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Everywhere else the multitude is master of the works. The honest master builder, to whom the Commune and the Bishop turn, knows practically nothing save his trade. Behind him is the confused Byzantine-Romanesque tradition which he possesses imperfectly; before him is a problem to be solved: to build an edifice vast enough to contain the inhabitants of a city. He knows his material well, the stone of France, powdery, watery, and easy to work. He has his compass, his water level, his plumb line, and his square. Around him are good workmen, of the same spirit as himself, filled with faith, not in the least disturbed by worry as to social questions or by doubt as to religion. He possesses that clear good sense, that free and direct logic, which later brought out of the same soil such men as Rabelais, Montaigne, Molière, La Fontaine, Rameau, Diderot, and Voltaire. A new function appears, so complex that it absorbs the life of the century. For the new organ to adapt itself to it, nothing more is needed than that the master builder consent to be a man of his time, like the least of his companions.
Everywhere else the multitude is master of the works. The honest master builder, to whom the Commune and the Bishop turn, knows practically nothing save his trade. Behind him is the confused Byzantine-Romanesque tradition which he possesses imperfectly; before him is a problem to be solved: to build an edifice vast enough to contain the inhabitants of a city. He knows his material well, the stone of France, powdery, watery, and easy to work. He has his compass, his water level, his plumb line, and his square. Around him are good workmen, of the same spirit as himself, filled with faith, not in the least disturbed by worry as to social questions or by doubt as to religion. He possesses that clear good sense, that free and direct logic, which later brought out of the same soil such men as Rabelais, Montaigne, Molière, La Fontaine, Rameau, Diderot, and Voltaire. A new function appears, so complex that it absorbs the life of the century. For the new organ to adapt itself to it, nothing more is needed than that the master builder consent to be a man of his time, like the least of his companions.
Whatever
the force in the ascending movement of the French churches, whatever their
lyrism, their perfect intelligence lies too deep within them to make its
impression at once. Their whole form is determined by the ogive window that
hides itself proudly in the upper shadows of the nave. It has not revealed to
us the subtle passage that leads a French or a Norman mason to isolate in the
Romanesque church the projections from the ribbed vault and to raise its
lateral edges by means of the angular window which the Crusaders had seen in
the Orient. But it was that window which overcame the round arch and the
vertical weight that crushed the vessel. Everything is to radiate from the
ogive—the drop of its diagonal ribbing on to the columns that spring up to
separate the three naves, the entire vault that is inscribed in their
intervals, and the flying buttress that carries off obliquely the thrust of the
vault. Everywhere else one finds the immense expanses of glass through which
the light penetrates. . . The logic is that of the skeleton, wherein all
pressures are balanced and transmitted; it is the image of the absolute
transported into the perishable order of the scattered elements of life.
Between the flying buttress and the vault, the edifice is like the carcass of a
gigantic cetacean suspended in space by iron hooks to permit the light of
heaven to traverse it in every direction. It seems to float in the air.
[The
ogive, of which an example is cited in England, at Durham, about 1104, appears
for the first time in France, probably, about 1115, at Morienval, near Soissons
and Noyon, between the Ile-de-France, Picardy, and Champagne, where, through
Saint-Denis and Notre Dame, Amiens and Beauvais, Rheims, Laon, Sens, etc., it
saw the birth of the most numerous and most beautiful architectural works
consequent upon it. Who discovered it? Several master builders, perhaps, each
one contributing a new idea, from the association of which the ogive was born
spontaneously. Here is one of the most surprising characteristics of the Middle
Ages in the Occident, and one that it shares with hardly any other art than
that of ancient Egypt and India. Of all the image makers, scarcely a name has
come down to us, and if we know who some dozens of architects were, it has
required patient researches or chance to bring forth their names from the
municipal account books that slept in our archives. This is an anonymous art,
and, consequently, it is collective and disinterested, it is the social art.
These men thought of nothing but the accomplishment of their task, and not one
of them dreamed of laying claim to being the father of the most original
creation in architecture since the vault of the Assyrians.
Guillaume
de Sens, who was one of the greatest of the constructors and who was brought to
England to build the nave of Canterbury, passed as the inventor of the ogive
for a long time. He was, doubtless, one of the first to apply it to the
construction of an edifice—the cathedral of Sens—whose whole structure it
determines. But it seems to have received almost as complete an application,
for an ensemble, with the building of the choir of Saint-Denis (1144), and in
some churches of a transitional character dating from that period—Noyon,
Lisieux, Le Mans, etc. In any case, it was in the Ile-de-France that, before
the middle of the twelfth century, the architects systematized a process of
construction which permitted Jean d'Orbais to build Rheims, Robert de Luzarches
to build Amiens, Pierre de Montereau to build the Sainte-Chapelle, and a
hundred others in every part of France and Europe to erect buildings of a unity
of structure that is absolute and of a variety of aspects that is inexhaustible.]
Gothic
architecture was opposed to leaving anything in darkness. Indeed, it died of
its love of the light. Sens, Beauvais, Laon, Soissons, Amiens, Bourges (in
spite of its five naves) are full of light, like our modern markets of iron and
glass. But in these cathedrals there is, of course, the necessary framework
which made some dark places; there is the stone skeleton work of the rose
window, the leads which hold the stained glass, the wire netting which protects
it, the dirt of centuries, due to all the old dust that has heaped up. . . When
the cathedral is dark, it is because the master builder has miscalculated his
effort, because he expected the building to yield more than it could, because
he wanted to crowd too many people into it, as in Paris, where galleries press
down on the four lateral naves. The object of the stained glass was not to
darken the nave but to glorify the light, whose glow scintillated with the
richness of powdered jewels. And this glass was used not only in the churches but
for the rooms of the châteaux and for the houses of the middle class. The
memory of the carpets hung up in the mosques filled the minds of the men, who
were returning from the Orient, with visions transfigured by enthusiasm and
regret. They opened the side of the wall to set into it a translucent painting,
a fresco shot through by flames, illumined by the heavens. The stained glass
offered to the pale light of the north its flaming matrix so that the sun
should give a warmer caress to the stone that rose everywhere. Its azures, its
dark blues, its saffron and golden yellows, its oranges, its vinous or purple
reds, and its dark greens streaked the nave with the blood of Christ and the
sapphire of the sky, with the russet of the autumn grapevines, and with the
emerald of the distant seas and of the meadows round about. In the depths of
the chapels of the apse, where the spot made by the candles caused the darkness
to tremble, the light of the windows weakened only to accumulate around the
sanctuary, the agonizing vagueness and the voluptuousness of its mystery. When,
on one of those gray days of the Ile-de-France, one enters Notre Dame to wait
for the sun, one knows when it has come out by the blond inundation that
suddenly invades the nave, renders it aerial and golden, and little by little
touches and makes dazzling the very ribbing which, under their rigid palm
ornaments, suspends the shadow of the forests. At evening, when the darkness is
almost nocturnal in the vast interior whose vaults one sees hovering high up
like the wings of a great bird of the night, one thing alone remains
luminous—the glass of the windows. The dying light from outside spatters the
black pillars and the pavement which has disappeared, with a fiery shower, more
intense and more glowing in proportion as the darkness increases. The rose
windows gather up the last reflections of the sun that has set to illuminate
the shadows with them.
Everything
that gives the cathedral its meaning, everything that determines its aspect—the
irresistible rise of its lines, the balancing of the curves that raise it above
the cities—everything is brought about by the desire for light; and the desire
for light increased among its architects at the same time that they became more
familiar with the handling of its curves and its lines. Never did an edifice so
truthful proclaim its function with such simplicity. At every point the bones
were just beneath the flesh; each one recognized its role: there was not a
recess, there was not a projection which did not justify its presence. The
fixed framework of the exterior, the immense parallel arches which start up
everywhere to suspend the central nave or to radiate to the apse, carry the
building up into space and cradle it there, like the articulated members of a gigantic
animal. Every one of its organs, from the haughtiest to the most obscure,
participates in its power—the humble ornament, the flower that varies a plane
that would be too bare without it, the slight bas-relief that gives movement to
a profile, the small belfries that load the pinnacles to increase the strength
of the piles which catch the thrust of the flying buttresses, the niches for
statues hollowing out the buttresses wherever there is no pressure, the
gargoyles that spout the rain water away from the building so that it shall not
gnaw the stone, the long grooved columns on the body of the pillars themselves,
giving to the supports of the vaults that nervous and sustained spring which
causes them to spread out at their summit with the ease of a sheaf.
Nowhere
else has sculptured ornament become so much a part of the edifice. In India the
statue is incorporated in the building because both, at the same time, grow out
of a pantheistic conception of life which sweeps the builders and the statue
makers into its own headlong movement. Here, not only does the unity of
conception, of traditions, and beliefs carry in the same current all who share
in the work, but every statue, every carved column, every branch, or fruit on
the wall is there to give more balance and solidity to the ensemble. The
ornament gives animation and movement and carries off into space everything
that would serve to rob the cathedral of mobility and to bind it to the soil.
Bare in
the beginning, at Sens, at Saint-Denis, in the first tier of the cathedral of
Paris and at Soissons, bare as a race abounding with life, the cathedral was
covered in a century with the forms which this race had found on its pathway.
The porches, the tympanums, the lintels, the galleries of colonnettes, the high
towers—sonorous organs raising in a single flight their thickets of close-set
stones, everything became part of the miracle, and this whole soil, which had
been barren before, sprouted with trembling bas-reliefs, with the carving of
the foliage that seemed ready to burst with sap—and in a thousand powerful
statues quivered the life of a people. In the mist or in the sunshine, the
world of the painted images caused the façades, from their severe base to their
sweeping towers, to partake of the movement of the black streets into which the
neighboring countryside penetrates unceasingly, with the hucksters, the
traders, their horses and sheep, with the boatmen and the market gardeners who
bring vegetables and wood to the city. On days of prayer, the people ask the
stone symbols for the human significance of the mystic emotion that pervades
the multitude of pure and gentle beings which surround the cathedral of
Chartres. On rainy days, people take refuge under the porches of Notre Dame—the
three porches inscribed in the bare wall, which is not more sober and simple
and firmly built than they, and the stories that the image makers in their
sheltered workshops have been telling for a century are discussed by the
citizens. On feast days and in fine weather, people stop to look at the way in
which the façade of Amiens is blossoming, as if the reapers and the vintagers
on its doors were covering it with vine branches and sheaves—from the
embroidered galleries to the flames of the great rose window. On fair-days,
people at the top of the towers of Laon would see the oxen bending to their
work in the fields. On coronation days, or at times of royal pomp, when the
processions defile between the rows of narrow houses where the tapestries hang,
people follow the harmony and the tumult of the marchers and are engulfed with
the latter in the five porches of Bourges that shimmer with their painted
sculptures; while at Rheims, the sculptures are carried on up to the summit of
the cathedral, from which there pours the incessant torrent of the forms and
colors of nature.
But
inside—not an image. The nave would lose something of its sonority, its
grandeur, its light. The vault, the generating principle, is bare, and only the
capital of the columns is permitted to flower. The long, slender shafts, the
long ribbing that ascends and descends to outline the stained glass of the
windows, the absolute lines that converge and that answer one another, the pure
radiance of the rose window—everything has the abstract force and the nakedness
of the mind. And everywhere it is function that determines form. The armed
castle is a church turned inside out, its exterior bare for purposes of
resistance, and covered with frescoes and carpets within, well supplied with
carved wood furniture and with forged iron for the delight of the eye and for
repose. The only French cathedral in the ogive style, whose exterior is bare
and whose form presents a hostile mass, was built at Albi in a spirit of
defiance and combat—it is a fortress rising in a block to surround the
sanctuary of the spirit with armor. In the south, the Roman majesty of the wall
is retained, and even, at certain moments, enhanced. Especially in those places
where the Romanesque spirit and the ogival spirit fuse, at Saintes-Maries de la
Mer, at Aigues-Mortes, at Albi, at Agde, at the Château of the Popes in
Avignon, a sublime art will appear. In the rhythmical alternation of the
massive wall that mounts straight upward and of the offset inscribed directly
in its thickness to make openings for the superimposed windows under the proud
ogive at the top, it is so lofty, so bare, so measured and sober that, beside
it—whether a church or a fortress—the Romanesque temple seems crushed or heavy
or frail and the French cathedral seems overloaded with the decoration on its
exterior.
In the
architecture of the ogive, as in the Romanesque architecture, several schools
have been isolated. And, in fact, it is as easy to distinguish in one's first
glance at the ogival building, the sobriety and the measure of the
Ile-de-France and the Valois, the gayety, the animation, the truculence, and
the verve of Picardy and Champagne, the square and rugged force of Brittany,
the profusion and complexity of Normandy, as, in the Romanesque construction,
one can distinguish the patience of the workmen of Poitoux, the gathered power
of the Auvergnats, the tense elegance of the men of Provence, and the vigor and
the fineness of the men of Périgord. It is also easy to recognize the meeting
of the two great styles in the stately eloquence of the Burgundians. But in one
group as in the other and despite the general tendency which, in the south,
gives predominance to the spiritual, abstract, structural, and didactic element
and in the north to all the gradations of the living, anecdotal, and
picturesque element, despite the predominance, in a word, of sculpture in the
north and architecture in the south, a constant interpenetration of local
styles, of epochs, and of influences from without transforms the whole land of
France into a forest of stone designed and worked, and to compare with it there
is perhaps only the growth that India brought forth from her miraculous soil.
And we may add that Indian art and the art of the Khmers and the Javanese, and
Byzantine art as well as that of the Arabs, and the art of Greece as well that
of Rome, by direct or indirect connection, by reason or intuition, by the
contact of thought or by chance, seem to gather here from every place on earth
to summarize and co-ordinate themselves for a century in the ever-alert
sensibility and the ready intelligence which characterize France. From one end
of the land to the other, a wonderful variety of sensation and expression
becomes easily a part of the spiritual unity of will and faith. Whether the
Romanesque temple is carved like an ivory or whether it is simple, whether its
tower is square, polygonal, or round, solid or open to the air by its
juxtaposed windows, whether the belfry rises straight as a cry or whether it
curves like the line of a lamentation, whether the apse is circular or whether
it forms a polyhedron, whether the arches are multiplied on the moving surface
or barely indicated at the summit of the straight walls that are as fierce as
ramparts, everywhere the majesty and the force of the doctrine impregnate the
expressive surfaces with the savor and the rhythm of life. Sometimes, on the
ogival façades, the great silent planes are displayed almost bare between bare
buttresses or, on the contrary, the buttresses are fluted like organ pipes, as
if to accentuate their vertical flight toward the sky, and the façades are
covered by a lacework of leaves and branches. Sometimes the porches are
inscribed in the walls, at other times they bristle with pediments, spires, and
pinnacles. The rose windows may be circular or flame-shaped, the number and the
disposition of the towers vary endlessly—now they are cut into by high windows,
now designed with clusters of colonnettes like wheat sheaves, or again they
pass by insensible transitions from the square to the polygon and from the
polygon to the cone. But everywhere the flood of the animated forms and
innumerable aspects of life permits the logic of the function and the
rationalism of the mind to appear freely. Even—and here the miracle is perhaps
more surprising—when three centuries and four or five styles have mingled the
Romanesque and the Gothic in a simple monument, the whole indivisible world of
sentiments and sensations that it presents enters in a mass, and forever, into
the immutable order of the mind.
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