American cinematographer (Jan-Dec 1931)

Babbling About Brittany by LAWRENCE GRANT This is the second article of an unusually interesting series which Mr. Crant has written for this magazine. The third will appear in the |une issue — Editor's Note. SHOULD you ask a Breton what he is, he will not say with pride, "I am French." No, he will say quite simply: "Breton," then you will say: "Yes, but French?" He will reply: "Breton, yes; French? Perhaps." You will be surprised even today how many of the old people cannot speak French at all. At first I thought they could not understand my French, and who could? But the old ones cannot understand, and do not speak any French at all!! They only speak Breton, which is not at all unlike Erse, the native Irish; in fact being in Brittany is much like being in Ireland. The same facial characteristics, the same picturesqueness, I not quite the same, for never can there be quite the beauty of Cork or Ki Harney or the poetry of Kildare) ; the same charm, and again a likeness to Cornish and Welsh; a great similarity to the Welsh language, and why not, are we not all Celts, and proud of it? (Note: I am a Celt myself.) So we get right into Brittany at Lamballe, the home of the famous Duchesse de Lamballe, friend and confidante of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, famous for Pottery, a gorgeous church of Roman, which out of France, we call Norman architecture, and for St. Maclou, a son of Queen Clothilde of these parts. St. Maclou flourished about the 1 1th century. It was rather unfortunate because "long-hairs" were just as unpopular then as they are today, and while he and his Royal Mother doted on his long red hair, it was not "being done" by the most robust people, and all the flapper's favorites had to be shaved of head. So the Queen being, after all, just a "Mother" and Maclou being just "Mother's Boy and Joy" had only one thing left to do to protect his hair and him, she made him a monk. And he became very famous as a saintly person, and he could cure almost any disease of the head. In nature's time he died, and they canonized him, as St. Maclou. To be cured you come to his statue in the church, or what the rude revolutionists left of it, for being a royal Saint, they did their best to obliterate him, but, thank goodness, there is still the head left, and you extract a nail from your shoe, and you scratch his nose with it, and ask him to cure you. And he cures you of your headache, but you get a torn thumb dragging out the nail. At the other end of the town there is one for your child, in St. Martin's church, St. Cenefor. He is devoted to children, especially crippled ones. He was a Scotchman, and I never could find out why he came over to poor Brittany, but you bring your child to him and pray and then he is cured and you leave the little one's crutches, or whatever he no longer needs and there is a small box for any offering you care to give, and there is "Merci" already printed thereon to thank you for your gift. And as I babble about all these things, and these curious Saints, and their powers, please let no one, not even the most ardent Catholic, take offence, I do not mean it so. When you go to Brittany you will understand the remarkable attitude of the Breton of today towards these primitive saints. They are not sure they are really as potent as old stories say, but they do not quite care to let them go, and under the feeling that if they do not do any good they cannot do any harm, they stick to them. This old church has a lovely wooden porch which has been the delight of architects, it is in good condition, and bears the inscription : "L'an mil cinq cent dix-neuf Jean I'aine me fit tout neuf." which says that John made the porch over "all new" at that time, but it only says "John," who, probably well-known then, is forgotten now. If you happen to be here at the time of "Fete Dieu" (which is equivalent to our "All Soul's Day" is it not?) you will find everyone very busy preparing for the procession; all along the route there will be side altars set up, some very ornate, some very simple, and at most of these the Priests will halt, say a short service, and then continue round the city. These waits at the "reposoires" as they are called, take time, making the procession a long and tedious affair. During the revolution there were so many supporters of the Princess de Lamballe and therefore partizans of the detested Royalty and Marie Antoinette in particular in this place that they brought in a special executioner, and as he was a very necessary person, they certainly saw him "well disposed" as Hamlet wanted his actors to be, for they set him up in a most delectable house, still called "The Executioner's House." Uninhabited and falling into ruins when I last saw it, it is full of lovely carved oak, and all could have been bought for a song! French people are great persons for washing their dirty linen in public, and in all these little provincial places the river is the natural and proper place for this laundry work to be carried out, and very picturesque they manage to make it. Sometimes there may be a solitary laundress outside a cottage back door, or a neat old servant at the back of a larger house, but very frequently there is a public place, constructed conveniently for the purpose, and here, in force, will be the village gossips, soaping and rubbing and paddling and smiting the linen with wooden instruments and scandalling, all making a very pleasant sight and sound, the river running, the smacking of the paddles, the swish of soapy clothes and the pleasant chatter and laughter. The Laundry place at Lamballe is very picturesque, though of course there are many more than this one in the town. Very rarely does one come on a "snap-shot" which tells a story and is good pictorial construction as well. Even when a Mayor lays a foundation stone, the press generally take a fake photo posed after the event, but coming round a corner one day in 1915 I snapped the group on the other page, Mother, Son, Bride. Soldier and girl were married that morning, and the next day he was off for the "front." "C'est la Guerre." At one of the Benediction services I attended here when the priest held up the monstrance, that is the large gold plated vessel in which he is supposed to put the Wafer, with which he blesses the people, he forgot to put it in, and it was very curious to see his eye peeping through the round hole in the centre of the sort of sun burst halo, where the Host should be. He was in the most awful state of mind when he discovered what he had done, and could hardly be consoled after the service. You pay spot cash for your seat. A penny (French), the plate going round as for a voluntary contribution. I watched an old woman one night, she, poor soul, had a large coin, but no change so she put the coin in, then took a firm hold of the plate lest it should escape her, and slowly and solemnly counted herself out the correct change. Nearly all the congregation in these places are peasants, though occasionally the "quality" will also be in the church. In the small villages all are peasants, but in Lamballe I hap 33