_ROUEN._
At a corner of the market-place at Rouen, there stood, but a few years
ago, one of the most picturesque houses in all Normandy, and with a
story (if we are to believe the old chroniclers) as pathetic as any in
history.
It was from a door in this house that, in the year 1431, the unfortunate
Joan of Arc was led out to be 'burned as a sorceress' before the people
of Rouen. We need not dwell upon the story of the 'fair maid of
Orleans,' which every child has by heart, but (mindful of our
picturesque mission) we should like to carry the reader in imagination
to the same spot just four hundred years later, when an English artist,
heedless of the crowd that collects around him, sits down in the street
to sketch the lines of the old building, already tottering to ruin.
Faithfully and patiently does the artist draw the old gables, the unused
doorway, the heavy awnings, the piles of wood, the market-women, and the
grey perspective of the side street with its pointed roofs, curious
archways and oil lantern swinging from house to house; and as faithfully
(even to the mis-spelling of the word 'liquer,' on a board over the
doorway) almost indeed, with the touch of the artist's pencil, has the
engraver reproduced, by means of photography, the late Samuel Prout's
drawing on the frontispiece of this volume.[41]
Few artists have succeeded, as Prout succeeded, in giving the character
of the old buildings in Normandy, and certainly no other drawings with
which we are acquainted, admit of being photographed as his do, without
losing effect. It is scarcely too much to say that in this engraving we
can distinguish the different washes of colour, the greys and warmer
tints, the broad touches of his pencil on the white caps of the women,
and the very work of his hand in the bold, decisive shadows.
It is pleasant to dwell for a moment on Prout's work, for he has become
identified with Normandy through numerous sketches of buildings now
pulled down; and they have an antiquarian as well as an artistic
interest. They are 'mannered,' as we all know, but they have more
_couleur locale_ than any of the drawings of Pugin; and are valued (we
speak of money value) at the present time, above the works of most
water-colour painters of his time.
But we must not dream about old Rouen, we must rather tell the reader
what it is like to-day, and how modern and prosaic is its aspect; how we
arrive by express train, and are rattled through wide paved streets in
an '_omnibus du Chemin de Fer_,' and are set down at a 'grand' hotel,
where we find an Englishman seated in the doorway reading 'Bell's Life.'
Rouen is busy and thriving, and has a fixed population of not less than
150,000; situated about half-way between Paris and the port of Havre,
there is a constant flow of traffic passing and repassing, and its quays
are lined with goods for exportation. In front of our window at the
Hôtel d'Angleterre, from which we have a view for miles on both sides
of the Seine, the noise and bustle are almost as great as at Lyons or
Marseilles. The Rouen of to-day is given up to commerce, to the swinging
of cranes, and to the screeching of locomotives on the quays; whilst the
fine broad streets and lines of newly erected houses, shut out from our
view the old city of which we have heard so much, and which many of us
have come so far to see. As we approach Rouen by the river, or even by
railway, it is true that we see cathedral towers, but they are
interspersed with smoking factory chimneys and suspension bridges; and
although on our first drive through the town, we pass the magnificent
portal of the cathedral and the old clock-tower in the '_rue de la
Grosse Horloge_,' we observe that the cathedral has a cast-iron spire,
and that the frescoes and carving round the clock-tower are built up
against and pasted over with bills of concerts and theatres.
The streets are full of busy merchants, trim shopkeepers, and the usual
crowd of blouses that we see in every city in France. There are wide
boulevards and trees round Rouen; and if we look down upon the city from
the heights of Mont St. Catherine (perhaps the best view that we can
obtain anywhere) it may remind us, with its broad river laden with ships
and its cathedral towers, of the superb view of Lyons that we obtain
from the heights near the cemetery: the view so well known to visitors
to that city. The people of Rouen who have spread out into the enormous
suburb of St. Sever, on the left bank of the Seine,[42] are busy by
thousands in the manufactories,--the sound of the loom and the anvil
comes up to us even here; and down by the banks of the river, away
westward, as far as the eye can see, up spring clean bright houses of
the wealthy manufacturers and traders of Rouen,--rich, sleek, and portly
gentlemen with the thinnest boots, who never even pass down the old
streets if they can help it, but whom we shall find very pleasant and
hospitable; and with whom we may sit down at a café under the trees and
play at dominoes in the open street, in the middle of the day, without
creating a scandal.
But if Rouen will not compare with Lyons in size, or commercial
importance, it surpasses it in antiquarian interest; and we have chosen
our illustrations to depict it rather as it was, than as it is. We give
a drawing of Joan of Arc's house rather than of a building in the 'rue
Imperiale;' and a view of the old market-place in front of the cathedral
rather than of the trim toy-garden at the west end of the church of St.
Ouen; and we do this, not only because it is more picturesque, but
because the modern aspect of Rouen is familiar to the majority of our
readers.
But we must examine the old buildings whilst there is time, for (as in
other towns of Normandy) the work of demolition grows fast and furious;
and the churches, the _Palais de Justice_, the courts of law, and the
tower of the _Grosse Horloge_ will soon be all that is left to us. The
narrow winding streets of gable-ended houses, with their strange
histories, will soon be forgotten by all but the antiquary; for there is
a ruthless law that no more half-timbered houses shall be built, and
another that everything shall be in line.
We are surrounded by old houses, but cannot easily find them, and when
discovered they almost crumble at the touch--they fade away as if by
magic; and there is a halo of mystery, we might almost say of sanctity,
about them which is indescribable; it is as if the blossoms of an early
age still clung to the old walls and garlanded with time-wreaths their
tottering ruins.
Rouen is disappearing like a dissolving view--a few more slides in the
magic lantern, a few more windows of plate-glass, a few more '_grandes
rues_' and the picture of old Rouen fades away.
Let us hasten to the _Place de la Pucelle_, and examine the carving on
the houses, and on the _Hôtel Bourgthéroude_, before the great Parisian
conjuror waves his wand once more. But, hey presto! down they come, in a
street hard by--even whilst we write, a great panel totters to the
ground--heraldic shields, with a border of flowers and pomegranates,
carved in oak; clusters of grapes and diaper patterns of rich design,
emblems of old nobility--all in the dust; a hatchment half defaced, a
dragon with the gold still about his collar, a bit of an eagle's wing, a
halberd snapped in twain--all piled together in a heap of ruin!
A few weeks only, and we pass the place again--all is in order, the
'improvement' has taken place; there is a pleasant wide _pavé_, and a
manufactory for '_eau gazeuse_.'
The cathedral church of Nôtre Dame (the west front of which we have seen
in the illustration), and the church of St. Ouen, the two most
magnificent monuments in Rouen, are so familiar to most readers that we
can say little that is new respecting them. When we have given a short
description, taken from the best authorities on the subject, and have
pointed out to artistic readers that this west front with its
surrounding houses, and the view of the towers of St. Ouen from the
garden, at the _east_ end, are two of the grandest architectural
pictures to be found in Normandy, we shall have nearly accomplished our
task.[43]
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF 'NOTRE DAME' AT ROUEN.
"Like a piece of rockwork, rough and encrusted with images, and
ornamented from top to bottom."]
'The cathedral of Nôtre Dame occupies with its west front one side of a
square, formerly a fruit and flower market. The vast proportions of this
grand Gothic façade, its elaborate and profuse decorations, and its
stone screens of open tracery, impress one at first with wonder and
admiration, diminished however but not destroyed, by a closer
examination; which shows a confusion of ornament and a certain
corruption of taste.
'The projecting central porch, and the whole of the upper part, is of
the sixteenth century, the lateral ones being of an earlier period and
chaster in style. Above the central door is carved the genealogy of
Jesse; over the north-west door is the death of John the Baptist, with
the daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod; and above them, figures
of Virgin and Saints.
'The north tower, called St. Romain (the one on the left in our
illustration), is older in date, part of it being of the twelfth
century; the right-hand tower, which is more florid, being of the
sixteenth.' The central spire in the background is really of _cast
iron_, and stands out, it is fair to say, much more sharply and
painfully against the sky, than in our illustration.[44] We must not
omit to mention the beautiful north door, called the 'Portail des
Libraires,' which in Prout's time was completely blocked up with old
houses and wooden erections.
'On entering the doorway of the north porch (says _Cassell_), the
visitor will be struck with the size, loftiness, and rich colour of the
interior, 435 feet long and 89 feet high. The 'clerestory' of the
sixteenth century is full of painted glass. On each side of the nave
there is a series of chapels, constructed in the fourteenth century,
between the buttresses of the main walls; they are full of very fine
stained glass, and contain good pictures and monuments. The transepts
are remarkable for their magnificent rose-windows, and in the north
transept there is a staircase of open-tracery work of exquisite
workmanship.
'The choir, separated from the nave by a modern Grecian screen, was
built in the thirteenth century, the carving of the stalls is extremely
curious. The elaborately carved screen in front of the sacristy was
executed in the latter part of the fifteenth century, and its
wrought-iron door must not be passed unnoticed.'[45]
The Church of St. Ouen 'surpasses the cathedral in size, purity of
style, masterly execution, and splendid, but judicious decoration, and
is inferior only in its historic monuments. It is one of the noblest and
most perfect Gothic edifices in the world.' Thus it has been described
again and again; suffice it for us to mention a few details of its
construction. It is said that the abbey of St. Ouen was orginally built
in 533, in the reign of Clothaire I., and then dedicated to St. Peter.
Through various changes of construction and destruction, it holds a
prominent part in the history of the time of the Conqueror and the Dukes
of Normandy; and it was not for a thousand years after its foundation
that the present building was completed. 'During the troubles of the
times of the Huguenots in the sixteenth century, it suffered greatly,
especially in 1562, when the fanatics lighted bonfires inside, and burnt
the organ, stalls, pulpit, and vestments.' Again at the end of the
eighteenth century, 'the building was exposed to the fury of the
Revolutionists, when it was used as a manufactory of arms; a forge being
erected within it and the painted windows so blackened as to become
indecipherable; and later still, 'in the time of Napoleon I., a project
was laid before him, by the municipality of Rouen, for destroying the
church altogether!'
Perhaps there is no monument that we could point to in Europe which has
a more eventful history, or which, after a lapse of thirteen hundred
years, presents to the spectator, in the year 1869, a grander spectacle.
If we walk in the public gardens that surround it, and see its towers,
from different points, through the trees, or, better still, ascend one
of the towers and look down on its pinnacles, we shall never lose the
memory of St. Ouen. The beautiful proportions of its octagon tower,
terminating with a crown of _fleurs de lis_, has well been called a
'model of grace and beauty;' whilst its interior, 443 feet long and 83
feet wide, unobstructed from one end to the other, with its light,
graceful pillars, and the coloured light shed through the painted
windows, have as fine an effect as that of any church in France; not
excepting the cathedrals of Amiens and Chartres.
We should not omit to mention the beautiful church of St. Maclou at
Rouen, and several others that are being preserved and restored with the
utmost care. The great delights of this city are its ecclesiastical
monuments; for if Rouen has become of late years (as in fact it has) a
busy, modern town; if its old houses and streets are being swept away,
its churches and monuments remain. And if, as we have said, the
inhabitants are prone to imitate many English habits and customs, there
is one custom of ours that they do not imitate--they do not
'religiously' close nearly every church in the land for six days out of
the seven; their places of worship are not shut up like dungeons, they
are open to the breath of life, and partake of the atmosphere of the
'work-a-day' world.[46] In England we dust out our earthy little chapels
on Saturdays, and we complete the process with silken trains on
Sundays; we worship in an atmosphere more fit for the dead than the
living, and in a few hours shut up the buildings again to the spiders
and the flies!
We have little more to say to the reader about the churches in Normandy,
and we should like to leave him best at the south-west corner of the
square in front of the Cathedral (close to the spot from which M.
Clerget has made his drawing), where he may take away with him an
impression of the wealth and grandeur of the architecture of Normandy,
pleasant to dwell upon.
If we do not examine too closely into 'principles,' or trouble our minds
too much with 'styles' of architecture, the effect that we obtain here
will be completely and artistically beautiful, and satisfying to the
eye. It is not easy to point out any modern building that fulfils these
conditions; where, for instance, can we see anything like the work that
was bestowed on the lower portion of this façade? We may spend more
money and effort, but we do not achieve anything which seems to the
spectator more spontaneously beautiful (if we use the word aright);
anything displaying more wealth of decoration, combined with grandeur of
effect. Severe, we might say austere, critics speak of the 'confusion of
ornament,' and tell us that the over-elaboration of carving on the
exterior of this cathedral is a sign of decadence, and that the
principles on which the architects of Caen and Bayeux worked were more
noble and worthy; whilst architects will tell us that Gothic art was
generally 'debased' at Rouen,--debased from the time when people gave
themselves up to the luxury of the Renaissance, and 'pride took the
place of enthusiasm and faith, in art.'
We might, indeed, if we chose to make the comparison for a moment
between Christian and Mahommedan art, see a higher principle at work in
the construction of the mosques and palaces of the Moors, where
simplicity, refinement, and truth are noticeable in every line; we might
see it in mauresque work, in the absence of grotesque images, or the
imitation of living things in ornament; but, above all, in the severe
simplicity and grandeur of their _exteriors_, and in the decoration,
colour, and gilding of their interior courts alone,--carrying out, in
short, the true meaning of the words that, the king's daughter should
be--'all glorious within, her clothing of wrought gold.'
* * * * *
On one Sunday morning at Rouen we go with 'all the world' to be present
at a musical mass at the cathedral, and to hear another great preacher
from Paris. It was a grander performance than the one we attended at
Caen; but the sermon was less eloquent, less refined, and was remarkable
in quite a different way. It was a discourse, holding up to his hearers,
as far as we could follow the rapid flow of his eloquence, the delight
and glory of 'doing battle for Right'--of fighting (to use the common
phrase) the 'fight of Faith.'
But he was preaching to a congregation of shopkeepers, traders, and
artisans, and his appeal to arms seemed to fall flatly on the trading
mind; whilst the old incongruity between the building and the dress of
the nineteenth century, was as remarkable as it is in Westminster Abbey;
and the contrast between the unchivalrous aspect of the speaker, and the
tone of his language, was more striking still.[47]
What priest or curé, in these days, stands forth in his presence or
influence, as the ideal champion of a romantic faith, the ceremonials of
which seem more and more alienated from the spirit of the nineteenth
century--at least in the north of Europe, where colour, imagination, and
passion have less influence? What real sympathy has the kind, fat,
fatherly figure before us with soldiers, saints, or martyrs?[48]
He preached for nearly an hour, with frequent pauses and strange changes
in the inflexion of the voice. We will not attempt a repetition of his
arguments, but must record one sentence in an extempore sermon of great
versatility and power; a sentence that, if we understood it aright, was
singularly liberal and broad in view. Speaking of the rivalry that
existed between the different sects of Christians, and making pointed
allusion to the colony of protestant Huguenots established at Beuzeval
on the sea-shore, he ended with the words, 'Better than all this rivalry
and strife (far better than the common result amongst men, indifference)
that, like ships becalmed at sea,--when a religious breeze stirs our
hearts--we should raise aloft our fair white sails and come sailing into
port together, lowering them in the haven of the one true church.'
He made a pause several times in his discourse, during which he looked
about him, and mopped his head with his handkerchief, and behaved, for
the moment, much more as if he were in his dressing-room than in a
public pulpit; but he held his audience with magic sway, his influence
over the people was wonderful--wonderful to us when we listened to his
imagery, and to the means used to stir their hearts.[49]
In the picturesque and moving times of the middle ages it must surely
have needed less forcing and fewer formulæ to 'lift up the hearts of the
people to the Queen of Heaven;' if it were only in the likeness of the
black doll, which they worship at Chartres to this day. But until we
realise to ourselves more completely the lives of warriors in mediæval
days, we shall never understand how chivalry and the worship of beauty
entered into their hearts and lives, and was to them the highest and
noblest of virtues; nor shall we comprehend their ready acceptance of
the adoration of the Virgin as the one true religion.
In such a building as the cathedral at Rouen, it is impossible to forget
the people who once trod its pavement; memories that not all the modern
paraphernalia and glitter can obliterate. If we visit the cathedral
after vespers, when the candles in the Lady-chapel look like
glowworm-lights through the dark aisles, we are soon carried back in
imagination to mediæval days. The floor of the nave is covered with
kneeling figures of warriors, each with a red cross on his breast; the
pavement resounds to the clash of arms; there is a low chorus of voices
in prayer, a sound of stringed instruments, a silence--and then, an army
of men rise up and march to war. There is a pause of six hundred years,
and another procession passes through these aisles; the pavement
resounds to less martial footsteps,--they are not warriors, they are
'Cook's excursionists'!
Let us now leave the cathedral, and see something more of the town.
It is a fine summer's afternoon, in the middle of the week, the air is
soft and quiet; the busy population of Rouen seem, with one consent, to
rest from labour, and the Goddess of Leisure tells her beads. One, two
(decrepit old men); three, four, five (nurses and children); six, seven,
eight (Chasseurs de Vincennes or a 'noble Zouave),' and so on, until the
Rosary is complete and there are no more seats.[50] Every day under our
windows they come and wedge themselves close together on the long stone
seats under the dusty trees, to rest; and thread themselves in rows one
by one, as if some unseen hand were telling, with human beads, the
mystery of the Rosary.
Why do we speak of what is done every day in every city of France?
Because it is worth a moment's notice, that in the day-time of busy
cities men can, if they choose, find time to rest. There are gardens
open, and seats provided in the middle of the cities, so that the poor
children need not play on dustheaps and under carriage-wheels. There is
a small open square in the heart of Rouen, laid out with rocks and
trees, and a waterfall, which we should dearly like to shew to certain
'parish guardians.'
The modern business-like aspect of Rouen communicates itself even to
religious matters, and before we have been here long, we think nothing
of seeing piles of crucifixes, and 'Virgins and children', put out in
the street in boxes for sale, at a 'fabrique d'ornaments de l'église.'
We, the people of Rouen, do a great business in _chasublerie_, and the
like; we drive hard bargains for images of the Saviour in zinc and iron
(they are catalogued for us, and placed in rows in the shop windows); we
purchase _lachryma Christi_ by the dozen; and, for a few sous, may
become possessed of the whole paraphernalia of the Holy Manger.
We have been cheated so often at Rouen, that we are inclined to ask the
question whether we, English people, really possess a higher working
morality than the French. Are we really more straightforward and
honourable than they? Are there bounds which they overstep and which we
cannot pass? It has been our pride for centuries to be considered more
noble and manly than many of our neighbours; is there any reason to fear
that our moral influence is on the wane, in these days of universal
interchange of thought, free-trade, and rapid intercommunication?
In the course of our journey through Normandy, we have not said much
about modern paintings, but at Rouen we are reminded that there are many
French artists hard at work. The most prominent painters are those of
the school of Edouard Frère, who depict scenes of cottage life, with the
earnestness, if not always with the elevated sentiment of Mason, Walker,
and other, younger, English painters. The works of many of these French
artists are familiar to us in England, and we need not allude to them
further; but there is an exhibition of water-colour drawings at Rouen,
about which we must say a word.[51]
These sketches of towns in Normandy, and of pastoral scenes, have a
curious family likeness, and a mannerism which the French may call
'_chic_,' but which we are inclined to attribute to want of power and
patient study. There is an old-fashioned formality in the composition of
their landscapes, which does not seem to our eyes to belong to the world
of to-day, and a decidedly amateurish treatment which is surprising.
They repeat themselves and each other, without end, and evidently are
thinking more about _Beranger_ than the places of which he sang; they
would seek (as some one expresses it) to 'reconcile literal facts with
rapturous harmonies,' in short they attempt too much, and accomplish too
little. In form and feature, these pictures remind us (like Rouen
itself) of a bygone time, when travelling on the Continent was difficult
and expensive, and views of foreign towns were not easy to obtain; when
some distinguished amateur (distinguished, perhaps, more for his courage
and industry than for his art) visited the Continent at rare intervals,
and brought home in triumph a few hazy sketches of a people that we had
scarce heard of, and hardly believed in; and had them engraved and
multiplied, for the art-loving amongst us, as the best treasures of the
time.
The modernised aspect of Rouen is one that we (as lookers-on merely)
shall never cease to regret, because it is the town of all others which
should tell us most of the past; and it is, moreover, the one town in
Normandy which most English people find time to see.
But if most of its individuality and character have vanished, its
sanitary condition and its wealth, have, we must admit, improved greatly
under the new regime. 'When I walk through the enormous streets and
boulevards of new Paris,' says a well-known writer, 'I feel appalled by
the change, but unable to dispute with it mentally, for it bears the
imprint of an idea which is becoming dominant over Europe. For the
moment the individuality of man as expressed in his dwelling (as in the
house in our frontispiece) is gone--suppressed. The human creature no
longer builds for himself, decorates for himself; no longer lets loose
his fancy, his humour, his notions of the fitting and the comfortable.
Science and economy go hand in hand, and lay down his streets and erect
his houses.' Thus, although, from an artistic point of view, we shall
never be reconciled to the changes that have come over Normandy, we
cannot ignore the consequent social advantages. Mr. Ruskin, speaking of
the change in Switzerland during his memory of it (thirty-five years)
says:--'In that half of the permitted life of man I have seen strange
evil brought upon every scene that I best loved, or tried to make
beloved by others. The light which once flushed those pale summits with
its rose at dawn and purple at sunset, is now umbered and faint; the air
which once inlaid the clefts of all their golden crags with azure, is
now defiled with languid coils of smoke, belched from worse than
volcanic fires; their very glacier waves are ebbing, and their snows
fading, as if hell had breathed on them; the waters that once sunk at
their feet into crystalline rest, are now dimmed and foul, from deep to
deep, and shore to shore.'
But the clouds of smoke that defile the land, the shrieking of steam,
and the perpetual, terrible grinding of iron against iron (sounds which
our little children grow up not to heed) are part of a system which
enables Mr. Ruskin, one day to address a crowd in the theatre of the
British Institution, and on the next--or the next but one--to utter this
lament on the banks of Lake Leman. His remarks, with which so many will
sympathise, lose point and consequence from the fact of his own rapid
translation from one place to another, and from the advantages _we_ gain
by his travelling on the wings of steam. And there is a certain
consolation in the knowledge that in the days when the waters of Geneva
were of 'purest blue,' the accommodation for travellers at the old
hostelries was less favourable to peace of mind.
[Illustration]