A POEM IN ARCHITECTURE
The church of Brou is like no other church in the world. In the first
place, instead of dragging through centuries of building and never quite
reaching completion, it was begun and finished in the space of
twenty-five years--from 1511 to 1536--and it was supervised and paid for
by a single person, Margaret of Austria, who built it in fulfillment of
a vow made by her mother-in-law, Margaret of Bourbon. The last Margaret
died before she could undertake her project, and her son, Philibert II,
Duke of Savoy, called "The Handsome," followed before he could carry out
her wishes. So his duchess, the other Margaret, undertook the work, and
here on this plain, between the Juras and the Saone, she wrought a
marvel in exquisite church building which still remains a marvel, almost
untouched by any blight, after four hundred turbulent years. Matthew
Arnold wrote a poem on the church of Brou which may convey the wonder of
its beauty. I shall read it some day, and if it is as beautiful as the
church I shall commit it, and on days when things seem rather ugly and
harsh and rasping I will find some quiet corner and shut my eyes and say
the lines and picture a sunlit May afternoon and the church of Brou.
Then, perhaps, I shall not remember any more the petty things of the
moment but only the architectural shrine which one woman reared in honor
of another, her mother-in-law.
It is not a great cathedral, but it is by no means a little church. Its
lofty nave is bare of furnishings, which perhaps lends to its impression
of bigness. But then you pass through the carved doors of a magnificent
_juba_ screen, and the bareness disappears. The oaken choir seats are
carved with the richness of embroidery, and beyond them are the
tombs--those of the two Margarets, and of Philibert--husband and son.
I suppose the world can show no more exquisitely wrought tombs than
these. Perhaps their very richness defeats their art value, but I would
rather have them so, for it reveals, somehow, the thoroughness and
sincerity of Margaret's intent--her determination to fulfill to the
final letter every imagined possibility in that other's vow.
The mother's tomb is a sort of bower--a marble alcove of great splendor,
within and without. Philibert's tomb, which stands in the center of the
church, between the other two, is a bier, supported by female figures
and fluted columns and interwoven decorations, exquisitely chiseled. Six
cupids and a crouching lion guard the royal figure above; and the whole,
in spite of its richness, is of great dignity. The tomb of the Duchess
Margaret herself is a lofty canopy of marble incrustations, the
elaborateness of which no words can tell. It is the superlative of
Gothic decoration at a period when Gothic extravagance was supreme.
Like her husband Margaret sleeps in double effigy, the sovereign in
state above, the figure of mortality, compassed by the marble supports,
below. The mortality of the queen is draped, but in the case of
Philibert, the naked figure, rather dim through the interspaces, has a
curiously lifelike, even startling effect.
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF MARGARET OF AUSTRIA, CHURCH OF BROU]
If the Duchess Margaret made her own tomb more elaborate, it is at least
not more beautiful than the others, while an altar to the Virgin is
still more elaborate--more beautiful, its grouped marble figures in such
high relief that angels and cherubs float in the air, apparently
unsupported. Here, as elsewhere, is a wealth of ornamentation; and
everywhere woven into its intricacies one may find the initials P and
M--Philibert and Margaret--and the latter's motto, "_Fortune, infortune,
fort une._" It has been called a mysterious motto, and different
meanings have been twisted out of it. But my French is new and fresh and
takes things quite obviously. "Fortune and misfortune strengthens or
fortifies one" strikes me as a natural rendering. That last verb
_fortifier_ may seem to be abbreviated without warrant, but Margaret was
a queen and could have done that for the sake of euphony and word-play.
The unscarred condition and the purity of these precious marbles is
almost as astonishing as their beauty, when one considers the centuries
of invasion and revolution, with a vandalism that respected nothing
sacred, least of all symbols of royalty. By careful search we could
discover a broken detail here and there, but the general effect was
completeness, and the white marble--or was it ivory tinted?--seen
under the light of the illumined stained windows seemed to present the
shapes and shades of things that, as they had never been new, neither
would they ever be old.