Before we make our selection of towns to be visited, let us look about us in Paris, for it has not a little glass to show us.
PARIS
Before starting on our thirteenth century tours, Paris supplied us with very useful results from our comparison of the glass in the Ste. Chapelle with that of the north rose at Notre Dame. Not so satisfactory was our study of the fifteenth century canopy windows at St. Sévérin in that city. We shall, however, find excellent sixteenth century glass in several of the Paris churches, and will thus be afforded an opportunity to prepare for our excursions by obtaining in advance some idea of the style of that period, and shall also find some examples by its best artists. Let us begin at St. Germain l’Auxerrois, whose charmingly light tower and graceful exterior seem to give the lie to the sinister fact that from this very belfry rang out the signal for the massacre of St. Bartholomew. The west wall of the north transept provides a reason for here beginning our study of sixteenth century glass, because there, side by side, are two very similar windows, harmonising agreeably one with the other, and yet the architecture of the canopies of one is fifteenth century Gothic, and of the other, Renaissance. This very conveniently illustrates for us one of the marked changes which came over our glass. If the canopies were not enough to date them, other details are not lacking to perform that service. The earlier window has all the features of the distant landscape put in with the leads, while in the later one they are delicately painted on greyish blue; especially note this in the well scene. The other windows in this transept are also attractive and the warmth of some of the reds in the bed draperies of the earlier one of the pair just mentioned should be noticed. The adjusting of the figures to their panes in the transept rose windows is adroitly handled, particularly some of the kneeling angels in the south one. In the west wall of the south transept, the problem of placing a central figure when the architect provided only four, instead of five lancets, is gracefully overcome.
At St. Gervais we have one of the few opportunities to compare two of the greatest artists produced by the new school—Robert Pinaigrier and Jean Cousin—but that is about all that can be said for this ugly church, where architecture, white windows and modern glass combine to drive away the student. The best window is by Pinaigrier, the Judgment of Solomon (second on the right in the choir chapels); it is dated 1531, and although considered by many his masterpiece, seems to us to have too much marble pavement, etc., for its personages; and further, the little scenes in the tracery lights contrast disagreeably not only with the picture below, but also with its minarets and their sky background which jut up into the space above. We must, however, note how the accurate perspective contributed by the lines of the pavement and the distant architecture facilitates the correct stationing of the figures without confusing them as to position or foreshortening. His, also, are the twelve panels in the Lady Chapel, giving scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary: here the composition is delightful. We may remark in passing that at least one of them displays verses which by reason of their quaint expressions are less suited to our times than to the more unrestrained speech of those earlier days. Jean Cousin’s window, the Martyrdom of St. Lawrence (1551), is the first on the right in the choir, and though good in technique, is not attractive. We should reserve judgment upon his work until after we have visited Vincennes. Across the river and at the top of the hill crowned by the Panthéon is to be found an edifice that looks more like an architectural freak than a church—St. Etienne-du-Mont. It seems to realise its own ugliness and tries to conceal itself behind the Panthéon. Once we enter its portal we find a vast improvement over the distressing exterior of this confection of stone. There are plenty of spacious windows and a general airy effect. Swung high in the air across the front of the choir is a graceful stone jubé arch, seemingly fastened to the columns at each end by double loops of delicate spiral stairways. The choir is so lightly constructed, and with so few obstructing columns, that the whole of the ambulatory space becomes a part of it. This arrangement enables us to enjoy the glazing of the ambulatory and the choir chapels from all parts of the building. A little door marked “Sacristie” leads off from the ambulatory through a corridor to the Chapel of the Catechism. Along the west wall of this chapel are ranged a series of twelve panels by Pinaigrier, and because they are on the level of the observer’s eye, he is afforded every facility for examining what could be accomplished by a great artist in enamelling colour on glass. In fact, there is no place in France where this can be more conveniently studied. Although all twelve are fine, that devoted to the allegory of the wine press is easily the best. Oddly enough, it was the gift of a rich wine merchant. In it are to be found faithful portraits of Pope Paul II, Emperor Charles V, Francis I, and Henry VIII of England, as well as sundry cardinals and archbishops, all in rich ceremonial costume. Needless to say, those individuals have nothing to do with the subject of the window, but the opportunity to display portraits of them was too good for the artist to waste. This frequently appears on glass of the period and sometimes the result verges on the ludicrous.
After visiting these stately temples, the quiet church of St. Merri appears even more modest and retiring than its obscure site just off the busy quarter about the Hotel De Ville really renders it. In fact, so well is it hidden that we would have missed it had we not been seeking very carefully. The windows here are more interesting than beautiful and their effectiveness has been impaired in several ways. We read that during the eighteenth century those in charge of the church, after careful deliberation, replaced a great deal of the coloured by white glass, especially in the nave, where they removed the two central lancets of each group of four, leaving only the upper half of the two outer ones. Of course, the result was not only disastrous to the window’s general effect, but entirely extinguishes any warmth of tone in such glass as remains. We cannot but deplore the absence of the abstracted panes, for the remains in the side lancets and tracery lights evidence such skill, as well in combination of tones as in drawing (more particularly in the handling of perspective), that one can readily imagine what harm has been done. Even the few scenes that are left are well worth inspection, and are as interesting as any of this epoch in Paris. Notice in the third window on the right, the way in which the landscape is carried back until it ends in a little red-topped tower, from which peer out two heads. Fortunately, these deliberate and painstaking vandals spared the glass in the three westerly windows on each side of the choir, and also in the eastern walls of the transepts. The panels on the left, showing the history of Joseph, are better than their neighbours across the choir.
Of the sixteenth century glass to be seen in Paris, this much can be said: it varies markedly, illustrates most of the types of that time, and is therefore very useful in preparing us for the tours we are about to take.