Before spending any time in studying the subject of stained glass windows, let us go and see some good ones. One of the safest ways to learn how to appreciate any art is to look at fine examples of it. Of stained glass this is particularly true, because no method of reproduction, even colour photography, can give any idea of the unique result there obtained by combining light with colour. No flat tints can ever produce the effect of warmth and translucence that is yielded by colour illuminated through and through by the rays of the sun. We will assume that we are in Paris. Fortunately for our purpose there are easily accessible two splendid specimens of early glass, one the glazing of the Ste. Chapelle and the other the rose windows high up in the western façade and in the transept ends of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The former is the most perfect instance of a thirteenth century chapel preserving intact its original glazing, while the rose in the northern transept of Notre Dame is probably the finest one of its period in the world. Thus we make an excellent beginning and our interest is at once stimulated to see more. Observe the difference in the placing of these windows, as well as in the points from which we view them, as it will prove peculiarly useful in disclosing how they should be set in order to best reveal their beauties. Every tourist that visits Paris goes, as a matter of course, to the Ste. Chapelle, that net of Gothic in which lies enmeshed such treasures of colour and light. This sparkling marvel lies modestly nestled among the law courts, whose plainer modern buildings serve but to accentuate its wonderful beauty. We shall not be long in learning who was its founder, for the golden fleur de lis of France and castles of Castile strewed over its walls of glass mutely remind us that it was built by the good Louis IX and that with him was associated his mother, Queen Blanche of Castile. No king of France so loved and befriended our gentle art as St. Louis. In many another French window this same combination of heraldic emblems will demonstrate how diligently these two royalties (or others in their honour) strove to introduce and spread the luminous beauty of this craft. This fragile chef d’œuvre was constructed by order of its royal patron to provide a sanctuary worthy to contain the sacred relics acquired by him in the Holy Land. No effort or expense was spared to fit it for its high purpose. By reason of its royal founder as well as of its object, we can be sure that in the Ste. Chapelle we have an example of the best taste of the thirteenth century. St. Louis laid the first stone in 1245, and so expeditiously was the work carried on that it was finished and consecrated April 25, 1248, and we read that all its wealth of glass was installed before the consecration.
Although we shall refrain from technical words as much as possible, we can see at a glance why these were called “medallion” windows. Each subject treated is enclosed in a narrow round framing of colour, thus breaking up the entire surface into medallions. It prevented confusion of subjects and at the same time gave a balance to their treatment.
It is a good omen for the future of our combined sightseeing and study that we can begin with something so complete and charming as the perfect Ste. Chapelle. And yet, although it is glowingly, mystically lovely with a beauty attributable chiefly to its glass, other thirteenth century churches will teach us to notice that here it is the interior that is benefited and not the windows. So small is the edifice that we cannot stand far enough away from the glass to let it develop the glittering glow that refraction of the rays of light lends to the glazing of the thirteenth century, but which no other period can show us. In order to fully realise what we have lost by being too near the windows, take the short stroll that brings you to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Enter its great gloom, go forward until you are opposite the rose window in the north transept, and look up. If you have in you any poetry, any sensuous sympathy with colour and light, you will receive an artistic thrill so strong as to at once elevate you to membership in our Brotherhood of Glass Lovers. Our pilgrim staring up at the great rose window will note the splendid purplish glow that comes from it. Now he will realise that he missed this gorgeous jewelled gleam at the Ste. Chapelle, and for the reason that he was too close to the glass. After he has grown accustomed to this new feature, he will begin to notice some of the causes for it. The effect is undoubtedly glowing purple, and yet it is not produced by purple glass. It results from the merging of the reds and blues, rendered possible, nay, assisted by the smallness of the pieces of the glass, and this observation also explains why this same effect was not obtained in later periods when the glass fragments become so large that the colours remain distinct and do not run into each other. Because we are too near the Ste. Chapelle glass we remember it as red and blue, but the memory of the Notre Dame windows, which can be viewed from a proper distance, is a splendid purple.
13th CENTURY MEDALLION, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE.
Window surface broken up into medallions, each enclosing a little scene. The black outlines of the picture are provided by the leaden strips which hold together the pieces of glass. Paint is used only to mark the features, folds in the garments, etc. Here the lead lines assist the picture—later they mar it.
It is to be hoped that you have had the good fortune to first visit these two buildings on a rainy or grey day. That is the sort of weather for a glass pilgrim to be abroad and stirring, for his windows will be lighted to the same extent all around the church. If it is a sunny day, the windows towards the sun will seem thin in colour, whilst those on the shady side will be thick and flatly toned. He may assure himself that he is mistaken, and that the difference in effect is caused by the strong glare of the sun on the one side, and on the other side the lack of it—we repeat that he may assure himself of this, but he will get the wrong effect, notwithstanding. Make a mental note of this point and when you go glass hunting, join the farmers in praying for rain!
We must seek elsewhere than in Paris to find what this mosaic of tiny morsels of different hued glass can accomplish in the small chapels surrounding the choir of a great cathedral. We shall learn what a glorifying curtain of subdued colour it will provide and how when viewed from the nave of the church these chapels become gleaming caverns, forming a semi-circular background for the well-lighted choir in their midst. Even whilst we are drinking in the great beauty of this splendidly impressive half-circle of chapels, we must realise that delightful as is this method of subduing and beautifying the light, it would be most unwise to use this same style of glass in the clerestory above. Not only would the choir be too dark, but, besides, we would lose the contrast of light against gloom that renders it so impressive in its dignity. This observation introduces another type of glazing for which we shall seek in vain after this century. If we demand more light from our clerestory and at the same time insist on coloured glass, then we must use fewer strips of light-obscuring lead, which means fewer and larger pieces of glass. Thus we will obtain more illumination than is yielded by the heavily-leaded windows below. Now we begin to understand that the light of the medallion window is sombre because so much of its surface is occupied by the great quantity of lead required to bind together its small pieces of glass. These numerous lead lines serve a very artistic purpose, for, by breaking the refraction of the rays of light passing through the small bits of glass and diffusing them, they have much to do with blending the colours and producing the delightful jewelled effect that we at once noticed in Notre Dame. We have purposely used the phrase “much to do,” because it is only one of several causes. The quality of the glass itself had a great share in that result. It is quite different from that found later on, for it was, as yet, quite imperfect, and no two pieces had the same thickness or were surfaced alike. This very unevenness assisted in breaking up the light rays. Another cause for its brilliancy was that its translucence was not obscured by paint. A piece of glass was yellow or blue because its colour was introduced while it was being made in the pot and therefore was diffused throughout the mass. For this reason it was called “pot metal glass.” We shall find that later on they discovered how to tint the surface of glass by the invention first of staining and later by enamelling, both of which had a marked effect and will be spoken of at the proper time. One of the results of colouring glass in the pot was that generally the tone would not be equal throughout; for instance, a piece of blue glass would not be evenly blue in all its parts. This difference in the shading of each piece, as well as the unevenness of its surface, produced a brilliancy which the more perfect methods that came later could never hope to achieve. The freedom from surface paint made possible a limpidity of colour which by contrast makes later painted or enamelled windows seem almost dull. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the only paint used was a brown pigment, which served to delineate features and sometimes to accentuate the folds of garments, etc. We must also remember that as the artist worked with small pieces of glass and therefore used a great many lead lines, all the outlines needed by his picture could be put in with leads, and hence it was only natural that he became very expert in drawing with them. The result of his skill in this particular is surprisingly attractive and we shall sorely miss it later, when less and less attention was paid to the drawing and decorative value of the leads because of the increased desire for large pieces of glass with pictures painted upon them. In fact, so far from early traditions did they of the sixteenth century stray, that we shall see strips of lead running right across an arm or a face! Their value from an artistic standpoint seemed at that time nearly forgotten, and instead of being used to beautify the drawing, they were only tolerated as a part of the machinery necessary to support the glass in its framework. Before leaving the subject of paint upon glass, it is well to remark that although we may admire the brilliancy of these early windows and may rejoice that the artist had not yet learned to obscure his colour, nevertheless, if we were examining windows in Italy, that land of everlasting sunshine, we might find a little painting upon the surface a genuine relief to the eye. There is such a thing as too much sunshine. Geography must be considered in criticising glass.
We promised to avoid as much as possible the study of the technical, but it must be admitted that we have drifted into it, and that our attempt to learn why clerestory windows differ from the lower ones, has brought with it an exposition of the technique of the thirteenth century. To briefly recapitulate, it consists of—