AMONG THE CHURCHES
BUT however interesting the old churches of the city are as historical
landmarks, however useful as a clue to guide us through the labyrinth of
the life of New Rome, their supreme value after all consists in the fact
that they are monuments, one of them the finest monument, of what is
styled Byzantine Art--the art which blended artistic elements derived
from Greece and Rome with artistic elements borrowed from Nineveh,
Persia, Syria, and unfolded a new type of beauty. It was the flower
developed by that fusion of Western and Oriental æsthetic ideals and
tastes resulting from the long intercourse maintained between Europe and
Asia, sometimes at the point of the sword, and sometimes by the peaceful
ministries of commerce. Nowhere could that Art find a more congenial
atmosphere in which to flourish than in the city which binds the West
and the East together. Like all else in the world, Byzantine Art was not
a sudden creation, independent of all antecedents, unheralded by
previous analogous forms. The dome was reflected in the waters of the
Tigris and of the Tiber before it was mirrored in the Bosporus. Columns
were bound together by arches instead of by a horizontal entablature, in
the Palace of Diocletian at Spalato, before they were so united in the
Sacred Palace beside the Hippodrome of Constantinople. Walls glistening
with variegated marbles, marble floors glowing with colours that vied
with meadows in flower, mosaics radiant with the hues of the rainbow,
had adorned homes and made palaces beautiful before the witchery of such
coloration cast a spell over the courtiers of Justinian, or suffused the
light in S. Sophia. Even the pendentive that fills the triangular space
between two contiguous arches at right angles to each other, so
characteristic of Byzantine architecture, is claimed to be an earlier
device in domical construction. Be it so. In one sense, there is nothing
new under the sun. The new grows out of the old, the present is the
product of the past. And yet, while a new order of things must spring
from an old order, it is not the bare repetition of what has been;
while it must employ materials shaped originally for the use of other
days, it is not the mechanical combination of those materials. It
employs them in another spirit, under the control of ideas different or
more mature than have yet been known, as the utterance of feelings
acting with peculiar force at particular moments in history, with more
skill, on a larger scale, with happier effect, and the result is that
something appears with an individual entity perfectly distinguishable
from all that ever was before, or that will ever come after. Byzantine
Art is its own very self, however many adumbrations prophesied its
advent.
The oldest ecclesiastical edifice in the city--the Church of S. John the
Baptist, attached to the monastery of Studius--does not, however,
represent Byzantine architecture. Built in 463, it is a basilica, and
accordingly is a specimen--the only specimen in Constantinople--of the
earliest type of a Christian sanctuary. It was well-nigh destroyed in a
conflagration that devastated the district of Psamatia in 1782, and its
roof was crushed in by a heavy fall of snow some three winters ago. But,
though only the shadow of its former self, its primitive character can
be clearly recognised. The old atrium before the church is still here,
with a phiale or fountain in its centre for the purification of the
gathering worshippers. Of the colonnaded cloister along the four sides
of the atrium, the western portion, borne by four columns and forming
the narthex of the church, still stands. There catechumens and
penitents, unworthy to tread the holy ground within the sanctuary, stood
outside and afar off. Beautiful trees now spread their branches over the
court, and the shaded light falls upon turbaned Moslem tombs, as of yore
it fell upon the graves of Christian monks, from the trees growing in
the Paradise of the monastery. It is the most peaceful spot in all
Constantinople, and as fair as it is calm and quiet. The narthex
belongs, undoubtedly, to the original fabric. Its marble pillars crowned
by Corinthian capitals of a late type bear a horizontal entablature, and
the egg and dart ornament, the dentils, the strings of pearls, familiar
in the friezes of Greek and Roman temples mingle with foliage, birds,
and crosses, expressive of new ideas and tastes. Within, the interior
was a hall 89 feet by 83, divided by a double row of seven columns of
verde antique marble, into a nave and two aisles. The proportion of
length to breadth is greater than is usual in basilicas of the West,
and an indication of the tendency to assume the square plan which
Byzantine architecture so strongly manifests. The long lessening vistas
so impressive in Western churches are rarely, if ever, found in an
Eastern sanctuary. In the latter the structure is more compact, and the
worshipper stands before a Presence that compasses him about alike on
every side. At the eastern end of the nave is the usual apse,
semicircular within, a polygon of three sides on the exterior. Triforium
galleries, now gone, divided the aisles in two stories, the upper storey
bearing also columns of verde antique. The columns of the lower tier
were bound by a horizontal entablature, while their fellows above were
united by arches, a mingling of old and new forms. The roof was of wood,
as in similar basilicas elsewhere. The church recalls the Church of S.
Agnes at Rome. Its disappearance will be a matter of deep regret, not
only as an ancient landmark, but as an edifice which preserved the
surroundings of early Christian congregations, and reflected, however
faintly, the light of classic days, through all the changes of the
city's tastes and fortunes.
The Church of S. Irene, notwithstanding the serious restorations it
underwent in the sixth century and again in the eighth, retains so much
of its early basilican type that it can claim a place among the churches
of the older style. In spite of the two domes placed longitudinally upon
its roof, it is basilican in the proportion of its length to its
breadth, in the retention of lines of piers and columns to divide its
nave and aisles, in its single apse, and the galleries on three sides.
The apse has the interest of still preserving the tiers of marble seats
for the clergy, as in the Cathedral of Torcello. Its conch is adorned
with the mosaic of a large black cross on gold ground, and on the face
of the triumphal arch may be read the invocation calling upon the Hope
of all on the earth or upon the sea to enter His temple, and pour His
Spirit upon His people.
SS. Sergius and Bacchus, styled by the Turks little S. Sophia (Kutchuk
Aya Sofia), on account of the resemblance it bears to the greater church
of that name, is interesting from more than one point of view. It
deserves attention as a thing of beauty. Imagine an octagonal building
constructed of eight lofty piers united by arches. Cover that structure
with a dome furrowed by sixteen flutings. Let the sides in the diagonals
be curved and the sides in the axes be straight, to secure more room,
to avoid monotony of contour, stiffness, angularity, and to introduce
the variety, freedom, softness, which give wings to fancy. Within each
archway, except the one at the east, where the semicircular apse recedes
to make room for the altar and the seats of the clergy, place four
columns in two tiers, now green mottled with black spots, now
cream-coloured marked with red veins, now white marked with veins of
dark blue. Crown the lower columns with capitals, whose lobed form has
been compared to a melon partly cut open, but which might, more
gracefully, be likened to a tulip bud breaking into flower. Bind these
columns, after the old fashion, with a horizontal entablature, where
acanthus, egg and dart, reeds and reel, dentils, strands of rope and the
ornamental letters of an inscription, in honour of S. Sergius and of the
founders of the church, Justinian and Theodora, combine to make a
splendid frieze. Join the upper columns, according to the new taste,
with arches supporting conchs, and resting on long, flattened capitals
covered with marble lace. Revet all surfaces up to the cornice with
variegated marbles, and above the cornice spread mosaics. Then put this
octagonal fabric, with its undulated interior surface, thus carved and
coloured and gemmed, into a square edifice, like a jewel into a casket;
so that the apse may protrude beyond the square's eastern side, and the
aisle, between the octagon and the square, may be divided into two
stories by galleries, and the round dome may soar aloft visible to all
without, and you have some idea of the plan and beauty of this gem of
Art.
Another consideration that lends interest to SS. Sergius and Bacchus is
its striking resemblance to the Church of S. Vitale at Ravenna. The
latter was commenced in 526, a year earlier than the former, while
Theodoric the Great ruled his Ostrogoths in the fair city beside the
Adriatic. It was not completed, however, until 547, after the arms of
Justinian had restored Ravenna to the Roman Empire. A comparison between
the kindred buildings would be invidious. Let it suffice to say,
speaking broadly, that the exterior arrangements of SS. Sergius and
Bacchus are superior to those of its western companion, while the
interior of S. Vitale is more beautiful than the interior of the church
on the shore of the Sea of Marmora. But, leaving comparisons between two
beautiful objects alone, it is pertinent to recognise the artistic
influence of Constantinople over Art in the West here manifested. For,
although the churches are too different for the one to have been copied
from the other, they are so similar as to prove the existence of a
common school of Art; a school which had its chief seat in the studios
and workshops beside the Bosporus. Even some of the materials of S.
Vitale were imported from the East; among them, "melon-capitals" like
those which adorn the columns on the ground-floor of SS. Sergius and
Bacchus.
The similarity of the two churches has yet another interest. Their
likeness constitutes them symbols of Justinian's great policy--the
reunion of the East and the West, a reunion maintained for some two
hundred years after its consummation. Since that unity was impaired,
they have stood, one beside the Adriatic, the other beside the Marmora,
like hills which erewhile formed sides of the same mountain, and rose to
the same peak, but which a cruel tide has torn apart and holds separate,
in spite of their kinship.
But, perhaps, the chief interest attaching to SS. Sergius and Bacchus is
the fact that it represents a stage in the solution of the problem how
to crown a square building with a dome, the characteristic mark of
Byzantine architecture.
To cover a round building, round from summit to base like the Pantheon,
with a dome is comparatively an easy matter, for in that case two
circular structures meet and fit together along the whole circuit of
their circumferences. On the other hand, to set the round rim of a dome
upon a square substructure seems an attempt to join figures which from
the nature of things can never coalesce.
Such a union is conceivable, only if, by some device, the different
figures can, at least at some point, be cut to the same shape. The
problem to be solved may therefore be stated as the question, whether
the summit of a square structure can be converted into a circle
corresponding to the rim of the dome it is to support. In SS. Sergius
and Bacchus we have the type of a building in which a step was taken in
that direction. There, as we have seen, the base upon which the dome
rests is formed by a substructure consisting of eight arches arranged in
the figure of an octagon; the gaps at the angles, where arch bends away
from arch, being filled with masonry to the level of the heads of the
arches. Such a base, it is true, does not match the dome as accurately
as a round substructure like the Pantheon. Still, an octagon
approximates to a circle more closely than a square does. Its contour
offers more points of contact to the orbed canopy set upon it, and the
gaps at its angles, being comparatively small, can readily be filled up
to afford the dome a continuous support. If the fit is not perfect, it
is sufficient to secure a decided advance beyond the simpler art, which
knew only how to put one round thing upon another round thing. And what
beautiful results could be gained by this advance, SS. Sergius and
Bacchus in Constantinople and San Vitale at Ravenna are there to prove.
But the end was not thus reached. Circular buildings and octagonal
buildings are exceedingly beautiful; they should always stay with us.
But they are not the most convenient, and cannot become the buildings in
general use. For the practical purposes of life, square or oblong halls
are in greater demand; such as the basilica, which could serve as a
court of justice, a church, a school, a market, or a throne-room. Hence
the question still remained, Can the summit of a square structure be
turned into a circular base for a dome?
And it is the merit of the architects of S. Sophia, Anthemius of Tralles
and Isidorus of Miletus, his nephew, to have applied the method which
solves that problem, with such ability, such splendid success, and to
have made it so conspicuous and famous, that they seem the discoverers
of the method, and not only its most illustrious exponents. The object
which these men set themselves to accomplish was to combine the
advantages of a basilican edifice with the advantages of a domical
building. For, in S. Sophia, the lineaments and beauty of a basilica are
still retained--the threefold division of a stately hall into nave and
aisles, the recess of the apse at the east end, the galleries dividing
the other sides into two stories, long lines of columns, the lustre of
marble and the glow of mosaics all are here. But the ceiling of a
basilica, whether flat, pointed, or vaulted, was an insignificant
feature. It cramped the upward view; it vexed the eye as heavy. In a
church, it seemed to fling back to earth the aspirations which sought
the heavens. It was dark; through it the Light of the world could not
stream into the soul.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF S. SOPHIA, THE SULTAN'S GALLERY
This gallery, built of marble and screened with gilt fretwork, is for
the exclusive use of the Sultan; it is approached by a separate
entrance.]
Whereas a dome was something bold and striking; its construction evinced
great architectural skill; and rewarded the labour bestowed upon it, by
the dignity and the grace it gave to the building whose brow it crowned.
It also appealed to the spiritual mind; it lifted the heart on high, it
was kindred to the skies; it was a cloud through which the glory beyond
the earth could come, in the subdued light that permits mortal eyes to
behold the vision of God. For, most assuredly, the architects of S.
Sophia were not content to rear only a marvel of mechanical skill. Like
true artists they intended to compose "a poem in stone," nay, to build a
"gate of heaven." But first that which is natural, afterwards that which
is spiritual. And we must therefore glance at the method they employed
to cover a basilica with a domed canopy.
In the central area, let us say, of a rectangular building, 235 feet N.
and S. by 250 feet E. and W., erect a square structure of four arches.
Where arch bends away from arch, there are triangular empty spaces
breaking the continuity of the lines of the square summit. Such a base
is not round, and it is broken. Can it be made continuous and
circular--that is the question? It can. Fill the yawning triangular
spaces with masonry to the level of the heads of the arches; only let
that masonry be made concave, as though portions of the proposed dome
were inserted between the arches, to dovetail with them. And to your
surprise, perhaps, but inevitably, the square summit is transformed into
a circle, capable of becoming the bed on which a dome may rest as
accurately and securely, as though the square of arches was round and
solid to the very floor. It is all very simple, after you have seen it
done; but the device which introduced into those triangular gaps at the
upper corners of the square the pendentives which, when they mounted to
the height of the arches, converted a square into a circle was a
master-stroke of genius, whoever conceived it first, and an epoch in the
history of architecture. But how is this domed square structure to be
connected with the walls of the rectangular area within which it is
enclosed? How, especially, is it to be held in position, lest it be
split open by the thrust of the dome and hurled to the ground? The
double-storied aisles to the north and the south furnish the required
support in those directions. But it was in the means devised to sustain
the dome on the east and the west, that Anthemius and Isidorus displayed
all their daring, and secured an effect that has never been matched for
grandeur and beauty.
They placed two comparatively small piers to the east of the
dome-crowned fabric and two to the west of it; arched the piers, and
connected them to the right and the left, still with arches, with the
great piers to the rear of which they respectively stood. Filling up the
triangular void spaces between these arches, they thus gained a
semicircular base upon which to rear, at either extremity, a semi-dome,
climbing with gentle curve to the feet of the great dome, to support it
in its lordly place, and (if the expression may be pardoned) to stretch
it from one end of the nave to the other. It is as though the octagon of
SS. Sergius and Bacchus had been cut in twain and set east and west of a
square surmounted by a dome, converting the central area of the church
into an elliptical or oval figure.
For elasticity of spring, for the grace and majesty of its upward
flight, for amplitude, for the lightness with which it hangs in air,
there is no canopy like the arched roof spread over the nave extending
from the Royal Gates to the altar of S. Sophia.
Poised on arches and columns, soaring from triple bays to semi-dome, and
from semi-dome to dome, bolder and bolder, higher and higher, more and
more convergent, culminating above a circle of forty lights, through
which the radiant heavens appear, it is not strange that it has seemed a
canopy merged in the sky, and that for more than thirteen centuries men
have worshipped beneath it with the feeling "This is none other than the
House of God!"
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN IN S. SOPHIA
One of the two great alabaster water-jars near the entrance.]
Only one thing more was needed to make the fabric artistically
complete--to spread over it what Ruskin terms, "that most subtle,
variable, inexpressible colour in the world--the colour of glass, of
transparent alabaster, of polished marble, and lustrous gold."
Accordingly, all that porphyry, verde antique, white marble, marbles of
variegated hues, in the form of pillar, slab, capital, inlaid patterns,
could contribute, all that delicate carving, with its lights and
shadows, all that mosaics bright and soft as sunset tints could lend,
was brought into requisition, until every part of the interior surface
was suffused in a splendid coloration, and the solid fabric stood
transfigured into a pavilion of some iridescent tissue, overwrought with
gorgeous embroidery, and held up on shafts of prophyry and emerald.
Many persons are, it is said, disappointed with the first view of even
the interior of S. Sophia. Of course the church is not in the state
which made Justinian exclaim, when he first crossed its threshold, "O
Solomon, I have surpassed thee." But, after making every allowance for
the effect of what detracts from the original glory of the church, those
disappointed with S. Sophia must be reminded that, as some one has
remarked, "it costs an expensive education to admire a sunset"; and,
furthermore, that it is the mark of what is truly great to transcend our
immediate grasp, and to reveal its majesty only to prolonged and
reverent contemplation.
S. John Studius, SS. Sergius and Bacchus, S. Sophia, and S. Irene,
notwithstanding their great differences, agree in following, to an
extent that can be recognised, traditions of ancient art. The light of a
day, that is past and over, is still reflected from them; or, to change
the figure, in them the foliage of a bygone summer mingles sparse and
faded forms with the leaves of a new spring. In the other churches left
in the city, old features disappear, and what is new reigns supreme. The
influence of S. Sophia upon the history of Art has, it is said, been
greater than that of any other single building. And yet S. Sophia has
never been repeated.
Nor is this strange. A masterpiece cannot be reproduced. But we must
seek farther for a complete explanation of the fact. While S. Sophia is,
from one point of view, a culmination, it is, from another point of
view, a stage in a process of development. The combination of basilican
and domical features which it displays is a tribute at once to the
influence of old tastes and to the influence of a new fashion. The
result of the cross, so to speak, of the two influences was superb, and
might well have arrested further change. But considerations, practical
and theoretical, were at work urging movement onwards. Although the dome
of S. Sophia was a great triumph, it was not a complete success. It
rested squat upon the building, when viewed from without. And what was
more serious, its thrust against the walls of the church was so strong
as to demand external buttressing to prevent a fall. Furthermore, while
to stand in a forest of pillars was impressive, it was a pleasure that
interfered with the duty of following readily the services at the altar,
and broke the unity of the congregation of worshippers. Then, men had
grown somewhat weary of the basilica, and were enamoured with the dome.
Accordingly, a logical necessity urged the mind to draw all the
conclusions involved in the premises which had won the faith of the
world of Art. Henceforth, the architectural ideal would be a domed
rectangular edifice as free from pier or pillar, and as wide open to
view, if that were possible, as the area beneath the dome of the
Pantheon.
Consequently, the columns or piers bordering the nave decrease in number
until they are reduced to the four necessary to carry the arches upon
which the dome rests. Lateral aisles become narrow; galleries disappear,
or are represented by a gallery only over the narthex. Indeed, in such
churches as S. Saviour-in-the-Chora, the piers that bear the dome are
not free-standing supports, but narrow projections from the walls of the
edifice; so that the interior is practically open to view in all its
length and breadth, having neither aisles nor gallery. In dealing with
the dome, the thrust was reduced, by carrying a cylindrical or polygonal
turret (drum) to a moderate height above the roof, and surmounting the
structure with a cupola. That the fundamental idea inspiring this
movement, from the basilica to the perfect development of a domical
building, was legitimate, and capable of producing magnificent results,
cannot be disputed. But, for some reason, Byzantine architects in
Constantinople did not realise their ideal to the extent we might
expect. At least, no large church constructed on this plan is found in
the city. Then a dome set upon a turret lacks mass and dignity, when
viewed from without, and fails to dominate the interior, or lift eye and
heart upwards, the moment the worshipper crosses the threshold. To look
into such a dome and admire its mosaics is also difficult; sometimes,
even painful.
In order to obtain a church of considerable size, the device was adopted
of building several small churches side by side, furnished with a
continuous narthex, and communicating with one another through their
common wall or walls. The Church of S. Mary Panachrantes, situated in
the Lycus valley, is an example of twin churches, while the Church of
the Pantocrator offers an example of an agglomeration of three churches.
At other times the same result was obtained by adding to an older church
a small chapel, as in S. Saviour-in-the-Chora, and the Pammacaristos.
To overcome the lack of grandeur in a dome placed on a drum, recourse
was had to the system of adorning a church with several domes, in the
hope that multiplicity would compensate for the absence of mass. This
employment of several domes appears already in the reign of Justinian,
who crowned the Church of the Holy Apostles with five domes. When a
church is small, this arrangement produces a graceful and pleasing
effect, as may be seen in the domes of S. Saviourin-the-Chora, S. Mary
Pammacaristos, and the charming Church of S. Theodore Tyrone (Kilissé
Djamissi, near Vefa Meidan). It is seen at its best in the domes of S.
Mark's of Venice. But after all, this multiplication of domes does not
harmonize with lofty sites and broad spaces. Under the wide sky, and on
the hilltops of Constantinople, it looks a petty thing. It can never
attain the grandeur and sublimity essential to the highest achievements
of artistic architecture. Strangely enough, the ideal of Byzantine
architects is realised better in the imperial mosques that crown the
summits of Stamboul, and rise above the hills on which they stand, as
naturally and proudly as a peak lifts its head into the sky. How puny
are the domes of the Pantocrator or those of the Pantepoptes compared
with the dome of the Mosque of the Conqueror, or the dome over the
Mosque of Suleiman the Magnificent, or the dome of the Mosque Shahzade,
or even the dome of the Mosque of Sultan Selim! Nor is it only in their
exterior aspect that the great mosques fulfil the Byzantine ideal. They
do so likewise within. The long pillared lines of the basilica have
vanished. In the Mosque of Suleiman the Magnificent, only four piers and
four columns, the latter from Byzantine buildings, break the interior
view. In the Mosque of Sultan Achmed, only four piers uphold the roof.
And at the same time, what spaciousness! What loftiness and grandeur! If
in these mosques one misses the warmth of feeling awakened in S. Sophia,
one finds the same sense of the majesty of Heaven, the same suggestion
of the littleness of man.
But, if we must not look for grandeur in the churches of Constantinople
outside S. Sophia, we meet with much that is exceedingly attractive.
This would be more evident were it not for the neglect, the wilful
destruction, the inane attempts at decoration, to which the buildings
have been subjected. The groined ceiling, edged with a broad band of
marble lace, in the lateral apses of the Pantepoptes is very graceful.
As a general rule, considerable fancy and taste are displayed in the
ornamentation of capitals. The exterior of apses is sometimes rendered
pleasing by tiers of blind arches, or of niches and pilasters. The
portico of S. Theodore Tyrone, with its columns, melon-capitals,
sculptured balustrade, retains, even in its decay and neglect, traces of
remarkable beauty. There is fine work to be seen likewise in the
Pantocrator. While in S. Saviour-in-the-Chora, one can spend days in
admiration of its mosaics, frescoes, marbles, carvings, cornices, and
borders. The undercut foliage, upon a dark background, which crowns the
mosaic figure of the Virgin on the south-eastern pier of the church, is
exquisite. Very fine also are the faces and the robes of some of the
archangels in the dome of the side-chapel of the church. The mosaics on
the vaulted ceiling of the inner narthex, representing traditional
scenes in the life of the Virgin, are among the finest to be found
anywhere. They are wonderfully rich and brilliant in colour. The marble
revetment of the narthex is a splendid specimen of that style of
decoration. There must have been excellent artists in Constantinople in
the reign of Andronicus II., when the narthexes and the side-chapel of
this church were so beautifully embellished.
Yet the visitor to the churches of Constantinople must be armed with
such enthusiasm for what is historically great and artistically
beautiful, that he will be stirred to pursue his way by even the
minutest fragments of objects invested with these attributes. For it
cannot be said of these old sanctuaries, that they have--
No need of a remoter charm
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.
They have stood where no general appreciation for such things exists.
They have been in the keeping of those who have no pride in their
preservation, no reverence for their associations, no admiration for
certain features of their beauty. They are covered not only with the
dust of ages, but of neglect, ignorance, and depreciation. In visiting
these churches, diverted from their original destination, and shorn of
their glory, one is sometimes reminded of Gibbon sitting on the
Capitoline hill of Old Rome, and listening to the barefooted monks who
chanted vespers in the ruined temple of Jupiter. To his mind the
spectacle suggested the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. So, as one
hears the muezzin's call sounding above the decayed sanctuaries of New
Rome, one may feel disposed to muse on the destruction of the Roman
Empire in the East. That is a natural, a legitimate, a profitable, line
of thought. But it should not be the only direction our thoughts follow.
The Past comes before us not only with its faults, and weaknesses, and
failures. It had its virtues, its strength, its achievements. The
landmarks which it has left behind are not here to recall only the
vanity of human things. They are with us to carry our minds and hearts
back to great examples and to glorious deeds. Sometimes the visitor to
these "church-mosques" is offered pieces of mosaic that have fallen from
the dome under which he stands. They tell of decay, it is true. But with
those radiant little cubes in his hand, an artist may reconstruct the
forms of saints, the figures of apostles and martyrs, the faces of
angels, the majesty of the Pantocrator. So these churches, even in their
humiliation, recall the great community of our fellowmen who lived their
lives, and wrought their deeds, in this city for more than a thousand
years, and they aid us to think the noble thoughts, to catch the love
for beauty, to cherish the high aspirations, and to emulate the services
which glorified that community--that these things may never pass away.