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In reality, when France was covering with living flesh a framework so logical that it fixed the form of the monument in its every detail, she was still pursuing the conquest of herself. The French mind is of all the most structure-loving, but the structure must be simple in the proportion that its surface is mobile and rich in gradations, it must remain close to her soil, to her rivers, and to the winds that cross her skies. The men of this land have always loved to give to matter the image of their visions. The first engraved and carved objects which the world knows appeared on the territory that extends from the Atlantic to the Pyrenees and to the Cevennes. The Gauls beat, forged, and molded bronze before the arrival of the Legions. The Greco-Latin genius became vibrant each time that it touched this soil.
In reality, when France was covering with living flesh a framework so logical that it fixed the form of the monument in its every detail, she was still pursuing the conquest of herself. The French mind is of all the most structure-loving, but the structure must be simple in the proportion that its surface is mobile and rich in gradations, it must remain close to her soil, to her rivers, and to the winds that cross her skies. The men of this land have always loved to give to matter the image of their visions. The first engraved and carved objects which the world knows appeared on the territory that extends from the Atlantic to the Pyrenees and to the Cevennes. The Gauls beat, forged, and molded bronze before the arrival of the Legions. The Greco-Latin genius became vibrant each time that it touched this soil.
And yet
before sculpture had departed from the cloister entirely, the saints, both men
and women, had been far-away gods whom the people could barely see at the
summit of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Once they had gained the street they
lived there. The local god, the god of works and of days, the god of the
fountains and the woods, the genius, who participated in all the acts of the
agricultural, social, and industrial life of the people, joined the company of
the saints—without any one perceiving it. Sculpture was suddenly invaded
everywhere by a moral sentiment, which was as familiar and as penetrating and
as simple as the living activity of humanity always is; and, without visible
connection, this sentiment continued the oldest memories of man. Its actions
were those of confession and protection and health, and their attraction was
irresistible. Hands sought other hands and found them, faces bent toward other
faces, from which emanated the gentleness that men show toward each other when
they need one another. The virgin, deified against the desire of the clergy,
carried her child in the crowd and showed him to the poor people.
Surely,
those were good Christians who sculptured those round torsos, those flanks,
swelling with child, which are lifted up by the bulk of the little one, those
long limbs, nervous or full, under the woolen dress, and those good smiling
faces which they copied in the workshop from the women who brought them their
soup. If all they really loved in Christianity was its tender human myths, they
accepted without question its belief in the supernatural, and, in consequence,
they were not too severe with themselves for the acts which they committed. As
long as they did their work well, they considered that their sin of gluttony
had the advantage of renewing their strength and that their sins of
incontinence compensated for many other disagreeable things. The churchmen were
no more offended than the laymen by the ingenuous wantonness of the stories
which the popular imagination never ceased to bring forth. We must remember
that in these centuries, morals were not very edifying [See in Lavisse’s Histoire de France: “The Thirteenth
Century,” by M. Langlois]. Almost all of
the priests themselves had concubines, and not one of them made a secret of it.
Life was too rich in rejuvenated strength to be restrained by any dikes. The
man of this time brought to the service of the church his greatest and his
simplest love; but it was the spirit which he adored, and the very power of his
faith set free his power of action by rescuing him from the letter of the law.
There was many a nudge of the elbow, many a slap exchanged during the
preaching, and sometimes it was the priest who got the drubbing. And now it was
no longer monks who continually represented the virtues on the lintels and the
tympanums. Much more frequently it was the virtues, with the enchanted smile of
a feminine face, that welcomed the poor people. It was thought very natural to
see demons pushing into the caldrons a gesticulating troop of soldiers,
bishops, and kings, all shuddering with fear. The people, in France, was too
sure of itself not to pardon injuries, for it said what it thought with perfect
candor, and although its hell was more comic than terrifying, it opened the
gates, in its malice, to those who did not respect the task the accomplishment
of which they pretended was their sacred mission.
The
Almighty seldom appeared in the statuary of the churches. The poor image makers
did not aspire that high. They were unable to create that which they had not
seen. They did not lack imagination, certainly, and even a vague, universal,
and confused culture. But their imagination moved within limits— immense and
multiform, be it said—of the life that surrounded them, and their instinct as
artists was too imperious to permit their theological and legendary culture to
furnish them anything but pretexts for the manifestation of that instinct. Our
Lady the Virgin stepped out of the stone alive, because the image of maternity,
in this period of superabundant life, was everywhere. And if the saints and the
angels surrounded the portals, it was because those who suffered saw faces of
kindness and faces of hope bending over them daily in their distress.
The
Church, in the course of its defensive organization, had turned aside, to the
profit of its external power, the impulsion of sentiment from which
Christianity had sprung. The France of the thirteenth century restored this
impulsion of sentiment in the full life of humanity. Under the pressure of this
inner force, the old world of theology cracked everywhere. Christianity, which
until then had dominated life, was dominated by it and carried along in its
movement. Moving on a higher plane than that of the Semitic idea of Saint Paul,
who had prepared life for its explosion by forcing repose upon it, contrary to
the discipline of Rome which, for a thousand years, had been raising dikes to
protect it against the anarchical forces from without, life once more joined in
the fraternal spirit of Him who was born in a stable, who was followed by
troops of the poor, who received adulterous women, and who spoke to the
flowers; it did so because man was emerging from a social state harder than
that of the old world and because an insurrection of virile tenderness was
becoming the universal need.
The
civilizations of antiquity wept at their decline. Their sorrow has seemed
declamatory and grimacing because life was leaving them. The Middle Ages, in
which life was rising, mastered their suffering. They were happy, as happy as
the old world in its full sweep upward, and for them pity was never more than
one element in the generated energy of life. They did not even realize how
courageous they were when they stretched out their two hands to all who asked
for them. Without any effort, they found, in the fulfillment of their daily
task, the social principle of Christianity, which the fathers of the Church had
sought in a theocratic organization that was momentarily necessary to protect
the growth of the new peoples, but that was a drawback to the manifestation of
their original thought.
This
social character defines French sculpture. When we see it from our distance, to
be sure, when we see it in its ensemble from the twelfth to the fifteenth
century, it strongly recalls the progression of the schools of antiquity from
archaism to academism, with their passage through a point of equilibrium
wherein science and sentiment, rising to their loftiest certitude, shine from
the same focus. Romanesque art has the smiling strength and the rhythmical
stiffness of the sixth century of Greece; the art of the thirteenth century is
calm and mature like that with which Phidias and his precursors affirmed their
complete self-possession. Afterward, in France as in Greece, virtuosity
—descriptive, naturalistic, and picturesque—gains the upper hand little by
little. Doubtless, the essential difference is that Gothic sculpture does not
tend above all to the realization of that balance of volumes by which the
statue makers of Olympia and of the Parthenon passed from one form to another
form, from one idea to another idea, without leaving a trace by which the mind
could follow the course that had been taken: it had to enter, with the
sculptors, into the consciousness and the need of the universal harmony. When
Gothic sculpture seizes this balance, we seem to be in the presence of an
isolated attempt; a solitary individual seems to have made his impressive
appearance in the midst of a murmuring throng. . . The Greek artists almost
invariably spread out the inner life of the stone in rhythmic waves over the
whole extent of the planes, to make all the figures participate in the cosmic
equilibrium. The Frenchman almost invariably concentrates it in a bowed forehead,
in a raised chin, a shoulder, a dress, an elbow, a haunch or a knee, which
often breaks the line that one anticipates, so that we may see more clearly the
direct, actual, and simple meaning of the action that he wants to express. . . In
the sculptures of Olympia and in the Fates of the Parthenon there was,
doubtless, the dawn of a modeling similar in spirit to the Gothic. But the
desire for harmony dominated everything.
The
contours of the Gothic statue are less defined than they were among the Egyptians
and less subtle than among the Greeks. They are more varied and more living,
for the light changes more frequently and is more diffused, and above all
because they express a world of moral needs which neither the Greeks nor the
Egyptians could feel. Never had shadows and lights been distributed with such
an understanding of their psychological value. Never had the material been
worked with an emotion so concrete, never had a more profound, a more complete,
and a more gentle radiance emanated from it, from the full and broadly treated
forms which exhibit the material to our eyes. Never had the necessity for
effort been accepted with a more joyous soul by a youth with more courage to
live its life, though it was better prepared than the younger races for the
misfortune that awaited it. Certain statues of Rheims remind one of the Apollo
of Olympia, by the rise into the light, from which their brow seems to emerge.
The pure spring water that issues from the rock of Hellas seems to flow over
the sides and the limbs of the statues of women, which watch over the portal
above the transept of Chartres. Once more, men have lent their heroism to the
gods.
It
would be erroneous to conclude that even the greatest master builders and image
makers among the French had ever possessed philosophic ideas so elevated as
those of the sculptors from whom the Greek thinkers derived the life of the
mind. But outside of the geographical conditions which so sensibly
differentiated northern France with its humidity and its coolness from the arid
and burnt land of Greece, life had been harder in the Middle Ages than in the
century of Pericles, war and misery had made it more necessary for the masses
to bring about an active solidarity, and man was more profoundly necessary to
man. Moreover, these different conditions of natural and social life revealed
themselves unexpectedly in the atmosphere of sentimental legend that
Christianity created little by little. It is indubitable that the Greek
sculptor who tore the ancient world from its exhausted rhythms, was
intellectually as superior to the mason of the cathedral, as the
"Prometheus" of Aeschylus or the "Antigone" of Sophocles is
to a thirteenth-century mystery play; but it is certain that the mason of the
cathedral easily rejoined him in the universal eurhythmy, because he was an
element of the monumental symphony which the instinct, common to a whole
throng, causes to spurt from its heart.
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