The Midnight Washerwoman and Other Tales of Lower Brittany

In The Midnight Washerwoman and Other Tales of Lower Brittany, Michael Wilson delivers some of the most exciting tales collected by nineteenth-century Breton folklorist François Luzel. Luzel stands out as a folklorist in several ways. He was not an outsider who collected stories like trophies and then disappeared. He was a member of the community who heard the stories during homey evening gatherings, called veillées, alongside his neighbors and travelers. Luzel published the tales in French, and sometimes also in Breton, in local journals and later in collections. The Breton language was not yet written during his lifetime, so Luzel had to estimate or even create spelling in an effort to preserve the essence of the stories as their narrators told them. Finally, Luzel collected and shared stories in several variations instead of attempting to reduce them into one coherent version. Wilson recognizes Luzel's “lighter” editorial hand and notes that the folklorist was as respectful of the tales and the storytellers as possible (p. 9).Luzel certainly faced some challenges in his work, not the least of which was the emergent Breton nationalism of his age. He had an ongoing rift with fellow folklorist Théodore Hersart de La Villemarqué, who was pro-royalty, pro-Catholic Church, and determined to promote Breton culture as a pure and uncorrupted relic of the ancient past. Luzel, by contrast, was anticlerical and Republican, and acknowledged that the tales themselves revealed not just a resentment of elite and clerical privilege but also fit well into a broader French and European storytelling tradition. Luzel also straddled the two prevailing folklorist schools of thought: one that identified folklore as directly descended from solar or comparative mythology and the other that traced the evolution of tales in an anthropological fashion. Luzel favored a scientific approach and collected the stories as presented, accepting both their ageless roots and the impact of encounters with stories from afar. At one point in his life, Luzel traveled in search of ancient, “pure” Breton tales in regions of Upper Brittany and found isolated and unfriendly environs that offered stale and uncomplicated stories. Far richer were the tales told in places where travelers shared their stories and news of the world. Ironically, this lent the tales in Luzel's collection a cosmopolitan air, even as they concerned themselves with the struggles of daily peasant life.Luzel understood, and editor Wilson has likewise embraced, that the setting of the veillée is part of the cultural framework of Breton stories, “the very heart of the storytelling experience” (p. 16). The veillée is a nighttime gathering by a fire where people of all ages and statuses share warmth, songs, and stories. Traveling workers or beggars were welcome due to the novel material they might share with the group over a cup of cider after a meal. Wilson divided the collection translated here into five veillées, and the stories for each night often share a theme. While this approach occasionally results in tedious reading, it makes sense in the social context. If, for example, someone told a thrilling story about a hero outwitting a giant, someone else in the room might speak up to say that they, too, had a great tale about a giant. Audiences might have had favorites that they requested, or the storytellers might follow a frightening story with a comic tale to lighten the mood. Each tale was part of an ongoing conversation.Knowing the wide range of stories Luzel published, I was a bit confused by the inclusion of “Jean and His Rod of Iron” in the Third Veillée, but the helpful notes in “About the Tales” cleared it up for me. Jean's story was an excuse to tell a nonsensical anecdote full of sexual and scatological references that most children would not understand, all for the amusement of the adults.Many of the tales clearly express distrust of priests, elites, and outsiders. Even God and Saint Peter are dismissed as “unjust” in a couple of tales, such as “The Just Man” (p. 65). Only Death is truly just because he comes for everyone regardless of deed or status. Overall, these stories are a far cry from the sanitized modern versions of fairy tales, but most people will recognize the impossible quests, miraculous tricksters, and fabulous banquets of celebration.This book is a treasure because there are few English translations of Breton folklore, and even fewer of those are this accessible. The book's introduction offers excellent coverage of Luzel and his context, and the stories themselves are lovingly presented. I would happily use this in an undergraduate classroom and, as someone who lives and teaches in Appalachia, I venture to say that any reader with an interest in Celtic folklore will find something to love in this book.