_ARCHITECTURE AND COSTUME._
In the course of our little pilgrimage through Normandy, it may have
been thought that we dwelt with too much earnestness and enthusiasm on
the architecture of the middle ages, as applicable to buildings in the
nineteenth century. Let us repeat our belief, that it is in its
_adaptability_ to our wants, both practical and artistic, that its true
value consists. Mediæval architects in England are never tired of
insisting upon this fact; although hitherto they must confess to a
certain amount of failure, because, perhaps, they attempt too much.
If one were to judge by what appears to be going on in nearly every town
in England at the present time, we should say that there never was a
time when architecture was so much considered. 'Every town' (says a late
writer, speaking of the extent of this movement), 'that shares the
progress and character of the age, has a new town hall, a new exchange,
new schools, and every institution for which an honest pretence can be
found. A stranger, possessing an interest in the town, and with no claim
upon it excepting that it shall please his eye, must be charmed with the
profuse display of towers, turrets, pinnacles, and pointed roofs,
windows of all sorts, niches, arcades, battlements, bosses, and
everything else to be found in an architectural glossary. He may wonder
why a lofty tower--sometimes several towers--should be necessary to the
trying cases of assault and petty larceny, to the reading of newspapers,
to the inspection of samples of wheat, or to the drilling of little boys
in declensions and conjugations; but that is not his affair, and he has
nothing to do with it, except to be thankful for a good sky-line, and a
well-relieved, but yet harmonious, façade.' Nevertheless, we live in
certain hope of a more practical application of beauty and simplicity of
form, to the wants and requirements of our own day; and we believe that
it is possible to have both cheap and useful buildings, graceful in
form, and harmonious in colour and design.
But notwithstanding our admiration for the buildings of the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries, we are bound to confess that many of them,
both churches and dwellings, fail too often in essentials. Their
dwellings are often deficient in light and ventilation, and are built
with a lavish expenditure of materials; and their churches sometimes
fail in carrying out the very object for which they were constructed,
viz., the transmission of sound.
Still it is possible--as we have seen at Caen and Bayeux--to have
noble, gothic interiors which do not 'drown the voice' of the preacher;
and it is also possible--as we have seen in many towns in Normandy--to
build ornamental and healthy dwellings at a moderate cost. The
extraordinary adaptability of Gothic architecture over all other styles,
is a subject on which the general public is very ignorant, and with
which it has little sympathy. The mediæval architect is a sad and
solitary man (who ever met a cheery one?), because his work is so little
understood; yet if he would only meet the enemy of expediency and
ugliness half-way, and condescend to teach us how to build not merely
_economically_, but well at the same time, he would no longer be 'the
waif and stray of an inartistic century.'
Shadows rise around us as we write--dim reproachful shadows of an age of
unspeakable beauty in constructive art, and of (apparently)
unapproachable excellence in design; and the question recurs to us
again--Can we ever hope to compete with thirteenth-century buildings
whilst we lead nineteenth-century lives? It may not be in our
generation, but the time will assuredly come when, as has been well
remarked, 'the living vigour of humanity will break through the monotony
of modern arrangements and assert itself in new forms--forms which may
cause a new generation to feel less regret at being compelled to walk in
straight lines.'
Here our thoughts, on the great question of architectural beauty and
fitness, turn naturally to a New World. If, as we believe, there is a
life and energy in the West which must sooner or later make its mark in
the world, and perhaps take a lead for a while, amongst the nations, in
the practical application of Science and Art; may it not rest with a
generation of Americans yet unborn, to create--out of such elements as
the fast-fading Gothic of the middle ages--a style of architecture that
will equal it in beauty, and yet be more suitable to a modern era; a
style that shall spring spontaneously from the wants and requirements of
the age--an age that shall prize beauty of form as much as utility of
design? Do we dream dreams? Is it quite beyond the limits of possibility
that an art, that has been repeating itself for ages in Europe--until
the original designs are fading before our eyes, until the moulds have
been used so often that they begin to lose their sharpness and
significance--may not be succeeded by a new and living development which
will be found worthy to take its place side by side with the creations
of old classic time? Is the idea altogether Utopian--is there not room
in the world for a 'new style' of architecture--shall we be always
copying, imitating, restoring--harping for ever on old strings?
It may be that we point to the wrong quarter of the globe, and we shall
certainly be told that no good thing in art can come from the 'great
dollar cities of the West,' from a people without monuments and without
a history; but there are signs of intellectual energy, and a process of
refinement and cultivation is going on, which it will be well for us of
the Old World not to ignore. Their day may be not yet; before such a
change can come, the nation must find rest--the pulse of this great,
restless, thriving people must beat less quickly, they must know (as the
Greeks knew it) the meaning of the word 'repose.'
It was a good sign, we thought, when Felix Darley, an American artist on
a tour through Europe (a '5000 dollar run' is, we believe, the correct
expression), on arriving at Liverpool, was content to go quietly down
the Wye, and visit our old abbeys and castles, such as Tintern and
Kenilworth, instead of taking the express train for London; and it is to
the many signs of culture and taste for art, which we meet with daily,
in intercourse with travellers from the western continent, that we look
with confidence to a great revolution in taste and manners.[58]
To these, then (whom we may be allowed to look upon as pioneers of a new
and more artistic civilization), and to our many readers on the other
side of the Atlantic, we would draw attention to the towns in Normandy,
as worthy of examination, before they pass away from our eyes; towns
where 'art is still religion,'--towns that were built before the age of
utilitarianism, and when expediency was a thing unknown. To young
America we say--'Come and see the buildings of old France; there is
nothing like them in the western world, neither the wealth of San
Francisco, nor the culture of its younger generation, can, at present,
produce anything like them. They are waiting for you in the sunlight of
this summer evening; the gables are leaning, the waters are sparkling,
the shadows are deepening on the hills, and the colours on the banners
that trail in the water, are 'red, white, and blue!'
* * * * *
A Word or two here may not be out of place, on some of the modern
architectural features of Normandy. In some towns that we have passed
through it would seem as if the old feeling for form and colour had at
last revived, and that (although perhaps in rather a commonplace way)
the builders of modern villas and seaside houses were emulating the
works of their ancestors.
Prom our windows at Houlgate (on the sea-coast, near Trouville) we can
see modern, half-timbered houses, set in a garden of shrubs and flowers,
with gables prettily 'fringed,' graceful dormer windows, turrets and
overhanging eaves; solid oak doors, and windows with carved balconies
twined about with creepers, with lawns and shady walks surrounding--as
different from the ordinary type of French country-house with its
straight avenues and trimly cut trees, as they are remote in design from
any ordinary English seaside residence; and (this is our point) they are
not only ornamental and pleasing to the eye, but they are durable, dry,
and healthy dwellings, and are _not costly to build_.
Here are sketches of four common examples of modern work, all of which
are within a few yards of our own doors.
No. 1 is a good substantial brick-built house, close to the sea-shore,
surrounded by shrubs and a small garden. The whole building is of a rich
warm brown, set off by the darker tints of the woodwork; relieved by the
bright shutters, the interior fittings, the flowers in the windows and
the surrounding trees.
No. 2 is a common example of square open turret of dark oak, with slated
roof; the chimney is of brick and terra-cotta; the frontage of the
house is of parti-coloured brickwork with stone facings, &c.
[Illustration]
No. 3 is a round tower at a street corner (the turret forming a charming
boudoir, with extensive view); it is built of red and white brick, the
slates on the roof are rounded, and the ornamental woodwork is of dark
oak--the lower story of this house is of stone.
No. 4, which forms one end of a large house, is ornamented with
light-coloured wooden galleries and carving under the eaves, contrasting
charmingly with the blue slating of the roofs and the surface tiling of
the frontage--smooth tiles are introduced exteriorly in diaper patterns,
chiefly of the majolica colours, which the wind and rain keep ever
bright and fresh-looking, and which no climate seems to affect. The
ornamental woodwork on this house is especially noticeable.[59]
There may be nothing architecturally new in these modern 'chateaux' and
'chalets;' but it is as well to see what the French are doing, with a
climate, in Normandy, much like our own, and with the same interest as
ourselves, in building commodious and durable houses. It is pleasant to
see that even French people care no longer to dim their eyesight with
bare white walls; that they have had enough of straight lines and
shadeless windows; that, in short, they are beginning to appreciate the
beauty of thirteenth-century work.
[Illustration]
We have hitherto spoken principally of the architecture of Normandy, but
we might well go further in our study of old ways, and suggest that
there were other matters in which we might take a hint from the middle
ages. First, with respect to DRESS, let us imagine by way of
illustration, that two gentlemen, clad in the easy and picturesque
walking costume of the times of the Huguenots 'fall to a wrestling;'
they may be in fun or in earnest--it matters not--they simply divest
themselves of their swords, and see, as in our illustration, with what
perfect ease and liberty of limb they are able to go to work and bring
every muscle of the body into play. Next, by way of contrast, let us
picture to ourselves what would happen to a man under the same
circumstances, in the costume of the present day. If he commenced a
wrestling match with no more preparation than above (_i.e._ by laying
down his stick, or umbrella), it would befall him first to lose his hat,
next to split his coat up the back, and to break his braces; he would
lose considerably in power and balance from the restraining and
unnatural shape of all his clothes, he would have no firmness of
foothold--his toes being useless to him in fashionable boots.
Does the comparison seem far-fetched; and is it not well to make the
contrast, if it may lead, however slightly, to a consideration of our
own deformities? We believe that the time is coming when a great
modification in the dress of our younger men will be adopted, if only
for health and economy; it will come with the revival, or more general
practice, of such games as singlestick, wrestling, and the like, and
with an improved system of physical education. It sounds little better
than a mockery to speak of deeds of valour and personal prowess, whilst
we submit to confine our limbs in garments that cramp the frame and
resist every healthy movement of the body. We must not go farther into
the question in these pages, but we may ask--were there as many
narrow-shouldered, weak-chested, delicate men, in the days when every
gentleman knew how to use a sword?[60]
The extravagances and vagaries of modern costume (for which we can find
no precedent in the comparative ignorance and barbarism of the middle
ages) lead to the conviction that there must be a great change, if only
as a question of health. Travellers who have been in Spain, notice with
surprise that the men are wrapt literally 'up to their eyes,' in their
cloaks, whilst the women walk abroad in the bitter wind with only a lace
veil over their heads and shoulders; but the disproportionate amount of
clothing that modern society compels men and women to wear in the same
room seems equally absurd.[61]
And yet there must be some extraordinary fascination in the prevailing
dress, that induces nearly every European nation to give up its proper
costume and to be (as the saying is) 'like other people.' There is an
old adage that you cannot touch pitch without being defiled, and with
the people of whom we have been speaking, it certainly has its
application. What is the Normandy peasant's pride on high days and
holidays in the year 1869, but to put on a 'frock coat' and a _chapeau
noir;_ to throw away the costume that his fathers wore, to bid farewell
to colour, character, and freedom of limb, to don the livery of a high
civilization, and to become (to our poor understanding) anything but the
'noblest work of God.'
Again, in the little matter of WRITING, may we not learn
something by looking back three or four hundred years--were not our
ancestors a little more practical than ourselves? Did the monks of the
middle ages find it necessary, in order to express a single word on
paper or parchment, to make the pen (as we do) travel over a distance of
eight or ten inches?[62] Here are two words,
[Illustration: excellentis]
one written by a lady, educated in the 'pot-hook-and-hanger' school, and
another, the autograph of William of Malmesbury, an historian of the
twelfth century. Is the modern method of writing much more legible than
the old--is it more easily or quickly written; and might not we adopt
some method of writing, by which to express our meaning in a letter, at
less length than thirty feet?
We might add something about our misuse of words (as compared with the
habit of 'calling a spade a spade' in the writings of the old
chroniclers), about our unnecessary complications, and the number of
words required to express an idea in these days; and suggest another
curious consideration, as to how such prolixity affects our thoughts and
actions.[63] Is it of no moment to be able to express our thoughts
quickly and easily? Does it help the Bavarian peasant-boy to comprehend
the fact of the sun's rising over his native hills, that ten consonants,
in the poetic word morgenlandisch have to travel through his mind?
These things may be considered by many of slight importance, and that
if they are wrong, they are not very easily remedied; but in
architecture and costume we have the remedy in our own hands. Why--it
may be asked in conclusion--do we cling to costume, and prize so much
the old custom of distinctive dress? Because it bears upon its forehead
the mark of truth; because, humble or noble, it is at least, what it
appears to be; because it gives a silent but clear assurance (in these
days so sadly needed) that a man's position in life is what he makes it
appear to be; that, in short, there is nothing behind the scenes,
nothing to be discovered or hunted out. It is the relic of a really
'good old time,' when a uniform or a badge of office was a mark of
honour, when the _bourgeoisie_ were proud of their simple estate, and
domestic service was indeed what its name implies. We cling to costume
and regret its disappearance, when (to use a familiar illustration) we
compare the French _bonne_ in a white cap, with her English
contemporary with a chignon and the airs of 'my lady.'
But distinctive costumes, like the old buildings, are disappearing
everywhere, and with them even the traditions seem to be dying out.
Queen Matilda (we are soon to be told) _never worked the Bayeux
Tapestry_, and Joan of Arc _was not burnt at Rouen_! The old world
banners are being torn down one by one--facts which were landmarks in
history are proved to be fiction by the Master of the Rolls; we close
the page almost in despair, and with the words coming to our lips,
'there is _nothing true_ under the sun.'