Nowhere in art can there be found so abrupt a change of style as that
which marks in stained glass the arrival of the fourteenth century. So
noticeable is the difference between the windows of the thirteenth and
those of the fourteenth centuries that it can be seen at a glance. Not
only were the new styles very distinctive, but they were also very
enduring, for even when the fifteenth century arrived it did little but
elaborate the ideas introduced by the fourteenth, and for that reason we
should consider them together as forming one epoch. The new results
which we now find are not only in effect, but also in light and in
placing of figures. This transformation took place within a few years
and was, therefore, as sudden in point of time as it was in treatment,
which latter is so marked that it excites our curiosity as to its
causes. It is safe to assume that we have here happened upon not only
one novelty but a coincidence of several, as otherwise the change
would have been much less abrupt. Most of the new elements which in
combination so suddenly produced such a sweeping change can be studied
from the glass which has survived to these modern days, but of one
we can now only read: this was the demand for domestic glass, and
unfortunately but few examples of it are left to us. The old chroniclers
tell us of many private houses and buildings devoted to civil uses
having their windows glazed in colour, a form of luxury hitherto found
only in religious edifices. We know that it then began to be widely
used, especially in Paris, but it did not survive the turbulence of
those times. The effect of this novel use on glass styles was very
marked. Obviously it was not practicable to employ the same sort of
glass in the smaller rooms of a dwelling house that we have seen so
effective in the larger interiors of religious edifices. We notice that
beautiful as is the thirteenth century Ste. Chapelle, its "dim religious
light" is unsuited for any building devoted to secular uses. No, the
medallion window with its deep-toned panes and profusion of leads would
not serve for civil or domestic purposes, nor, on the other hand, could
we bring down the big personages from the clerestories of cathedrals;
they were most impressive when seen from the distance which their lofty
situation necessitated, but they were much too crude and coarse in their
workmanship to be lowered to the level of the observer's eye. For this
new demand of domestic architecture it was obvious that something must
be devised which would give more light. One method of effecting it was
using coloured figures on a soft grisaille background, but this has
only to be seen to be found unsatisfactory. Some examples of this exist
in the north side of Ste. Radegonde at Poitiers. They are interesting,
but the figures start out from the light background so violently as to
plainly make them unsuitable in small interiors. Plain grisaille was not
rich enough to be used in a fine private house. As a compromise between
these two methods they arrived at the use of a border of greyish
simulated Gothic architecture to frame the central coloured figure of a
window. In this way the border admitted the light and the figure gave
the richness; these Gothic frames were called "canopies." But why a
frame of architecture? The interest in Gothic had by this time spread
throughout the fair land of France. Many beautiful examples of it had
just come into being before people's eyes--it was the delight of all. It
was but natural that this noble style, still young, should be introduced
by the glazier, especially as it lent itself to the demand for more
light. Besides, in knowledge of Gothic, the glass artist was second only
to the architect, as the windows were made to suit the church, not the
church the windows. This observation upon the relation of the glazier
to the architect brings us to another reason for the abrupt change in
stained glass, and of this we can to-day readily find examples. We have
said that the artist had to make his glass to suit the window apertures.
About that time the architect was changing their shape. Instead of
being broad and single windows they were now more numerous but narrower
and taller, and were brought together in groups of two or more,
separated only by stone mullions. Above this cluster of narrow lancets
and in order to taper them off gracefully, were placed smaller openings
called tracery lights. Without this tapering at the top, the group below
would look unfinished and ill-proportioned. The few, though wide windows
used during the thirteenth century were found to give too little light,
and, besides, were not as decorative as the Gothic architect demanded
for his more elaborate style. This new period in architecture is called
"Decorated," which name has also properly been applied to its glass. The
architect not only did everything in his power to gain more light by
providing many more wall apertures, but doubtless he also insisted that
the glazier assist in this endeavour. We have just seen that the latter
complied with this request by surrounding his coloured figures with
light-admitting architectural frames of greyish-yellow. Nor did he stop
there: he helped the architect to bind together more harmoniously his
groups of narrow lights into which the whole window was now split up,
for he realised that horizontal bands of light colour placed straight
across these narrow lights would effect this purpose. The slender stone
mullions which divided them showed too many perpendicular lines and
tended to make the windows seem spindling, but this was corrected by
the broad bands of light afforded by the grey and yellow canopy tops
running along over the heads of the saints occupying the tall narrow
panes. Perhaps the reader is already asking whence the artist obtained
so much grey and yellow, because thirteenth century glass leaves rather
a strong purple memory behind it. To answer this question is to bring
forward another new thing and one which also had a large share in
abruptly changing the styles. About the beginning of the fourteenth
century it was discovered that if silver were floated upon the surface
of glass and then exposed to the furnace, the result would be a bright
yellow stain. The word "stain" is used advisedly, because by this method
the surface received a durable colour not removable like paint. We have
already seen that pot-metal colour was introduced throughout the mass
during the time of the making of the glass and was therefore part of it
from the beginning. This new stain was not applied until after the glass
was made, and no other tint but yellow could be produced in this way.
The discovery of this valuable secret has been variously recounted, but
always the credit is given to blind chance, some silver happening to
drip upon glass which, when burnt, disclosed to the surprised workman
the new and beautiful yellow. Its great value in admitting light as well
as in enriching the tones of a window was at once appreciated. No longer
was it necessary to laboriously lead in a bit of yellow pot-metal glass
where that hue was demanded by the design. Now all that was done was to
float a little silver upon a large piece of glass at the point or points
required, expose it to the fire, and behold! a tint that made glorious
the hair of angels, or the robes of saints and high dignitaries. Touches
of this rich colour also made possible architectural frames which would
otherwise have seemed dull, flat and opaquely grey. Each little pinnacle
could be brightened up, lines of yellow would enliven columns and the
canopy window in its light soft beauty was made practicable.
[Illustration: 15TH CENTURY "CANOPY" WINDOW, ST. LO.
_Name given because of Gothic canopy used to frame the coloured
figures. The pale grey glass in the canopy portion admitted much
more light than the earlier windows richly coloured throughout.
Note the modestly drawn donors in the lowest panels._
_14th century canopies seldom filled the whole embrasure,
appearing only in bands across a grisaille field; besides, their
architecture was much cruder, they lacked pedestals, etc._]
It is an unfortunate fact that the best glass of this period is not to
be seen in Paris, although we can get a fair idea of its effect from the
fifteenth century canopied figures in the clerestory of St. Severin. A
few of those at the west end of this church are at once seen to differ
in their design from the others, although all are of the true canopy
type. These few to the west were brought from their original place in
the choir of St. Germain des Pres. At St. Severin we shall note several
points which serve to distinguish the canopies of the fifteenth century
from the earlier ones of the fourteenth. The difference is chiefly in
the use of more colours in the later figures, as well as more careful
architectural detail in their canopies. Further, to make his windows
lighter in tone, the French glazier of the fourteenth century generally
used bands of canopies only across the middle third of the surface,
filling the uppermost and lowest thirds with grisaille. The fifteenth
century canopies almost invariably filled the entire embrasure.
Frequently during the fourteenth century the artist was not content with
the light admitted by his canopies, but added to it by using white for
one or more of the saints' robes. This practice so reduced the number of
colours in the background and the garments that we seldom find more than
two colours within the niches of fourteenth century canopies, while in
the fifteenth century we almost always find four. Then, too, there is an
added feature of decoration in the later ones which is generally lacking
earlier: across the back of the niche a coloured curtain is carried
shoulder high behind the figure, and this curtain is almost always
damasked. This can be remarked at St. Severin, where we shall also see
that all the figures stand upon elaborate pedestals, another sign that
we are looking at work of the fifteenth century, for in the fourteenth
they would have lacked pedestals and be found standing upon grass or
some other natural and unarchitectural base. The artist was so careful
to cling closely to contemporary conventions that sometimes we happen
upon very amusing compromises. For example, here tradition demanded
pedestals, so there they are, even though he had to make the rather
ridiculous combination of a figure standing upon a half-circle of
cloud neatly balanced upon the pedestal's tessellated pavement. The
conventions demanded the little pavement, the design required the
clouds, so he gave us both! In these days when we are so occupied in
copying older art, it is interesting to see traces of a time when they
jealously clung to the styles and forms which were then new.
A brilliant yellow was the only tint obtainable by the process of
staining, but it is also true that other new colours were secured,
although by means of an entirely different discovery which, of itself,
provided yet another new thing to combine with those already enumerated
in changing glass methods. This discovery took place early in the
fourteenth century and made it possible to superimpose another colour
upon white or coloured glass. The method of producing this effect was
very simple: the end of the blowpipe was dipped first into liquid glass
of one colour, and then into another, with the result that the bubble
when blown was of one colour inside and of another outside. The bubble
was then opened out into the flat sheet as usual. This process had
always been followed to make red glass, which was really a sheet of
white coated with ruby, but now all sorts of combinations were made.
Thus a brilliant purple could be obtained by coating a piece of red
glass with blue; red on yellow would give a splendid orange; blue on
yellow a brilliant green. Although invented early in the fourteenth
century, this process did not have all its possibilities developed until
during the fifteenth, when the number of layers was gradually increased
until we find some specimens showing six different coats. We shall enjoy
the results when we visit Quimper or Eymoutiers or Bourges. The French
have a very descriptive name for glass treated in this manner: they call
it "verre double," or "lined glass," referring to the fact that there
are two layers. The abrupt change in glass windows which took place at
the beginning of the fourteenth century becomes less extraordinary when
we recapitulate the various discoveries in the art and realise what an
effect must have been caused by such a combination as that of (_a_) the
chance-revealed yellow stain; (_b_) domestic use which required glass
fit for small, well-lighted interiors; (_c_) the demands of the
architect for his narrowed and more numerous window apertures, and
lastly (_d_) the enriching of the artist's palette due to the new
process of doubling the sheets of glass. The whole trend is now towards
much more light, larger pieces of glass, brighter colours and more
attention to the design at the expense of the colour effect of the
window.
We have now not only set forth the great change that was so speedily
effected in the style and appearance of stained glass, but further, we
have enumerated the various novelties, both in popular requirements and
in technique, which brought about the light tones of the fourteenth
century. The steps by which was effected this transition from the
thirteenth century mosaic type with its rudimentary suggestion of a
canopy, to the fourteenth century figure ensconced in his little
sentry-box, can be seen on but few existing windows; in fact, so little
transition glass is there that the change strikes one all the more
forcibly. There are, however, a few available for this purpose, notably
the three eastern lancets of the Lady Chapel in the Abbey Church at
Fecamp, and a certain window in the north transept of Amiens Cathedral.
The Fecamp lancets show us the first step, where, although the glass is
still entirely mosaic, the architecture at the top is brought down
the sides of the figure so as to complete the sentry-box. Of course
this admits no more light than the regular medallion lancets which
conveniently assist our comparison by flanking on either side the three
easterly ones. We have thus arrived at the enframing canopy, but have
not yet conformed to the demand for more light which had now become so
insistent. How will this be done? A mosaic medallion could not well be
put upon a light surface, as it would look splotchy and unfinished
(viz.: first chapel on the left of choir ambulatory in Rouen Cathedral),
nor would it do to station unframed, isolated, coloured figures on an
uncoloured surface (viz.: Ste. Radegonde at Poitiers). To avoid the
unfinished appearance, they hit upon the idea of surrounding the
coloured figure with a frame-like architectural border (as just seen at
Fecamp), and then put this framed picture in the midst of the plain
panes. This step is exemplified by a large double-lanceted window just
west of the north transept door in Amiens Cathedral. The entire window
is surcharged with a number of these canopy-framed figures arranged in
parallel perpendicular lines. We have now gained more light, and it is
easy to see what is coming next. Instead of placing the small canopies
up and down the window (as at Amiens), it would obviously be more
effective to assemble them in bands across it. Both Sees and Evreux
serve to illustrate this manner of glazing. There are many examples that
mark the slow development from these fourteenth century horizontal rows
of canopies across a grisaille or quarry background, to the perfected
canopy window of the fifteenth century, where the service of admitting
light is entirely transferred from the grisaille or quarry to the canopy
itself. This has been rendered possible by greatly increasing the space
allotted to the simulated stonework, so as to enable it to let in all
the illumination required, and at the same time perform its duty of
framing the coloured part of the picture. These windows at Fecamp and
Amiens are very instructive as showing us the experimental steps which
resulted in the satisfactory combination of picture and illumination,
instead of splotches of colour on a light field.
It must not be thought that we have dwelt too long on this particular
period of transition, for this is the only time during the Golden Age
of glass that there took place an abrupt change in styles, and therefore
a speedy and marked transition. There was certainly nothing hasty in the
way that the broad borders and larger glass pieces of the twelfth
century developed into the narrower borders and more minutely mosaic
method of the thirteenth. As to the transition from the fourteenth to
the fifteenth century, so slowly and so imperceptibly was it effected
that we have decided to study those two centuries together as one epoch,
the second being but the natural elaboration of the first. Lastly,
nothing could be more measured and deliberate than the steps by which
the fifteenth century canopy developed into the sixteenth century large
picture panel, by first changing the canopy from Gothic to Renaissance,
then enlarging the scene within the new canopy until it finally outgrew
the need for the frame, and emerged therefrom in its completed state,
often covering a whole window.
If at this point we turn to our histories, we shall soon encounter
reasons which convincingly explain why there remains so little
fourteenth-fifteenth century glass for us to see. This was the period of
the English occupation of a large portion of France. A peaceful
possession of a part of the country might not have interfered with the
course of art in other quarters, but the English possession was far from
a peaceful one. Fighting, and that of the bitterest kind, went on
continually. We have only to mention the "Hundred Years War" with
England (1337-1453), marked by the disastrous defeats of Crecy (1346)
and of Poitiers (1356), to be reminded of that. It is true that Bertrand
du Guesclin won a short-lived success against the English (1364), but
1415 sees them again victorious at Agincourt and their occupation of
Paris in 1421. This temporary victory of Du Guesclin proved an evil
thing for France, as it prolonged the fighting and increased the
frightful carnage which drenched French soil with blood. It is clear
that during times like these the nobility was not in a position to
interest itself in beautifying chateaux or churches. They were most
earnestly concerned in the gentle art of erecting fortifications; safety
and strength were of vital importance; beauty had to stand aside and
wait. The records show many instances of great architectural enterprises
being halted from lack of funds or from other motives, a case in point
being Troyes Cathedral, upon which no work was done for a long period of
years. The nobility were injured more than the lower classes by these
wars, and in the great defeats of Crecy, Poitiers and Agincourt their
losses were frightful. Many a titled family lost its estates and many
another was exterminated. In battle the middle and lower classes
suffered proportionately less, because the French placed most of their
reliance upon armoured knights and disdained to avail themselves of the
bourgeoisie to the same extent as the English, whose splendid bowmen and
yeomanry were so potent a factor in winning those great victories. The
fact that the great families of France were so grievously crippled
during these wars goes far to explain why glass painting languished for
lack of the support which the luxury-loving class of society was not
then able to give it. Almost as serious for the nobles as the losses in
battle and other ravages of war, was the reign of the subtle Louis XI
(1461-81), who devoted his entire life to destroying the strength of the
nobility and to building upon its ruins the centralised power of the
throne, meanwhile guarding this increase of kingly power by encouraging
the growth of the gendarmerie, and generally the military reliability of
the bourgeoisie. One incident from his life provides us with a fact of
great interest to a glass student. Upon the occasion of the repulse of
the Bretons by the inhabitants of the French city of St. Lo, Louis
presented to the cathedral of that town, as an expression of his
approval of the bravery of its citizens, a fine set of stained glass
windows. As an event in political statecraft it is most significant: he
did not ennoble or enrich certain leaders, but gave the entire fighting
populace a royal gift. To us it has a peculiar interest, because the
incident shows that stained glass was held in such high esteem as to be
considered a worthy gift from a king to a city. But before turning from
a review of the evil days which fell upon France, we must notice that
although the nobility suffered more heavily from battle and statecraft
than any other class, the times were tragic enough for all Frenchmen,
whether noble or peasant, rich or poor. The plague raged throughout the
land--not once, but many times--during these two centuries and its
fearsome grasp fell upon all alike. Nor was this misery enough; to all
these calamities was added that of civil war of the worst type--the war
of the masses against the classes. The scorn in which the nobles held
the poor man was but the natural outcome of the feudal state. The man in
armour despised Jacques Bonhomme, as he called him. When in 1358 the
disorders afflicting the body politic caused this contempt and
ill-treatment to so increase that it could no longer be endured, the
uprising of the oppressed against the oppressor assumed in hideous
satire the name of the Jacquerie. Before it could be finally put down,
French soil was drenched again and again with blood. Even this short dip
into contemporary history has revealed enough to make it passing strange
that any glass at all was made in France during those trying times, and
stranger still that, if made, it should have survived.
We have just seen that during most of these two centuries the French
kings were fully occupied at home, first in fighting the English, with
France as the battleground, and later in subduing their arrogant nobles
and adding Burgundy, Franche Comte, Artois, Provence and Brittany to
the French crown. At the end of this period, with their home lands
cleared of the English and the centralised power of the throne much
strengthened, we shall see how, under Louis XII (1498) and Francis I
(1515), war was carried on outside the borders of France. Under the
influences of this freedom from the ravages of war, combined with taste
for art learnt during the Italian campaigns and brought back to France,
there sprang up an aesthetic revival called the French Renaissance. This
new development is going to give us a very different style of glass
painting, which we will study later under the title of the sixteenth
century.
Before starting out to visit the glass of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, there are several remarks to be made upon it as a whole.
There is not nearly so much left for us to see as there is of the
thirteenth century. It is not going to be so easy to reach it and we
shall have to take longer trips. We may journey far off to the western
corner of Brittany to see the admirable Cathedral of Quimper, or else
down south near Angouleme where we find in the small village of
Eymoutiers a most charming example. Of sixteenth century glass we shall
find much; of thirteenth a great deal; but of fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, only a little. At first one undoubtedly prefers the windows
of the thirteenth and the sixteenth centuries, but after one has studied
glass for awhile, he will surely come to feel that there is a certain
fascination about the silvery glow of a canopy window that is not
surpassed by the jewelled glitter of the thirteenth century or the more
brilliant colouring and drawing of the sixteenth. During the period now
under discussion there was a great deal of good glass made, and from the
records we learn of many a fine window now long since destroyed. A
fair way to judge the French glass-makers is to learn what their
contemporaries across the channel thought of them. For this purpose
it is worth citing from the contract for glazing Beauchamp Chapel at
Warwick, which contract was made by the Earl of Warwick's executors with
a certain John Prudde of Westminster, dated 1447. This contract requires
that no English glass be used, but that the windows be glazed "only with
best foreign glass procurable and to use as little white, green and
black glass as possible." John Prudde got his material from France.
We find another apposite statement in Britton's History of Exeter
Cathedral. He says that 500 square feet of glass was bought for the
cathedral in 1302-4 and that when another large purchase was made in
1317 they sent to Rouen for it. From these citations, selected from many
similar ones, we may safely gather that the English considered French
glass the best, which is most significant when one reflects that just at
that time English glass was at its highest point.