The Collected Prose Read online

  It is a matter of debate whether the arches which form an X in the cross-ribbed vault (its invention wrongly attributed to the cathedral builders) are as structurally significant as Viollet-le-Duc, Choisy, and Lasterrie deemed. A revolutionary hypothesis that this vaulting was mere ornament was prompted by more recent research by the engineer Sabouret and the architect Pol Abraham, who studied the cathedrals bombed in 1914 and tested the resistance of the old materials in laboratories. The problem is not so simple as it might appear. Moreover, the aesthetic-minded historians of architecture stress style—the Gothic’s completely new system of proportions—rather than construction.

  A popular view holds that a new style appears in art when the old withers. This botanical theory does not hold when we consider the sequence of Romanesque and Gothic. When the Gothic appeared in the middle of the twelfth century, the Romanesque did not bear any marks of decline. Its displacement was not motivated by the desire to build larger churches since Vézelay Cathedral is nearly as large as Notre-Dame. The general layout of cathedrals also remained almost unchanged. Some historians connect the birth of Gothic with the political expansion of the Capetians, the struggle between the spirits of the North and South that culminated in the bloody crusade against the Albigensians. It is beyond any doubt that the emergence of the Gothic accorded with a new spiritual attitude. The compact, contemplative Romanesque cathedrals were opposed by dynamic, violent edifices in which light, “the divine essence,” began to play a dominant role. This coincided with Suger’s love of splendor, the opulence of interiors and stained glass—those constellations of precious stones revealed by a thousand burning candles.

  Suger is a vivid, fascinating figure. A servant’s son, friend of kings, politician, organizer and builder—he hides powerful passions under his religious habit. Many were offended by his insatiable love of luxury. When he writes about gold, crystals, amethysts, rubies, and emeralds—unexpected presents from three abbots for the inlay of his crucifix—one feels that his eyes burn with a very mundane glow. Modesty was not among his virtues. He ordered the abbey’s treasury to set aside funds for his funeral celebrations, previously a royal privilege. He had thirteen inscriptions placed in the cathedral to praise his merits. We see him in stained glass at Our Lady’s feet, his legs piously bent but his hands active. Moreover, his name is written as large as the Virgin’s.

  Suger was a refined writer with a brilliant mind. His connection with neo-Platonic philosophy is indisputable. His conduct scandalized St. Bernard of Clairvaux, a member of the stern Cistercian branch of the Benedictines. The dispute between these two church powers is as fascinating as the controversy between the classicists and the romantics.

  However, the reconstruction of the abbey of Saint-Denis was not solely a matter of Suger’s personal ambition and taste; it was a necessity. With the vividness of a nineteenth-century writer, he describes a religious feast day in the basilica:

  “One could often see a most outrageous sight: the backward pressure of the thick human mass against those who were still trying to enter to pay homage and kiss the holy relics, the Nail and Crown of Our Lord, was so great that none of the thousands of people could move a leg for the unusual compression of bodies. They could do nothing but stay immobilized like marble statues or raise a cry. The terror of the women was great and unbearable; suffocating in the mass of strong men, squeezed as in a press, their faces were like bloodless emblems of death; they cried out terribly as if in labor; some were trampled mercilessly, others were carried on the heads of men who helped them out of pity; many barely managed to escape into the monastery garden where they gasped for air, abandoning their aim. Sometimes the brothers who had been showing the tokens of Our Lord’s passion to the faithful, irked by their rage and quarreling, could do nothing but escape through the window with the relics.”

  The consecration of Saint-Denis’ new organ-loft commenced on the second Sunday of June, 1144. It was not only Suger’s great day, but also a milestone in the history of architecture. The celebration was attended by King Louis VII and his Queen, peers, archbishops, and bishops. The latter were surely unable to sleep peacefully when they had returned to their gloomy churches at Chartres, Soissons, Reims, Beauvais, or Senlis.

  As early as 1153, Bishop Thibault of Senlis received a royal letter of recommendation for a new church, urging money collectors to travel throughout France for contributions. The construction was slow, and its consecration in 1191 was held before the work was completed.

  In the middle of the thirteenth century a transverse nave was added, and the southern tower was topped with a magnificent spire. It is the most beautiful part of the cathedral. The flight of the eighty-meter tower is breathtaking. The façade is slender, austere, and bare. The Senlis spire sways in the clouds like a tree. The anonymous architects have touched on the mystery of organic architecture.

  A fire opened the path to regrettable restoration. The southern façade contrasts with the face of the cathedral. It is entwined with the tangled lines of flamboyant Gothic. Nothing can compete with the simple architecture of the thirteenth century; the capricious airs of the sixteenth century foretell a lethal exhaustion.

  Three portals lead inside. The two side tympanums carry a rare architectural motif (columns and arches, or abstraction, not narration) while the one above the main entrance opens a new epoch in the history of iconography. In Senlis the theme of the Virgin Mary is introduced for the first time in place of the Romanesque “Last Judgment” (Christ in majesty and a crowd of Apostles and saints), with the saved flying heavily into the sky as the damned are thrown into the abyss. The Mary theme was continued in Chartres, Notre-Dame de Paris, in Reims, and other cathedrals. The Virgin’s sudden appearance in monumental Gothic sculpture seems a response to the love poetry of the troubadours, the praise of women, and the concept of courtly love which the Church wished to sublimate.

  The death, resurrection, and triumph of Mary is told with a powerful simplicity. The “Resurrection” is the most beautiful. Six angels lift Mary from her bed wrapped in a rough-textured cocoon. The angels are full-cheeked, young. They fulfill their duty with earnestness and flair, as though they had school satchels on their backs instead of wings.

  The call of the Gothic is as irresistible as the call of mountains. One cannot remain a passive observer for long. These are not Romanesque cathedrals, where from barrel-shaped vaults drops of consolation fall. A Gothic cathedral relates not only to eyes but also to muscles. Dizziness combines with aesthetic perception.

  I start to climb the tower. At first, several rough steps form a stony path, but soon I enter the triforum’s wide platform which appears to have been smitten by a stone avalanche: a disorder of masks, gargoyles, and the severed heads of saints. A glance down and then up. I am midway between the stone vault and the floor of the nave.

  Further climbing is more difficult. The steps are obliterated, and one must search for hand-holds. Finally, I reach another platform, a narrow gallery just above the main portal. On both sides there are two summits—towers with slender, spiral peaks. In back a roof covering the main nave like a shanty made of spruce trees.

  Eight centuries have turned the cathedral into a creature close to nature. Patches of lichen, grass between the stones, and bright yellow flowers spring from the curves. A cathedral is like a mountain; no later style, neither Renaissance nor Classic, could retain this symbiosis between architecture and vegetation. The Gothic is natural.

  And there are animals here, too! From behind a ledge a huge lizard watches me with its protuding golden eyes. Monsters with dog-heads warm in the sun on inaccessible rock shoulders. For the moment the menagerie is asleep. But some day (perhaps it will be Judgment Day) they will descend the stone stairs and enter the town.

  The little gallery is decorated with four figures: Adam, Eve, and two saints with the charm of folk sculptures. Eve is especially beautiful. Coarse-grained, big-eyed, and plump. A heavy plait of hair falls on her wide, supple back.

>   Time to be on my way. The end of an easy approach and the beginning of the ascent to the summit. It is a vertical crevasse. Sometimes I walk blindly in total darkness, clinging with both hands to the wall; sometimes the steps become loose stones. I must stop at shorter intervals to steady my breath. The rock wall is split in places by small windows that let in sudden, blinding flashes. Through a crack in the darkness one can see clouds and sky. I am high in a stone gorge which opens to an infinite expanse.

  The stairs end. In front of me there is a wall on which I must find a grip. If it were more slanted, it would be a typical overhang. I climb vertically, fighting for balance with my entire body. Finally an open platform—the end of the ascent. Blood pounds in my temples. I cling to a small stone niche. Below, a fall of a few dozen meters. Distant fields breathe gently. They float up to my eyes like solace.

  “With a trowel in his hand, the mason Abraham Knupfer sings, hanging in the air on scaffolding so high that, reading Gothic poems on a huge bell, he has at his feet a church of thirty lofty arches and a town of thirty churches.

  He sees the stone gargoyles spew torrents of slate down the intricate chasm of galleries, windows, balconies, bell-towers, spires, roofs, and wooden binders dragging a gray stain, the plucked, limp wing of a hawk.”

  The descent is long, like the descent to hell. Finally, one steps into a narrow street, with folded wings and the memory of flight.

  Opposite the cathedral are the remains of a royal palace resting on powerful Gallo-Roman walls. The palace was often visited by the monarchs of the first two dynasties, until their tastes changed and they moved to Compiègne and Fontainebleau. Stone lies upon stone, like geological strata: the remains of a Roman column, traces of Merovingian buildings, Romanesque and Gothic arches.

  Nearby is the Musée de la Vénerie (the Hunting Museum), which the guide praises as unique in Europe and urges me not to miss. In fact, it is a miserable store of trumpets, horns, stuffed game, hoofs nailed to wooden boards with braids of skin, along with portraits of princes, viscounts, and dogs. All quite methodically arranged to reflect the complete field of knowledge of hunting; as for example in a sequence of drawings depicting various falls from a horse—on the head, on the back, etcetera—and the stages of deer hunting. I learned that the beautiful word halali simply means dispatching a wounded animal. Further on there is a museum of archaeology and sculpture in a charming mansion, to which you descend along winding lanes.

  The Halatte Forest in the vicinity was a kind of holy health resort in Roman times. Stone people on votive offerings raise their stone shirts to expose their pudenda. I do not know if these bas-reliefs have been scrutinized by historians of science, above all medicine; but truly they offer terrific research material. In the Dijon stone collection there are stone lungs presented to the gods by some ancient consumptive. At first glance the sculpted heads look like the heads of the healed. One must stoop and take a closer look. Yes. They are the faces of idiots, melancholics, imbeciles—and the sculptor (a stonemason rather than an artist) defined the malady with a psychiatrist’s touch.

  On the second floor of the museum, our attention is drawn by a monumental Gothic sculpture of a “lunatic’s head.” It probably came from the cathedral, occupying a place close to the reptiles on the ladder of Creation. He is not a madman, rather a gentle half-wit, the town fool who wears a red cap and squawks like a cock. His eyes are empty egg-shells, his lips open in an apologetic smile. Beside him rests a “prophet’s head,” a masterpiece of early Gothic sculpture, a study in noble wisdom and human dignity. The Gothic sculptors were conscious of the range of humanity.

  I pocket both notebook and sketchpad. It’s time for the most pleasant item on the schedule—loafing around,

  wandering aimlessly, according to perspectives, not guidebooks,

  looking around exotic workshops and stores: the locksmith’s, a travel office, the undertaker’s,

  staring,

  picking up pebbles,

  throwing them away,

  drinking wine in the darkest spots: Chez Jean, Petit Vatel,

  meeting people,

  smiling at girls,

  putting your face to walls to catch their smells,

  asking conventional questions to make sure the well of human benevolence has not dried up,

  viewing people ironically, but with love,

  joining a dice game,

  visiting an antique shop and asking the price of an ebony music box,

  listening to its melody, then leaving without it,

  studying the menus usually hung in the windows of exclusive restaurants and

  indulging in licentious fantasies: lobster or oysters for starters; ending up at Au Bon Coin whose proprietress is kind, has a weak heart, and treats you to a liquor called “Ricard” which has a terrible aniseed taste and can be swallowed only in deference to the natives, careful reading of the festival’s programme and the list of prizes to be won in tombola for the soldiers,

  and all the other notices, especially those written by hand.

  A shadow travels across the sundial. In the thick autumn air Senlis sleeps like a pond under a blanket of duckweed.

  One must move on. Walking towards the station I pass the old churches of Saint-Pierre and Saint-Frambourg, dating from the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Now they are closed.

  The former contains a market, the latter a garage. The French are a rich nation.

  Chaâlis

  This old, lonely dwelling of the emperors presents nothing extraordinary besides the ruins of a monastery with Byzantine arcades whose last row is reflected in the mirror of ponds.

  SYLVIE

  A RAMSHACKLE BUS TO Chaâlis leaves from the Senlis station near the war memorial, a masterpiece of exalted ugliness. Down this road rattled the carriage carrying Gerard de Nerval and Sylvie’s brother to the last performance in which the poet would see Adrienne, disguised as an angel.

  In the literary geography of French Romanticism, Valois occupies a position similar to that of Scotland for the English. It is to the environs of Valois that Gerard de Nerval devoted his Sylvie, written two years before his death when the lights of the Orient were dimming and after a period of enthusiasm and love the writer entered a time of despair. The circle of his travels narrowed to the environs of Paris—small, forsaken towns, hamlets as poor as pigeon-houses, where behind green shutters framed by a rose bush and vine a warbler’s cage gently swung. Nothing can be more soothing than a provincial night. “Under the Image of St. John” in a room with ancient upholstery trimmings and pier-glass. In the evenings girls in white sang and wove garlands in the meadow, and at night bannered boats carried the young to Cythera. In the humid forests of Valois, among the cloistered ruins and castles, “Werther without pistols” hunted chimeras.

  Painters and Romantic poets praised the abbey’s ruins to the skies. It is a pity that so little has survived, since the Chaâlis church was one of the first Cistercian Gothic buildings. Its size was impressive, eighty-one meters by twenty-seven, with both wings of the grand transept ending in five radial chapels. The stems of the columns remain with their capitals as pure as musical notes. The abbey is like a deserted nest under the sky’s high vault. Liberated from the stone weight the strong arches, buttresses, and pilasters resist the pressure of infinity.

  To the immediate left stands a fifteenth-century palace built by Jean Aubert, architect of the great Chantilly stables. It houses the Jacquemart-André collection. A family of great artistic merit who owned the palace and a collection in a Parisian mansion on Boulevard Haussmann (now a splendid museum). A painter with aristocratic connections told me about a dinner party at the time the museum was still a private residence at which the lady of the house reproached her husband for keeping “that terrible Titian” in the dining room.

  The Chaâlis collection cannot match its Parisian counterpart. It is typical bric-à-brac, charming, yet slightly unsettling: an ancient bust of the eighteenth-century, Dutch s
till-lives heavy as cooking odors, vases, barometers, a screen with monkeys, samovars, a copy of the Great Mogul’s throne, and a Giotto. I disliked the Giotto at first sight. Two dry, conventional panneaux, their color dimmed. I confessed my doubts to a museum guard in a navy-blue uniform with silver buttons. He stood against the wall, as they do, living the mysterious life of a half-object, half-human. He slowly lifted his serpent’s lids, listened to my remarks, and then hissed that the Musée Jacquemart-André held no forgeries. It never had, it does not, nor will it ever. I left him at the wall. When he withers completely, he will be replaced by a pole-axe or a chair.

  Two small rooms on the second floor display Jean-Jacques Rousseau memorabilia. A few imaginary portraits, one depicting a youth sleeping on a park bench (“J.J. sans argent11, sans asile, à Lyon et pourtant sans souci sur l’avenir, passe souvent la nuit à la belle étoile,” reads the note). A slightly soiled collar in the showcase gives unfavorable evidence of his lady companion, already so loathed by his biographers. A hat, a pen, and the armchair in which the author of the Confessions expired. The armchair is conjectural. But since no counter-chair has emerged, it is justly an object of veneration. On the wall an engraving portrays Rousseau’s last moments with the alleged last words of the philosopher praising greenery, nature, light, and God, and expressing his longing for eternal peace. The aria is long and phoney, like in an opera.

  The natural curiosities not far from the palace have romantically exaggerated names: the Sea of Sand or the Desert. The sea is less than a kilometer in diameter. It looks like the scorched trace of a meteor. The forest is beautiful, dense, with birch, oak, and ash, with a coppery undergrowth. It is the wild patch of Ermenonville Park. An asphalt road dissects the green. Cars tear down it without abatement. I am the sole pedestrian. Some cars slow down and give me a careful look-over.