"Have you seen
Roscoff? Was I not right in praising it?"
"You were, indeed," we replied. "It is full of indescribable beauty and
interest. Why is it so little known?"
"Because there are so few true artists in the world," he answered. "It
cannot appeal to any other temperament. Those who see things only with
the eyes and not with the soul, will never care for it. And so it has
made no noise in the world, and few visit it. Of those who do, probably
many think more of the wonderful fig tree than of the exquisite tone of
the houses, the charm of the little port, the matchless purity of the
water."
We felt he was right. Then he pointed to the marvellous crucifix that
hung upon the wall, and seemed by its beauty and sacredness almost to
sanctify the room.
"Is it not a wonderful piece of art?" he cried, with quiet enthusiasm.
"If Michel Angelo had ever carved in ivory, I should say it was his
work. But be that as it may, it is the production of a great master."
We promised to return. There was something about the old man and his
surroundings which compelled one to do so. It was so rare to find three
generations of perfection, about whom there clung a charm indescribable
as the perfume that clings to the rose. We passed out into the night,
and our last look showed him standing in his quaint little territory,
thrown out in strong relief by the lamplight, gazing in rapt devotion
upon his treasures, all the religious fervour of the true Breton
temperament shining out of his spiritual face, thinking perhaps of the
"one far-off Divine event" that for him was growing so very near.
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