Part 2

We must seek elsewhere than in Paris to find what this mosaic of tiny morsels of different hued glass can accomplish in the small chapels surrounding the choir of a great cathedral. We shall learn what a glorifying curtain of subdued colour it will provide and how when viewed from the nave of the church these chapels become gleaming caverns, forming a semi-circular background for the well-lighted choir in their midst. Even whilst we are drinking in the great beauty of this splendidly impressive half-circle of chapels, we must realise that delightful as is this method of subduing and beautifying the light, it would be most unwise to use this same style of glass in the clerestory above. Not only would the choir be too dark, but, besides, we would lose the contrast of light against gloom that renders it so impressive in its dignity. This observation introduces another type of glazing for which we shall seek in vain after this century. If we demand more light from our clerestory and at the same time insist on coloured glass, then we must use fewer strips of light-obscuring lead, which means fewer and larger pieces of glass. Thus we will obtain more illumination than is yielded by the heavily-leaded windows below. Now we begin to understand that the light of the medallion window is sombre because so much of its surface is occupied by the great quantity of lead required to bind together its small pieces of glass. These numerous lead lines serve a very artistic purpose, for, by breaking the refraction of the rays of light passing through the small bits of glass and diffusing them, they have much to do with blending the colours and producing the delightful jewelled effect that we at once noticed in Notre Dame. We have purposely used the phrase "much to do," because it is only one of several causes. The quality of the glass itself had a great share in that result. It is quite different from that found later on, for it was, as yet, quite imperfect, and no two pieces had the same thickness or were surfaced alike. This very unevenness assisted in breaking up the light rays. Another cause for its brilliancy was that its translucence was not obscured by paint. A piece of glass was yellow or blue because its colour was introduced while it was being made in the pot and therefore was diffused throughout the mass. For this reason it was called "pot metal glass." We shall find that later on they discovered how to tint the surface of glass by the invention first of staining and later by enamelling, both of which had a marked effect and will be spoken of at the proper time. One of the results of colouring glass in the pot was that generally the tone would not be equal throughout; for instance, a piece of blue glass would not be evenly blue in all its parts. This difference in the shading of each piece, as well as the unevenness of its surface, produced a brilliancy which the more perfect methods that came later could never hope to achieve. The freedom from surface paint made possible a limpidity of colour which by contrast makes later painted or enamelled windows seem almost dull. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the only paint used was a brown pigment, which served to delineate features and sometimes to accentuate the folds of garments, etc. We must also remember that as the artist worked with small pieces of glass and therefore used a great many lead lines, all the outlines needed by his picture could be put in with leads, and hence it was only natural that he became very expert in drawing with them. The result of his skill in this particular is surprisingly attractive and we shall sorely miss it later, when less and less attention was paid to the drawing and decorative value of the leads because of the increased desire for large pieces of glass with pictures painted upon them. In fact, so far from early traditions did they of the sixteenth century stray, that we shall see strips of lead running right across an arm or a face! Their value from an artistic standpoint seemed at that time nearly forgotten, and instead of being used to beautify the drawing, they were only tolerated as a part of the machinery necessary to support the glass in its framework. Before leaving the subject of paint upon glass, it is well to remark that although we may admire the brilliancy of these early windows and may rejoice that the artist had not yet learned to obscure his colour, nevertheless, if we were examining windows in Italy, that land of everlasting sunshine, we might find a little painting upon the surface a genuine relief to the eye. There is such a thing as too much sunshine. Geography must be considered in criticising glass.

We promised to avoid as much as possible the study of the technical, but it must be admitted that we have drifted into it, and that our attempt to learn why clerestory windows differ from the lower ones, has brought with it an exposition of the technique of the thirteenth century. To briefly recapitulate, it consists of--

(_a_) Small pieces of glass. (_b_) Obviously requiring a great many lead lines to bind them together. (_c_) Glass that is uneven in surface and in the distribution of its colour. (_d_) Glass coloured throughout the mass (pot metal glass). (_e_) Glass that is practically unobscured by paint.

But let us get up to our clerestory windows. It has been instructive arriving there, but now let us see what had to be done to admit more light through these upper embrasures. In the first place it was clear that there had to be less leading, which meant larger pieces of glass. For this purpose there was devised a conventional style of decoration giving a most pleasing result. This consisted of a series of large figures of saints, kings, or other great personages. Unfortunately we cannot see this sort of clerestory window in Paris, but a visit to Bourges or Rheims or Chartres will soon convince you how splendidly they serve their purpose. At Notre Dame, in the choir clerestory, one sees only a poor imitation of the destroyed old windows; owing to the paint upon the glass, the yellows are dull and the reds are thick and muddy.

When you have seen one of these rows of huge figures, the reason for the device becomes clear. The folds of garments of such size permitted the use of large sheets of glass, and as little lead and no paint were needed, the light was not obscured. The drawing of the folds, etc., was executed by the leads which, in any event, were required for structural reasons. So large are some of these figures that often we shall find that their eyes were not drawn with pigment, but were separately leaded in. This would not have been agreeable in the lower range of windows, but high up in the air, far above the observer's head, it produced the effect desired. Nor was this the only trick indulged in by the artist. Sometimes he permitted himself very odd uses of colour. You will notice that during this century he generally employed brown glass instead of white for flesh tints. Of course he did not have what we call white glass--that was a perfection not yet reached, but he might have used pink. No, he preferred brown; and when you have seen the glorious rows of clerestory figures looking down upon you at Rheims or Chartres, you will know that he was right. His colours were so rich and strong that white glass in the faces would have been too sharp a contrast and would have spoilt the harmony of tones. Nor was this the only strange choice of tints. You will be startled to read that blue is used for the hair of the Christ in a Crucifixion scene, and yet so cleverly was it worked in that many an observer of the splendid east window of Poitiers Cathedral has gone away without noticing that the hair is blue or that the cross is bright red! The effect of the picture was achieved, proof that the artist knew and developed the possibilities existing in his materials. That certainly always has been and always will be one of the great tests of artistic ability.

While in Notre Dame notice another method of glazing prevalent in that century and which also had for its raison d'etre the need for light in the upper windows. This is what is called "grisaille," a panel of greenish-grey glass, sometimes surrounded by a border of the same tone, sometimes by one of gayer tints, but always, during this period, a broad border. Back in the twelfth century, where we first find these windows, the borders are wider still. Their small pieces of glass are held together by leads arranged in conventional designs, often in what is called strap work, _i.e._, the seeming interlacing of straps in a sort of basket pattern, very simple and agreeable. The light comes through in a cool, silvery tone which blends well with the stone structure about it. In Notre Dame we see examples of these windows, some with grisaille borders, and also a few with coloured ones, but on our travels we shall find much better types at Bourges, at Chalons-sur-Marne, and elsewhere.

As a result of our sightseeing we will learn that the best of the early glaziers realised that to compensate for the dim light yielded by the medallion windows below, it was necessary to have better illumination from above. Of course this combination in perfection was not often accomplished, but we generally find that if the artist did not himself take care to admit sufficient light, somebody that came later corrected the error. Often we find that the monks, to obtain more light in the choir, removed the coloured panels and substituted plain glass. In several instances, notably at Amiens, they attempted to sanctify their vandalism by destroying only so much stained glass in a window as to leave a large white cross upon it. When we come to the next century we shall see what this vandalism in favour of better-lighted church interiors is going to produce.

For the sake of clearness let us review the steps by which we have reached our conclusions. First we saw that the thirteenth century window has far more charm in its colour than in its drawing, which, although generally true of all glass, is never so emphatically true as during this period. While examining the colour composition, we have learnt how a window is constructed, and that in turn has taught us why it is best to view it from a little distance. The next step was to conclude that therefore this style of glass was not well adapted to domestic architecture or for small buildings. Further, we have remarked the odd style of drawing then in vogue which, traced back, proves but one of the many imprints which Byzantine art left upon those times.

More time might at this point be profitably devoted to study, but this little volume is not intended for a text-book. Its chief object is to persuade you to go about France and see for yourself its wonderful windows. It is to be hoped that even this small amount of research will prove useful in increasing your enjoyment of the glass. Let us now consider how many and which towns we will visit, and also how we can most satisfactorily group them together so as to provide convenient trips.

THIRTEENTH CENTURY PILGRIMAGES

The glass we have seen in Paris gives but a hint of the richness of this period exemplified elsewhere in France. How much or how little we shall see depends upon the reader. If he has time or inclination for but one example, he should visit Chartres. In giving this advice we solemnly warn him that if he has even a faint idea of seeing more than one, then he should defer Chartres until the last. It so far surpasses the others that they must be seen before it or they will suffer by comparison. If the reader can only visit a few towns, then he will doubtless wish to consider what else they contain besides glass, as these other features may influence him in making his selection. For example, if he is interested in tapestry it is clear that he will prefer Rheims and Angers to other churches equally important in their glass, but lacking such additional attractions. Then, too, nearness to Paris may decide him in favour of one cathedral instead of another requiring a longer journey. With each of our towns we will mention any such extra inducement as tapestry, paintings, etc. At the back will be found a table of distances, not only from Paris, but also from each town to the next. If the reader has plenty of time, we suggest three pilgrimages. If his time is in any way limited, he can either take one or more of them, or else make such adjustment of them as best suits his convenience. It must, of course, be understood that there is some thirteenth century glass which will not be visited by us, but any one who has followed these itineraries will have seen all of the best. When we reflect how fragile is a glass window, it is really marvellous that we shall find so much of this easily destroyed beauty after the stress of centuries. Only a few churches can show anything like a complete series of windows, and fewer still a series all glazed during the same period. Chartres, that treasure-house of glass, is the nearest approach to a perfectly complete example. Le Mans, perhaps, is next. Bourges is splendid in its thirteenth century glory, but there the hypercritical may find that the fifteenth century glazing of the nave chapels interferes with the earlier effect. The clerestory of Rheims Cathedral boasts row on row of gorgeous kings and bishops, but there we look in vain for the medallion windows to give us the usual glowing chapels below. These differences are not mentioned to criticise, but to point out that we shall find a variety and not a monotony of beauty. Now for the three itineraries:

(_a_) Our first tour is the longest, starts at the point most distant from Paris, and then works back to that city. We begin at Bourges, 4-1/4 hours by railway, 227 kilometres by road. From Bourges we go to Poitiers, then to Tours, to Angers, to Le Mans, and end at Chartres. Chartres is only 1-1/4 hours from Paris, 88 kilometres by road.

(_b_) Before starting on the second tour we must consult time-tables in order to make connections for Auxerre, which is 35 minutes beyond La Roche, a station on the main line to Lyons and the south. If we could take a through train from Paris, the journey would be under three hours. By automobile it is 168 kilometres, leaving Paris by the road to Fontainebleau. From Auxerre we come back to Sens, then to Troyes, to Chalons-sur-Marne, and lastly to Rheims, two hours from Paris (145 kilometres). If the time or inclination of the pilgrim makes it expedient that this trip be shortened, then, if he is a railway traveller, let him begin by Troyes and come around by Chalons and Rheims. If, on the other hand, he is travelling by automobile, he might as well see Sens just before Troyes, because by road Sens is not much off the line from Paris to Troyes and is well worth that small detour. The railway journey, however, between Sens and Troyes is a tedious one of more than two hours, because it is a branch line where there are no expresses.

(_c_) The last tour is most convenient to Paris, and although clearly secondary in importance as a glass pilgrimage, the scenery is so very attractive that it will particularly appeal to the automobilist and bicyclist. We begin by visiting Soissons, an hour and a quarter by train (95 kilometres by road), then Laon, next St. Quentin and last Amiens, an hour and a quarter by train (131 kilometres) from Paris. If he is "en automobile," the pilgrim may return to Paris by way of Beauvais, for it is not much out of his way. If, however, he is travelling by railway, then he should omit Beauvais, for he will find only exasperatingly slow trains from Amiens to Beauvais. The thirteenth century glass there is unimportant, and, besides, we shall later visit it for that of the sixteenth century.

If the reader intends to take all of these three tours he should begin with (_c_), then take (_b_), and lastly (_a_). If he can take but two, then begin with (_b_) and end with (_a_). If there is time but for one, (_a_) is the best. The automobilist may unfold his maps and prepare a combination trip if he likes, for that is one of the licensed joys of automobiling. The old-fashioned traveller by railway will, however, find the order here set out the most convenient one.

There is a splendid series of medallion windows around the choir chapels of the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand, but it is too far out of our way to be properly included in any of the above tours. Rouen, too, has fine medallion work of this period in its cathedral, but the later glass there is so much more interesting that we will not include it in these groups. Both these towns will be visited later in their appropriate order, and we shall then have an opportunity to enjoy their delightful thirteenth century windows.

BOURGES

The writer will never forget his first impression of Bourges Cathedral, as, mounted on a bicycle, he approached it over the rolling country that lies to the east towards Nevers. For a long time it seemed a great rock rising from the plain, which steadily grew larger and larger until, all at once, it took on the outlines of a huge cathedral. Fantastic as it may seem in the telling, this vast bulk looming up against the sky exactly symbolised for him the word "Bourges." To fully appreciate this great church one should approach it this way and let it grow before one's eyes. This is true of but few cathedrals, among which there is an easily recalled instance in England. No one ever realises all the soft grey beauty of Ely unless, thanks to his slow progress down the river Ouse, he has seen it gradually arise from the green setting of fen lands. Perhaps one reason why Bourges, when viewed from a distance, does not immediately disclose itself to be a cathedral is because one sees no perpendicular lines. On one side the great tower so tapers as to seem to slant inward, while on the other side the flying buttresses present an even greater divergence from the perpendicular. All this increases the rock-like appearance and defers the realisation that it is architecture and not nature until one is so near as to perceive some of the details. In one respect Bourges is like the town of Amiens, in that nearly all its architectural beauty is centred in the cathedral and seems to have been content to bourgeon and blossom there. Bourges has, however, one advantage in possessing a wonderful "house that Jack built," the fifteenth century palace of Jacques Coeur, a rich merchant and banker whose wealth was the cause of his final overthrow and banishment on a trumped-up charge of debasing the coinage. Even the fact that he had lent money freely to Charles VII did not save him. Later on (page 151) we shall consider the cathedral's fifteenth century glass, and we shall then examine the splendid window given by Jacques Coeur, perhaps the finest that period can show. Chief among the charms of the cathedral's exterior are the splendid five-portalled west front, and the lace-like garment of flying buttresses that gracefully hangs about its sides and east end. The great apse is built upon the remains of the old Roman walls, which so elevates it above the neighbouring houses as to provide a clear view of the flying buttresses. Unfortunately, the west front does not fare so well. There is hardly a cathedral in Europe so shut in on the west by adjoining buildings. They huddle so closely about it that one has no opportunity to stand off and properly observe the elaborate carvings and other architectural features that unite to make the beauty of this famous facade. From the way in which each succeeding story decreases in size, it is easy to see why the big northern tower appeared to slant inward when viewed from a distance. Like one of the cathedral towers at Rouen, it is named the Tour du Beurre because it was built with money received from the sale of indulgences to eat butter during Lent.

Most Americans have, during the day-dreams of their childhood, conjured up a mental picture of the vast interior of an ancient cathedral, and of the mysteriously impressive gloom that would some day there meet their eyes. It is doubtful if any other church more completely realises this fancy of our childhood. As one enters the great building he receives an impression never to be forgotten. A feeling of vastness lays hold upon one even more strongly than at Beauvais and Amiens, both of which are actually loftier. Here the seeming height is increased by the five rows of windows, one above the other. This addition to the usual allotment of three tiers (lower arches, triforium and clerestory) gives an unusual number of light apertures. While there are no transepts, their absence leaves unbroken the lines of the side walls and thus increases the apparent size of the interior. And what a wealth of thirteenth century glass! It gleams and glows and glistens on every side, near at hand and far off in the soft richness of the choir chapels. We find it everywhere except in the nave chapels, which were glazed in the fifteenth century. Perhaps if it were not for the increased light which these later panels admit, we might find the church too much darkened by its sombre earlier glass. It is clear, however, that care was taken even from the first to sufficiently illumine the nave, because it possesses a fine series of thirteenth century grisaille windows, enriched and enlivened by broad borders of colour. The noble chapels that encircle the choir show us the effect of mosaic medallions at their best. Above in the clerestory, "like watchmen on a leaguered wall," are stationed a glorious row of large figures which are not to be surpassed anywhere. The richness of their costumes, of the backgrounds, even of the borders, is most sumptuous. We have already noted the absence of the transepts. On our travels we shall notice that the north and south ends of transepts generally contain great rose windows. To compensate the glass artist for their absence here, the architect gave him an opportunity to glaze an elaborate series of forty-five small ones. They extend all around the interior, no two alike, and must be seen for one to appreciate how greatly they add to the interest and charm of the cathedral. It is contended by some that Bourges provides the finest field for the study of thirteenth century glass, but in this opinion we cannot agree, although gladly admitting everything else claimed for it by its staunchest adherents. Our reason for preferring Chartres is that it has more windows, and that they are practically all of the same period, so that the eye does not there find the distraction caused here by the fifteenth century glazing of the nave chapels. We prefer to rank the first four in the following order of excellence: Chartres, Bourges, Rheims, and Le Mans. It will be interesting to learn whether or not the reader agrees with us. At any rate he should see them, and now that we have enticed him so far away from Paris, he will find it as easy to return by the route that includes them as by any other.

POITIERS