient Armorican kingdoms or states, Domnonée, Cornouaille, and the Bro-Waroch, had their own distinct dialects.

There is and was a considerable variation in the speech throughout Brittany, though it is and was all Breton. The dialects of Vannes, Quimper, and Tréguier are the least known outside their own immediate neighbourhood; the Léonais of St. Pol de Léon is the regular and common tongue of all Bas Bretons.

The old-time limits of the Breton tongue are wavering to-day, and from time to time have drawn appreciably toward the west, so that the boundary-line, which once ran from the mouth of the Loire to Mont St. Michel, now starts at the mouth of the Vilaine, and finishes at a point on the northern coast, a little to the westward of St. Brieuc.

It was during the decadence of the Breton tongue--known to philologists as the third period--that the monk Abelard cried out: “The Breton tongue makes me blush with shame.”

The nearer one comes to Finistère, the less liable he is to meet the French tongue unadulterated. The numbers knowing the Breton tongue alone more than equal those who know French and Breton, leaving those who know French alone vastly in the minority. The figures seem astonishing to one who does not know the country, but they are unassailable, nevertheless.

Here in this department at least, and to a lesser degree in the Côtes du Nord and the Morbihan provinces, one is likely enough to hear lisped out, as if it were the effort of an Englishman: “_Je na sais pas ce que vous dîtes_,” or “_Je n’entend rien_.” No great hardship or inconvenience is inflicted upon one by all this, but now and again one wishes he were a Welshman, for the only foreigners who can understand the lingo are Taffy’s fellow country-men.

Breton legend is as weird and varied as that of any land. It is astonishingly convincing, too, from the story of King Grollo and his wicked daughter, who came from the Britain across the seas, the Bluebeard legend, the Arthurian legend, which Bretons claim as their own, as do Britons, to those less incredible tales of the Corsairs of St. Malo and the exploits of Duguesclin and Surcouf.

There is a quaint Breton saying referring to little worries, which runs thus: “When the wind blows up from the sea, I turn my barrel to the north; when it blows down from the hills, I turn my barrel to the south.” “And when it blows all four ways at once?” “Why, then I crawl under the barrel.”

This is exactly the Breton’s attitude toward life to-day, but he finds a deal of consolation in his legends and songs of the past, and in his ruffled moments they serve to put him in a good humour again. This is something more than mere superstition, it is a philosophical turn of mind, and that is good for a man. The heroes of legend are frequently those of history. One may cite Joan of Arc with relation to old France, and Duguesclin in Brittany. There is a difference, of course, and it is wide, but the comparison will serve, as there is no other character in all the history of Brittany--unless it be that of Duguay-Trouin, the Corsair of St. Malo--who stands out so distinctly in the popular mind as does Duguesclin, “the real Breton.”

There is none in his own country, however illiterate he may be, and the Breton peasant, in some parts, is notoriously illiterate, who knows not this hero’s name and glory. Still more deeply rooted are the old folk-lore superstitions which have come down through the ages by word of mouth, no doubt with the accruing additions of time.

Morlaix is the very centre of a land of mystery, tradition, and superstition. Among these superstitious legends, “Jan Gant y tan,” as it is known by its Breton title, stands out grimly.

Jan, it seems, is a species of demon who carries by night five candles on the five fingers of each hand, and waves them wildly about, calling down wrath upon those who may have offended him.

Another is to the effect that hobgoblins eat the cream which rises on milk at night.

Yet another superstition is that the call of the cuckoo announces the year of one’s marriage or death.

Another, and perhaps the most curious of all, is that, if an infant by any chance gets his clothes wet at certain pools or fountains, he will die within a year, but he will live long years if he fall in, yet is able to preserve his garments from all dampness.

When one drinks of the Fountain of De Krignac three times within the hour, says the peasant of Plougasnou, and is not cured of the fever, let him abandon all thoughts of a remedy and prepare for death.

There are two legends associated with Brittany which are little known. Both relate to Bluebeard. This legend is of Eastern origin, as far as concerns the story of the man who slew his wives by dragging them about by the hair, ultimately decapitating them; but the French Academy of Inscriptions and Polite Learning evolves a sort of modern parallel as another setting for the same apocryphal story. It concerns a certain Trophime, the daughter of a Duke of Vannes, in the sixth century. She was married to the Lord of Gonord, whose castle was situated on Mont Castanes, and was the eighth wife of her husband. He killed her because she discovered the bodies of her seven predecessors; but her sister Anne prayed to St. Gildas, who came with her two brothers to the rescue. St. Gildas restored Trophime to life, and the Bluebeard of Gonord and his castle were swallowed up by the earth.

The origin of the story has always been in doubt, but the generally accepted theory is that Perrault founded the tale on the history of Gilles de Laval, Seigneur de Rais.

The Academy, however, destroys all this early conjecture in favour of the Gilles de Laval affair. Since Gilles de Laval was a kinsman of the Dukes of Brittany, the following is given as his claim to having played the part, though, as the report of the Academy goes on to say, De Laval proved himself to be but a fanatical sorcerer.

Gilles de Laval was born in 1404, and was a member of the family of Laval-Montmorency. He was handsome, well born, rich, and a most valiant soldier, and one of the warmest supporters of Joan of Arc, whom he defended against all who spoke ill of her, constituting himself her personal champion. He fought valiantly with the “Maid,” and was made a marshal of France when twenty-six years of age. He was very wealthy, and he doubled his possessions when he married at the early age of sixteen. His extravagances, however, were greater than his riches. He had a refined taste, and loved illuminated manuscripts, stamped Spanish leather, Flemish tapestries, Oriental carpets, gold and silver plate, music, and mystery plays. After peace was made, he and his wife retired to their castles and lands in the Vendée, where Gilles soon found himself hopelessly in debt. He had to find money somehow, for he was of a fine, open-handed disposition, and had never denied himself anything. It was only natural in that century that he should turn his thoughts toward alchemy and the philosopher’s stone.

Francesco Prelati, an Italian with a reputation as a magician and a maker of gold, was installed, with all his alchemist’s apparatus, in Gilles’s castle; but when he was asked to make gold, he confided to his patron that it would be necessary to summon the aid of the devil, and that for this purpose the blood of young children was absolutely required. The two then scoured the country round for children, whom they murdered with horrible rites, until at last their crimes became so notorious that they were arrested and tried at Nantes. Gilles de Laval and his accomplice were accused of murdering no fewer than twelve hundred children, and were tried for sorcery and found guilty. The Lord of Laval was strangled, and his body was burned; but Francesco Prelati, as a mere vulgar sorcerer, was burned alive.

At Saint Cast in the Côtes du Nord, one hears vague and fabulous reports from the natives, even to-day, of a pirate ship--a veritable sister ship to those of Duguay-Trouin of St. Malo--named the _Perillon_ and commanded by one Besnard, known as the terror of the seas. Like other songs of seafarers of the days gone by, that concerning the terror of the seas is good enough to incorporate into the text of some rattling story of pirates and corsairs, such as boys--and some grown-ups--the world over like. Another popular Breton air was known as “Biron ha D’Estin” (“Byron and D’Estaing”), and had to do with the war in America. Another was the “Chant du Pilote,” and had for its subject the combat of the _Surveillante_ and the forts at Quebec in 1780.

Of the same period was the “Corsairs’ Song,” which is very well known throughout Upper Brittany even to-day, beginning thus:

“Le trente-un du mois d’août.”

Throughout Upper Brittany also one hears the old housewives still mumbling the old words and air of the song current in the times of Francis the First.

It was when the prince was treating for his release from captivity that the words first took shape and form:

“Quand le roi départit de France,
Vive le roi!
À la male heure il départit,
Vive Louis!
À la male heure il départit (bis).

* * *

Il départit jour de dimanche.

* * *

Je ne suis pas le roi de France.

* * *

Je suis un pauvre gentilhomme
Qui va de pays en pays.

* * *

Retourne-t-en vite à Paris.”