my attention, was a bit of a copper basin, struck by a piece of iron with a brass knob, the remains of an old fire shovel. All the rest of the materials were equally incongruous. I was standing in mute astonishment before the case, when some one called Jahona.
"Well, mon cher," said the doctor, coming behind me. "What do you think of this thing?
"It must be an abominable timepiece, but it is a marvellous creation. I am almost afraid to think how much imagination, calculation, skill, and perseverance it must have taken to accomplish it. Your workman has a true genius for mechanical invention."
"There is no telling what he might not have become," said my friend, "had he been born where he had greater opportunities. He made everything you see about you. He fashioned all the furniture, repaired the walls, and thatched his dwelling. He works as well in wood and mason-work, as he does in metal. It is easier to him to invent a thing than to imitate. He has an especial gift for simplifying the conveniences of life. See this lock on his cupboard. There is not a particle of iron in its composition, and yet it is a capital lock. The key you see is made of a big nail and a wooden peg. You know how Breton chimneys smoke — look at his."
I turned towards the hearth. Jahona had gathered together at the back a heap of broken pottery, fragments of great earthen jars used for making lye in Brittany. By this means he had given his fireplace a semicircular form, which concentrated the heat, and increased it by reflection. It was the same idea as that of Count Rumford.
"He must have seen some modern fireplaces," said I to my companion.
"Never," he replied. "So far as I know there is nothing of the kind anywhere in this neighborhood, and Jahona has never been a dozen miles away from his own village. As I tell you, he is a born inventor. Whenever you see anything in this part of the country which strikes you as convenient or ingenious, you may be very sure somebody will tell you, 'That was made by Jahona.' But his inventive talent keeps him poor. Were it not for that be might live very comfortably; that is he might eat bacon on Sunday, and bread every day in the year. But when an inspiration comes upon him he is apt to neglect his every-day work, and disappoint his customers. He studied three years for the priesthood, and acquired the rudiments of Greek and Latin. I pity him profoundly. He must be an unhappy man. He would not tell you so. He may never have found it out, but watch him and you will soon see indications of his hidden struggle."
At this moment Jahona came back, accompanied by a priest, who I perceived at once was one of those (to be found even in Brittany), who rattle off God's work in a mere spirit of business, like a government official entrusted with local affairs.
When he saw us he pulled off his shovel hat and gave a jovial laugh as he accosted the doctor. He told us he had come to look after a statue of the Blessed Virgin which Jahona was carving for his church. He seemed very much annoyed by the unpunctuality of the workman, who had kept him waiting six weeks.
"You must make some allowance for Jahona," I said, "he is a very uncommon man."
"That's true," replied the curé, lowering his voice and whispering in my ear. "The poor devil, we all know, is three parts crazy."
Meantime Jahona had been getting out his statue, and brought it to the light for our inspection. He pulled off some coarse wrappings, and we perceived a statue of the Virgin nearly completed.
My first feeling was one of very great surprise. My idea of the Virgin Mother had till that moment never been dissociated from certain Raphaelesque forms, and I could hardly recognize her in this statue of Jahona.
I expected to see as usual a young girl with downcast eyes, holding a naked smiling infant in her arms. But when I had got over my first surprise, and began to examine the work carefully, the idea impressed itself upon me.
The mother of our Lord was seated in a position that expressed profound depression. The babe was sleeping on his mother's breast, but his face was entirely concealed from the spectator. The Virgin's face was full of sadness and anxiety. She pressed the infant to her heart with a convulsive movement, as if protecting him from some great peril. In spite of her depression and her look of care, a simple loving-kindliness beamed from her features. Her attitude was true to nature, though devoid of grace. The statue bore the stamp of Brittany, and that impression was completed by the costume. She was dressed as a peasant woman of that part of the country.
