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"It is the spirit of a priest who wants to say mass," one peasant will observe. "He will never find a boy to serve it for him," will rejoin another. And that is what I really am an incomplete priest. Quellien has very clearly discerned what will always be lacking in my church the chorister boy.
My young compatriot and friend, M. Quellien, a Breton poet full of raciness and originality, the only man of the present day whom I have known to possess the faculty of creating myths, has described this phase of my destiny in a very ingenious style. He says that my soul will dwell, in the shape of a white sea-bird, around the ruined church of St.
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