The reason for the existence of a window is obvious. When the dwelling
ceased to be a cave and became a house, the need for a light aperture at
once arose. Neither the house nor the window concern us until long after
the house had been made thoroughly habitable, and its windows after much
evolution are finally filled with a sheet of translucent substance,
which, while excluding the weather, would admit the light. Our interest
does not begin until the wish to decorate the house naturally brought
about a desire to decorate the window. We will pass over the story of
the discovery of glass and its gradual improvement; nor will we pause to
consider the very earliest examples now extant, nor examine the steps
through which it must have passed to reach so advanced a stage as we
find in the twelfth century. This is a book to tell where to see
windows, and therefore it must not take up stained glass until a period
is reached when examples are sufficiently numerous and beautiful to
repay a visit to them. At what date then, shall we make our beginning?
There is practically nothing until we come to the charming remains of
the twelfth century; but because these latter are very few and those few
in churches which also contain glass of the next century, we shall
commence with the heading of "Thirteenth Century and Earlier." That
explains why we have selected this particular epoch as the starting
point of our investigations. Our windows will themselves disclose to us
that the Golden Age of French stained glass falls of itself into three
subdivisions--the first comprising the twelfth and thirteenth centuries,
the second the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and the third the
sixteenth century. Of the second subdivision we shall find but few
examples, of the first more, and of the third most.
No matter how far back we push our researches, we are sure to be
surprised at the advanced state of the art represented by any window
which attempts a picture. In fact, we shall happen upon no satisfactory
traces of the evolution which must have led up to even the crudest and
oldest story-window. We are forced, therefore, to conclude that this
evolution must have occurred in another art, and the result there
evolved transferred into this one. This conclusion is much strengthened
when we read that St. Sophia, built by Justinian during the sixth
century in Constantinople, contained not only glass mosaics on the
walls, but also in its windows. Here we have the key to the puzzle. The
many artists who were then occupied in designing mosaics, worked out
their pictures in little pieces of glass on the wall until they had
developed along that line as far as possible. Then they doubtless
bethought themselves that these glass mosaics would be even more
effective if they could devise a means of illuminating their picture by
letting the light shine through the colour. To accomplish this they
contrived to hold the morsels of glass securely in place, first by
wooden or stucco frames, and later by long ribbons of lead having
channels on each side to retain the edges of the glass. This form of
mosaic so held up to the light became a stained-glass window. Thus we
easily understand that when the idea arrived of taking the mosaic
picture off the wall and putting it into the embrasure of the window,
the art of making that picture out of bits of glass had already been
fully developed.
We shall avoid the technicalities of glass making, as they do not suit
our holiday mood. Nor is there good reason why we should discuss any use
of glass save that which is required in the construction of our windows.
Let us, however, in passing, refer to the very curious fact that a
severe blow was dealt to all other sorts of glassware when the artists
turned their attention to the making of windows. Glassware had
constantly improved in design and colour up to the time (early in the
twelfth century) when the great interest in windows sprang up. This new
taste seemed to at once throw all other developments of this material
into a comatose condition which lasted on through the five centuries
composing the Golden Age of the window. This observation receives a
peculiar confirmation when we notice that, at the end of the sixteenth
century, stained glass suddenly lost its vogue at the same time that
glassware sprang into renewed favour through the artistic skill and
inventive genius of the Venetians. Indeed, the decadence of stained
glass seemed to be the signal for the revival of hollow glassware. To
revert for a moment to the time when window making caused a halt in the
improvement of hollowware, it is interesting to note that glass making
then left its former haunts and betook itself to the forests, where
it lurked until the stained-glass window having shot its bolt,
hollowware again engaged the attention of the artists and was once more
manufactured nearer to the homes of its purchasers. During this period
of partial seclusion the glass produced was of a peculiar quality called
in English "forest glass" and in French "verre de fougere" (referring to
the wild fern or bracken which was burnt to provide the necessary
alkali). The two names combine to explain to us that wood and not coal
was used by the glass-blower and also that his alkali had to be gotten
in an unusual way. The toughness of this "forest glass" was admirably
suited to the requirements of the window-maker.
As this book will be confined to an examination of French stained glass,
it is appropriate to cite Theophilus, who when in the twelfth century
he wrote his celebrated Latin treatise on this general subject, stated
that the art was a French one. This makes it all the more important
that we trace its beginnings in France, as well as inquire whence came
the influence which so strongly marked them. This inquiry will reveal
that it was to Byzantium that the early glaziers were indebted for
their quaint style of drawing. In early glass we will observe the
constrained, ungainly poses of the bodies, arms and legs, as well as
the staring-eyed, ill-proportioned heads, not only in the medallion
type of windows, but also in the larger figures glaring down from the
clerestories. Very interesting conclusions may be reached if we place
side by side three figures, one taken from thirteenth century glass,
another from a Limoges enamel made any time from the tenth to the
thirteenth century, and the third from the famous mosaics of St. Mark's
in Venice. We have selected an enamel from Limoges because that was the
only locality in which a continued as well as a renowned cult of
enamelling existed in France during the centuries named, while the
reason for choosing St. Mark's is that it is one of the finest extant
examples of Byzantine art. Notice the same constraint in the drawing
of all these three figures, the same awkward pulling of garment folds
to delineate the form, and the same quaint morsel of conventional
architecture about the top (which last, by the way, indicated that the
personage below was a high dignitary of either church or state). The
resemblance is too striking to be merely a coincidence, especially as
each of these figures used in the comparison is typical of hundreds of
others. This very resemblance hints at its own explanation. The dates of
the figures show the order in which these peculiarities of style must
have been transmitted. The Byzantine mosaics of St. Mark's are much the
oldest; then came the Limoges enamels, and lastly the stained glass
windows. Thus we learn not only where our windows originated in France,
but also whence came the designs that the Limoges enamellers taught the
glazier. Abbe Texier, in his "Essai Historique et Descriptif sur les
Argentiers et les Emailleurs de Limoges" (1841), says that French
stained glass began in the neighbourhood of Limoges, whose highly
vaunted school of enamellers were strongly influenced by the Byzantine
types of the Venetian school and that therefore it was but natural that
the glass artist should also have yielded to the Byzantine influence. As
showing how this influence reached Limoges, he states that in 979 a
Venetian colony settled there for the purpose of trading in spices and
other commodities of the East, conveyed from Egypt by way of Marseilles.
Winston says that the Venetian Doge Orseolo I came to sojourn in France
in 978 and that the erection of the Church of St. Front, Perigueux
(near Limoges), is ascribed to him. James Ferguson, in his Illustrated
Handbook of Architecture, tells us that the Venetians (as the great
carriers and merchants of the Levant) were in constant communication
with Byzantium. These facts provide a ready explanation of why these
same pronounced Byzantine types can be remarked first in the mosaics of
St. Mark's, next in the enamels of Limoges and lastly on the stained
glass windows of the thirteenth century. The older the glass, the more
closely does the drawing follow these models; the attitudes are more
constrained and awkward, and the folds of the garment are more tightly
drawn around the figures, nor does the artist allow himself any freedom
from the traditions of that school. Later on the drawing becomes more
graceful and the lines are freer. Anyone who desires to go thoroughly
into the technical side of this art will find a most exhaustive and
scholarly book in Lewis F. Day's "Windows of Stained Glass" (1897). The
best book in French is Oliver Merson's excellent "Vitraux" (1895).
Let us now postpone any further consideration of the general subject
until after we, with our own eyes, have seen enough windows to have
collected material for discussion. This brings us to the selection of
towns, and the consideration of routes.
We have referred to how naturally stained glass divides itself into
three epochs, viz.:
1. Thirteenth century and earlier.
2. Fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
3. Sixteenth century.
Visits to the glass of these epochs will be, for convenience, subdivided
into the following tours: