Bishop Grandisson (1328-1369).
Grandisson was “the most magnificent prelate who ever filled the see of Exeter.” He had been nuncio to the Pope at the courts of all the noblest princes of Christendom. He was even strong enough to bar the way to Archbishop Meopham, of Canterbury, when he attempted to enforce a Visitation of the cathedral. Great as were his riches and magnificence, he was a strict economist. He lived forty years Bishop of Exeter; finished his cathedral, did many great works elsewhere, and yet died wealthy. Quivil, we have seen, had built one bay of the nave. It remained for Grandisson to complete the remaining seven bays. The piers of the nave were erected by 1334; the whole work was complete in 1350. Stapledon had commenced the Cloister; Grandisson built the north walk, running, in curious fashion, under a second and outer range of flying-buttresses, as does the cloister of Westminster. The west front (except the west screen) was now built, but not the fan-vaulting of the north porch, which is later. And the curious Chapel of St. Radegunde in the thickness of the west wall he remodelled, to form his mortuary chapel, expecting there ever to lie, looking towards the nave where his great work had been done. But his tomb was destroyed by Elizabeth’s Visitors, and his ashes were scattered to the winds.
As we stand near his empty grave, we see before us the whole of the great mediæval design, that was due in inception to Quivil, and was realised and consummated by Bitton, Stapledon, and Grandisson, in the seventy years between 1280 and 1350. What strikes one, first, is that with revenues so immense, the bishops should have been satisfied with a cathedral so small—its area is less than half that of York. On the other hand, at York, owing to the vast dimensions of the new cathedral, commenced simultaneously with the new work at Exeter, the builders were unable to roof it in stone.
NAVE.
Secondly, one wonders that they allowed their hands to be fettered, their design to be cramped, by the preservation not only of the aisle walls, but of the clerestories of Warelwast and Marshall’s cathedral. But it is just in the subjugation of these limitations, in converting them into the special glory and distinction of the Exeter design, that the genius of Quivil’s architect shines forth most vividly. He was limited by the area of the old cathedral, east to west, north to south: not even the tiny transepts might be enlarged. But what was more serious, he was limited as to height. He was unable to raise the vaulting or the pier-arches more than five feet. His internal elevation, then, for a Gothic church of 1280, had to be exceptionally low. He determined, therefore—it was an intuition of genius—to see what could be done in architecture with lowness and breadth. Everything should be broad and low, outside as well as inside. Look at the east end of the choir—its two arches broad and low; above it, the great window—broad and low. Nowhere but at Exeter do you find these squat windows with their truncated jambs; here they are everywhere—in the aisles, in the clerestory, in choir, chapels, transepts, and nave; even in the great window of the western front: broad and low windows everywhere.
Still more original is the external realisation of the design; central tower and spire, western towers and spires, alike are absent. Long and low, massive and stable, stretches out uninterruptedly the long horizontal line of nave and choir. Breadth gives in itself the satisfactory feeling of massiveness, steadfastness and solidity; and this is just what is wanting in the all-too aerial work of Salisbury and Beauvais; vaulted roofs at a dizzy height resting on unsubstantial supports and sheets of glass. But the Exeter architect has emphasised this satisfactory feeling of stability still further. The window tracery is heavy and strong; the vault is barred all over with massive ribs; in the piers there are no pretty, fragile, detached shafts; the massive clustered columns look as if they were designed, as they were, to carry the weight of a Norman wall.
But an interior may easily be made too massive; if it is not to be a Salisbury cathedral, it need not be a Newgate Gaol. How was the prison-like appearance of an interior but 68 feet high, with a stone vault of exceptionally heavy appearance weighing it down, to be avoided? How was oppressive heaviness to be counteracted? Triumphantly, by transparency. By stretching out the windows from buttress to buttress, aisle and clerestory became practically one continuous sheet of glass; the church was flooded with light and atmosphere; the heavy vault seemed to float in the air, borne up but by the lilies and roses and wheels of the window tracery, and rows of painted saints in tabernacles of silver or of gold. There is no heaviness even now in the interior of Exeter; though the silvery panes of the choir, the golden glass of the nave, have perished long ago.
Another distinctive feature in Exeter, as in Salisbury, is that the architect produces his effect mainly by architectural means—is not driven to rely on sculpture. All the principal capitals have mouldings, not foliage. Only in the great corbels of the vaulting-shafts and in the bosses of the vault, does he permit himself foliage and sculpture. Wonderful carving it is; the finest work of the best period, when the naturalistic treatment of foliage was fresh and young. Very remarkable these corbels are, with their lifelike treatment of vine and grape, oak and acorn, hazel leaf and nut. Unfortunately the corbels, and still more the bosses, are so high up that their lovely detail is thrown away; and they are out of scale.
And the patterns of the window tracery are wonderfully diverse. It is not, as in Lichfield nave or King’s College Chapel, where every window is like its neighbour; when you have seen one, you have seen all. Here, all down each side of the church, every window differs. In dimensions, in general character, they agree; in details they differ; each window is a fresh delight; we have what even in Gothic architecture we rarely get—diversity within similarity.
Another striking feature of the design is its perfect bilateral symmetry. Gothic churches are, as a rule, most irregular, most unsymmetrical in outline; as a consequence, very picturesque. It is a mistake, however, to believe that they are intentionally unsymmetrical and picturesque. A Gothic architect no more aimed at irregularity than did the architect of the Parthenon. Only he was not a purist on the subject. If practical requirements—e.g., the needs of ritual—made it necessary to break in on the lines of a symmetrical design, he broke in on them without the slightest hesitation; the building had to conform to its destination. But where a single design was carried through from end to end, it was as symmetrical as a Classical temple. So it is at Salisbury; so it is at Exeter. Every window has its exact counterpart on the other side of nave and choir. Transept answers to transept, screen to screen, St. John the Baptist’s chapel to St. Paul’s, St. Andrew’s chapel to St. James’, St. George’s chapel to St. Saviour’s, St. Mary Magdalene’s chapel to St. Gabriel’s. But the architect was not so infatuated with the idea of symmetry as to place a porch on the south side because there was one on the north, or a chapter-house on the north because there was one on the south; which is just what the academic professors of Classical architecture would have done.
WEST FRONT.
We have seen how the design gained special distinction from the very limitations imposed by the lowness of the early cathedral, the upper parts of which it was desired to preserve. It was again to the early design that Exeter owes another distinction among English interiors. In the early design the towers were just those which we still see; there was no central tower. The very fact that Quivil’s architect did not rush off at once to build a central tower, and be like everybody else, shows what backbone and insight the man had. Cathedrals without central towers were as rare in mediæval England as cathedrals with central towers are rare in the Île de France. Yet he advised his employers—or was it they who instructed him?—not to build a central tower. Central towers, standing as they do on four thin legs, are dangerous: many have fallen; others are always threatening to fall—e.g., Salisbury. But they are objectionable on another ground. The great piers on which they stand are an enormous block in the lengthened vista, which is the one great charm of an English cathedral, as compared with the lofty but short cathedrals of France. The fact that there is no tower over the crossing, and no tower-piers in the way, produces the most open, uninterrupted, and impressive vista of any cathedral in England. The screen being low, one sees the whole noble design in one glance from far west to far east. We have nothing like it: though it finds its counterpart in the great French cathedral of Bourges.
Another point should be noticed. Although the nave is in nearly all important respects of late Geometrical design—the exception being some Curvilinear windows with flowing tracery in the westernmost bays of the nave—yet the architects were not such purists as to carry out their minor work in anything but the style of their own day. Even in the choir, the architecture of which is Geometrical both in character and in date, all the minor work is developed Curvilinear—e.g., the great screen with its depressed ogee arches, the throne of the bishop, the sedilia.
Perpendicular Work (1360-1485).—Much minor work remained to do. In the remaining years of the fourteenth century the west front, which seems to have been heeling over, was buttressed by the erection of the western screen. The west and south walks of the cloisters were added. The great east window was substituted for an earlier Geometrical one which seems to have fallen into decay. In the fifteenth century the towers were crowned with battlements and turrets, as we see them now. The upper part of the chapter-house was rebuilt. Bishop Stafford erected canopies over monuments in the Lady chapel.
Tudor Work (1485-1519).—The Tudor work is exceptional in importance. It includes the north entrance and other late portions of the western screen, two exquisite chapels, both built by Bishop Oldham—his own chantry (St. Saviour’s) on the south side of the retro-choir, the Speke chantry (St. George’s) on the north—and in addition, Prior Sylke’s chantry in the north transept. All this work is admirable in design and execution. In Oldham’s chantry is a charming series of owls, with the scroll DAM, a rebus on his name, proceeding from the beak of each little owl. To Bishop Oldham also (1504-1519) is due the grand set of stone screens—one of the glories of the cathedral—no less than ten, which veil all the nine chapels and Prior Sylke’s chantry, and add fresh beauty to the beautiful choir.
Whatever else, then, the student and lover of Gothic architecture omits, he must not omit to visit Exeter. He will find it fresh and different from anything he has seen before. Its unique plan, without central or western towers, the absence of obstructive piers at the crossing, the consequently uninterrupted vista, the singleness and unity of the whole design, the remarkable system of proportions, based on breadth rather than height, the satisfying massiveness and solidity of the building, inside and outside, and at the same time the airiness and lightness of the interior, the magnificence of its piers of marble, the delightful colour-contrast of marble column and sandstone arch, the amazing diversity of the window tracery, the exquisite carving of the corbels and bosses, the abundant and admirable Tudor work, the wealth of chantries and monuments, the superb sedilia, screen, and throne, the misereres, the vaults, the extraordinary engineering feats from which its present form results, the originality of the west front and of the whole interior and exterior, place Exeter in the very forefront of the triumphs of the mediæval architecture of our country.