Before spending any time in studying the subject of stained glass
windows, let us go and see some good ones. One of the safest ways to
learn how to appreciate any art is to look at fine examples of it.
Of stained glass this is particularly true, because no method of
reproduction, even colour photography, can give any idea of the unique
result there obtained by combining light with colour. No flat tints can
ever produce the effect of warmth and translucence that is yielded by
colour illuminated through and through by the rays of the sun. We will
assume that we are in Paris. Fortunately for our purpose there are
easily accessible two splendid specimens of early glass, one the glazing
of the Ste. Chapelle and the other the rose windows high up in the
western facade and in the transept ends of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
The former is the most perfect instance of a thirteenth century chapel
preserving intact its original glazing, while the rose in the northern
transept of Notre Dame is probably the finest one of its period in the
world. Thus we make an excellent beginning and our interest is at once
stimulated to see more. Observe the difference in the placing of these
windows, as well as in the points from which we view them, as it will
prove peculiarly useful in disclosing how they should be set in order to
best reveal their beauties. Every tourist that visits Paris goes, as a
matter of course, to the Ste. Chapelle, that net of Gothic in which lies
enmeshed such treasures of colour and light. This sparkling marvel lies
modestly nestled among the law courts, whose plainer modern buildings
serve but to accentuate its wonderful beauty. We shall not be long in
learning who was its founder, for the golden fleur de lis of France and
castles of Castile strewed over its walls of glass mutely remind us that
it was built by the good Louis IX and that with him was associated his
mother, Queen Blanche of Castile. No king of France so loved and
befriended our gentle art as St. Louis. In many another French window
this same combination of heraldic emblems will demonstrate how
diligently these two royalties (or others in their honour) strove to
introduce and spread the luminous beauty of this craft. This fragile
chef d'oeuvre was constructed by order of its royal patron to provide
a sanctuary worthy to contain the sacred relics acquired by him in the
Holy Land. No effort or expense was spared to fit it for its high
purpose. By reason of its royal founder as well as of its object, we can
be sure that in the Ste. Chapelle we have an example of the best taste
of the thirteenth century. St. Louis laid the first stone in 1245, and
so expeditiously was the work carried on that it was finished and
consecrated April 25, 1248, and we read that all its wealth of glass was
installed before the consecration.
Although we shall refrain from technical words as much as possible, we
can see at a glance why these were called "medallion" windows. Each
subject treated is enclosed in a narrow round framing of colour, thus
breaking up the entire surface into medallions. It prevented confusion
of subjects and at the same time gave a balance to their treatment.
It is a good omen for the future of our combined sightseeing and study
that we can begin with something so complete and charming as the perfect
Ste. Chapelle. And yet, although it is glowingly, mystically lovely with
a beauty attributable chiefly to its glass, other thirteenth century
churches will teach us to notice that here it is the interior that is
benefited and not the windows. So small is the edifice that we cannot
stand far enough away from the glass to let it develop the glittering
glow that refraction of the rays of light lends to the glazing of the
thirteenth century, but which no other period can show us. In order to
fully realise what we have lost by being too near the windows, take the
short stroll that brings you to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Enter its
great gloom, go forward until you are opposite the rose window in the
north transept, and look up. If you have in you any poetry, any
sensuous sympathy with colour and light, you will receive an artistic
thrill so strong as to at once elevate you to membership in our
Brotherhood of Glass Lovers. Our pilgrim staring up at the great rose
window will note the splendid purplish glow that comes from it. Now he
will realise that he missed this gorgeous jewelled gleam at the Ste.
Chapelle, and for the reason that he was too close to the glass. After
he has grown accustomed to this new feature, he will begin to notice
some of the causes for it. The effect is undoubtedly glowing purple, and
yet it is not produced by purple glass. It results from the merging of
the reds and blues, rendered possible, nay, assisted by the smallness
of the pieces of the glass, and this observation also explains why this
same effect was not obtained in later periods when the glass fragments
become so large that the colours remain distinct and do not run into
each other. Because we are too near the Ste. Chapelle glass we remember
it as red and blue, but the memory of the Notre Dame windows, which can
be viewed from a proper distance, is a splendid purple.
[Illustration: 13TH CENTURY MEDALLION, MUSEE DU LOUVRE.
_Window surface broken up into medallions, each enclosing a
little scene. The black outlines of the picture are provided by
the leaden strips which hold together the pieces of glass. Paint
is used only to mark the features, folds in the garments, etc.
Here the lead lines assist the picture--later they mar it._]
It is to be hoped that you have had the good fortune to first visit
these two buildings on a rainy or grey day. That is the sort of weather
for a glass pilgrim to be abroad and stirring, for his windows will be
lighted to the same extent all around the church. If it is a sunny day,
the windows towards the sun will seem thin in colour, whilst those on
the shady side will be thick and flatly toned. He may assure himself
that he is mistaken, and that the difference in effect is caused by the
strong glare of the sun on the one side, and on the other side the lack
of it--we repeat that he may assure himself of this, but he will get the
wrong effect, notwithstanding. Make a mental note of this point and when
you go glass hunting, join the farmers in praying for rain!
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.