(a) Small pieces of glass.
(b) Obviously requiring a great many lead lines to bind them together.
(c) Glass that is uneven in surface and in the distribution of its colour.
(d) Glass coloured throughout the mass (pot metal glass).
(e) Glass that is practically unobscured by paint.
But let us get up to our clerestory windows. It has been instructive arriving there, but now let us see what had to be done to admit more light through these upper embrasures. In the first place it was clear that there had to be less leading, which meant larger pieces of glass. For this purpose there was devised a conventional style of decoration giving a most pleasing result. This consisted of a series of large figures of saints, kings, or other great personages. Unfortunately we cannot see this sort of clerestory window in Paris, but a visit to Bourges or Rheims or Chartres will soon convince you how splendidly they serve their purpose. At Notre Dame, in the choir clerestory, one sees only a poor imitation of the destroyed old windows; owing to the paint upon the glass, the yellows are dull and the reds are thick and muddy.
When you have seen one of these rows of huge figures, the reason for the device becomes clear. The folds of garments of such size permitted the use of large sheets of glass, and as little lead and no paint were needed, the light was not obscured. The drawing of the folds, etc., was executed by the leads which, in any event, were required for structural reasons. So large are some of these figures that often we shall find that their eyes were not drawn with pigment, but were separately leaded in. This would not have been agreeable in the lower range of windows, but high up in the air, far above the observer’s head, it produced the effect desired. Nor was this the only trick indulged in by the artist. Sometimes he permitted himself very odd uses of colour. You will notice that during this century he generally employed brown glass instead of white for flesh tints. Of course he did not have what we call white glass—that was a perfection not yet reached, but he might have used pink. No, he preferred brown; and when you have seen the glorious rows of clerestory figures looking down upon you at Rheims or Chartres, you will know that he was right. His colours were so rich and strong that white glass in the faces would have been too sharp a contrast and would have spoilt the harmony of tones. Nor was this the only strange choice of tints. You will be startled to read that blue is used for the hair of the Christ in a Crucifixion scene, and yet so cleverly was it worked in that many an observer of the splendid east window of Poitiers Cathedral has gone away without noticing that the hair is blue or that the cross is bright red! The effect of the picture was achieved, proof that the artist knew and developed the possibilities existing in his materials. That certainly always has been and always will be one of the great tests of artistic ability.
While in Notre Dame notice another method of glazing prevalent in that century and which also had for its raison d’être the need for light in the upper windows. This is what is called “grisaille,” a panel of greenish-grey glass, sometimes surrounded by a border of the same tone, sometimes by one of gayer tints, but always, during this period, a broad border. Back in the twelfth century, where we first find these windows, the borders are wider still. Their small pieces of glass are held together by leads arranged in conventional designs, often in what is called strap work, i.e., the seeming interlacing of straps in a sort of basket pattern, very simple and agreeable. The light comes through in a cool, silvery tone which blends well with the stone structure about it. In Notre Dame we see examples of these windows, some with grisaille borders, and also a few with coloured ones, but on our travels we shall find much better types at Bourges, at Chalons-sur-Marne, and elsewhere.
As a result of our sightseeing we will learn that the best of the early glaziers realised that to compensate for the dim light yielded by the medallion windows below, it was necessary to have better illumination from above. Of course this combination in perfection was not often accomplished, but we generally find that if the artist did not himself take care to admit sufficient light, somebody that came later corrected the error. Often we find that the monks, to obtain more light in the choir, removed the coloured panels and substituted plain glass. In several instances, notably at Amiens, they attempted to sanctify their vandalism by destroying only so much stained glass in a window as to leave a large white cross upon it. When we come to the next century we shall see what this vandalism in favour of better-lighted church interiors is going to produce.
For the sake of clearness let us review the steps by which we have reached our conclusions. First we saw that the thirteenth century window has far more charm in its colour than in its drawing, which, although generally true of all glass, is never so emphatically true as during this period. While examining the colour composition, we have learnt how a window is constructed, and that in turn has taught us why it is best to view it from a little distance. The next step was to conclude that therefore this style of glass was not well adapted to domestic architecture or for small buildings. Further, we have remarked the odd style of drawing then in vogue which, traced back, proves but one of the many imprints which Byzantine art left upon those times.
More time might at this point be profitably devoted to study, but this little volume is not intended for a text-book. Its chief object is to persuade you to go about France and see for yourself its wonderful windows. It is to be hoped that even this small amount of research will prove useful in increasing your enjoyment of the glass. Let us now consider how many and which towns we will visit, and also how we can most satisfactorily group them together so as to provide convenient trips.