A church is spread out like a dolmen between two menhirs. The interior
breathes the solemn calm of a forest, the columns are the trees, the
masses of the base are the rocks, the pointed arches are the massive
roots, the vaultings are the caves, and the windows are radiant flowers
in large bowls. When I emerge from the darkness of a cathedral, I feel
as if I came from the shadow of a vast, extinguished world.
Without the brightening light of the stained-glass windows, our churches
would be sad. In Spain the gloom is funereal, but the genius of France
has understood how to capture the caressing light through its windows.
The productiveness of the Celtic spirit is also noticeable in the
capitals. Gothic art abandoned Greek ornament, which had been reproduced
so often that it lost all significance. It found its models in the woods
and gardens. From the oak it took its crown of foliage, from the thistle
and cabbage their gracefully drooping leaves, and from the bramble
its intertwined thorns. They made wonderful capitals by reversing the
acanthus, and copying the languid grace of falling blossoms.
The cathedral of Bourges--the vastness of this church makes me tremble.
One might say there are three churches in its three naves. Grandeur
demands repetition. The superbness of this work of architecture
enforces silence. People attribute their emotion here to religious
sentiment alone, and do not realize that it is due also to the correct
calculations of art. They do not realize that the impressive darkness
of the vast church, its lighting, the wax tapers here, and the
daylight with its brilliancy there, have all been planned beforehand.
The stained-glass windows of Bourges are dazzling, almost terrible, in
their beauty. There are flashes as red as blood, and dashes of blue, a
flame--the wounds of Christ, the funeral pile of Jeanne d'Arc. When the
sun sinks, the bright light will fade away; then we have before us only
the charming effect of bowls of flowers.
The legends which are told on the stained-glass are good enough to amuse
children; but the glass itself, the splendor of its colors, the extent
to which it harmonizes with the nave--all that is the actual result and
object of profound thought. The Middle Ages put life into everything;
they worshiped life. They drew extensively from nature, wisely realizing
that its source is inexhaustible, while the day of man is fleeting.