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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists XV . BRITTANY and its people make a very strong impression upon an American visitor. The country itself is old and remote, that is, it retains its ancient forms and times, and mixes the past with very little of the present, and in some places one could fancy himself gone back in history almost a thousand years. Truly the Breton peasant is a true conservative. He fights for his mother tongue, his costumes, his traditions. No other corner of France has been so tenacious of its past, so jealous of new ideas as Brittany. No part of France has been so loyal to its nobles and kings as well as to its religion. The wars of La Vendée and the unceasing opposition to Napoleon prove this. The laws today make it imperative that French should be taught in the schools, but we found that the moment we got outside the market place around which most of the village was built, no one spoke French, or, if they knew it, would condescend to speak it. We found, too, that the conscript after having gone through his term of service in different camps in the various parts of France and the colonies (where French must be understood and spoken), that upon his discharge and his return home, he relapsed into his mother tongue, never to speak anything else if he could possibly shirk it. Pont-aven had its peculiar head-dress for women, and its peculiar cut of jacket and trimming and skirts. These petticoats and waists were generally of some sober quiet color, with which the trimmings harmonized perfectly. Their white caps sometimes of bizarre and formal cut, concealing every strand of hair, made up a decidedly pretty costume. Every village had its own peculiarity of cut and fashion. The men's costume consisted of a short loose jacket, thick double-breasted vest of woolen, breeches cut wide at the hips and narrowed and buttoned at the knee, woolen stockings and sabots, with long black hair falling over the collar, and head surmounted by a broad-brimmed black hat. This completed his attire. His expression was generally stern and forbidding, while a smile rarely lighted up his face. On market days when the market-place before the hotel was filled with farmers and tradesmen, it was amusing to see the eagerness with which a bargain was made. One would imagine a rough and tumble fight was about to begin. The loud voices and frantic gestures all indicated a prospective fight, but nothing of the kind. The bargain was soon made, and a drink of cider in the hotel sealed the contract. Wylie bad had a good deal of experience with the people of Pont-aven. He understood their characteristics well. He was always dignified and polite with them, and gained their confidence, more so than any stranger could have done. We were acquainted with the Notary of the village, a young and jolly fellow, very well educated, and who sympathized with our aims and endeavors in art. There was an old building, just out of the village, half farmhouse, half chateau, neglected and forlorn, and of this the Notary had charge. He gave us the keys and possession. There was a large room with wide pen fireplace and a high square window, which served admirably as a studio, and here Wylie brought the village children, girls and boys, to sit for costume and character models. Most of us joined him here on rainy days. We explored the rubbish in different parts of the big building, which must have been undisturbed for many years, and were rewarded by finding many relics of the revolutionary period, such as the worthless assignats, and the sous and liards of the date. We amused ourselves after dinner pitching quoits in the grounds for exercise and amusement. The mother of our landlady, Madam Feutray, was quite an old lady, and was a child during the terrible days of the revolution. She was taken with her mother and many other women in carts to be thrown into the water and drowned, but by some accident or streak of pity she was saved, and here she was a hale and hearty, good-natured, interesting old grandmother. Everybody called her " Le Daniaroque." Why, I know not. She was past eighty, but sprightly and gay as a girl. And we enjoyed her stories much. She had some friends, two old ladies, living in a neighboring village, six or eight miles away, and one day she invited Wylie and myself to go and visit them and dine. And so we made the journey in their primitive one-horse cart with two wheels and no springs. The ladies were of the old school, punctiliously polite, spoke good French, with the manners of the well-educated and refined class. They had a nephew who had gone to America some years before, and from whom they had learned nothing for a long time. From what they told us he was a young man of a roving disposition. He was an officer seeking his fortune in the new world. Of course we could give them no information. He was last heard from in New Orleans or that part of the country, and I judged commanded an expedition that went to overturn New Mexico; but the expedition was badly organized and failed, and he met a well deserved fate. The name was a grand sounding one, with a " de " or a prefix, but I cannot recall it. We could only console the ladies with the hope that they might soon hear from him. Robert Wylie was a true man and artist, unassuming, sympathetic, keeping himself in the background, if by so doing he could bring into brighter relief, the good traits of another. never knew a man more unselfish than he. Everyone I think would feel himself better for having known him. The young French artist, who was our companion at Pont-aven, M. Martin, was a pleasant, bright fellow, with a studious nature. I liked much to talk with him. He could always tell you something. He moved away to a village four or five miles distant, near the sea, to study some figures and costumes he found there. One day he wanted Wylie and myself to breakfast with him-a fish breakfast. We had a delightful walk across the fields, and through the stiles and byways to arrive at the uninviting old cabaret where he was stopping. We arrived there rather faint from our long walk, and ready for breakfast, but Martin insisted we should go to the beach, a mile or more beyond, for a bath in the surf before breakfast. We dragged ourselves there, faint and weary, as we were, but the bath so refreshed us that we skipped back to the breakfast, and the various courses of fish, fresh from the water, seemed perfectly delicious. Our pocket knives served to cut the bread, and this was our only implement for the famous breakfast. It was one of the memorable ones in my life. One day there appeared at Pont-aven a re-markable looking man, a fine looking pictur-esque fellow. He was dressed most picturesquely in brown velvet coat and breeches and leather gaiters. He came to visit us, and we found him to be Leroy, the well-known artist, from whom the government had bought a picture for the Luxembourg Gallery. He was very affable and pleasant. I am very sorry to record that during the siege of Paris he went outside of the walls on a sortie and was mortally wounded. During my stay at Pont-aven I was constantly at work upon studies in the neighborhood. The subjects were lovely and inspiring. The golden wheat fields, the snowy whiteness of the patches of buckwheat in blossom, the moss-grown, thatched cottages were all attractive, and I made some of the closest and best of my studies from nature. Moses Wight of Boston was also a busy man, and made some capital studies. Farl Shinn of Philadelphia was very busy too. He had not at that time made a serious study of art, and his time was a good deal taken up with letters to a Philadelphia paper, but he used his pencil with great freedom and effect. When we parted at Pont-aven he gave me as a souvenir a pencil drawing of a Breton peasant, resting on his old-fashioned scythe in an attitude of devotion, listening to the Angelus. This drawing which I still possess fore-shadowed Millet's famous picture. I value it much. Shinn was of a most genial disposition, affable and kindly. After studying for a time with Gerome, he returned to America to become an art critic. He was attached to The Nation in that capacity until his death a few years ago. As a writer and art critic he was well-equipped, and wielded a trenchant pen, and many an artist had cause to feel the keenness of his criticisms. I could only wonder that so amiable and kind-hearted a man could even in the interest of art say such caustic things. I loved him much, and can bear testimony to the gentleness and purity of his char-acter. Howard Roberts of Philadelphia was then quite young, and only commencing his studies as a sculptor, He was a big boy and made one think of a massive young Newfoundland, playful and good-natured, but not understanding the great powers that were as yet scarcely stirring within him. He has since risen to eminence in his profession in his native city. |
