Some Account of Gothic Architecture in Spain

by George Edmund Street

This general review of the whole course and history of Spanish art seemed to be necessary in order to give point and intelligible order to the various descriptive notices which have been given in the previous chapters of this book. It is probable that some of my readers may after all think that I have had but little that was new to tell them. Possibly this may be so. The history of art repeats itself everywhere in obedience to some general law of progress; and it might have been assumed beforehand that we should find the same story in Spain as in France, Germany, or England. But the real novelty of my account is, I take it, this,—that whereas generally men credited Spain with forming an exception to a general rule, my business has been to show that, on the whole, she did nothing of the sort. Just as we obtained a French architect for our Canterbury, as the people of Milan obtained one from Germany for their cathedral, as the architect of St. Mark at Venice borrowed from the East, as he of Périgueux from St. Mark, as he of Cologne from Amiens or Beauvais, so Spain profited, no doubt, from time to time, by the example of her French neighbours. But at the same time she formed a true branch of art for herself, and one so vigorous, so noble, and so worthy of study, that I shall be disappointed indeed if her buildings are not ere long far more familiar than they now are to English Ecclesiologists.

I think, too, that the occasional study of any ancient school of architecture is always attended with the best possible results to those who are themselves attempting to practise the same art. It recalls us, when necessary, to the consideration of the points of difference between their work and ours; and thus, by obliging us to reconsider our position, may enable us to see where it is defective, and where the course we are pursuing is evidently erroneous. I have already noticed incidentally, in more than one place in this work, the noble air of solidity which so often marks the early Spanish buildings; I need hardly say that in these days none of us err on this side, and that in truth our buildings only too often lack even that amount of solidity which is necessary to their stability. And this leads me naturally to another questionable feature in modern work, which is to a great extent the cause of our failing in the matter of solidity. These noble Spanish buildings were usually solid and simple; their mouldings were not very many, and their sculptures were few, precious, and delicate. There was little in them of mere ornament, and never any lavish display of it. Sculpture of the human figure was but rarely introduced, and whatever sculpture there was, was thoroughly architectural in its character. How different is the case now! Hardly a church or public building of any kind is built, which—whatever its poverty elsewhere—has not sculpture of foliage and flowers, birds and beasts, scattered broadcast and with profusion all over it. However bad the work, it is sure to be admired, and as it is evidently almost always done without any, or with but little interference of the architect, he is often tempted to secure popularity for his work in this easiest of ways. I know buildings of great cost which have been absolutely ruined in effect by this miserable practice; and I know none in the middle ages in which so much carved work has been introduced, as has been in some of those which have recently been erected. I believe it to be a fact that more carving—if the vulgar hacking and hewing of stone we see is to be called carving—has been done in England within the last twenty years than our forefathers accomplished in any fifty years between A.D. 1100 and 1500! And I believe equally that, if we limited ourselves to one-tenth of the amount, there would be more chance of our having time to think about it and to design it ourselves.

The same misfortune that has befallen us with foliage will soon befal us with figures. It has suddenly been discovered that every architect ought to be able to draw the human figure, and soon, I fear, we shall see it become the fashion to introduce figures without thought or value everywhere. If men would but look at some of our own old buildings, they would see how great is still the work which has to be done before we understand how to emulate the merits of those even among them which have no sculpture of any kind in their composition, and how great the architect may be who despises and rejects this cheap kind of popularity.[432] And they ought to take warning, by the comparison of old work and old ways of working with new, of those too attractive but most dangerous schemes for seducing them from the real study of their art into other paths, certain, it is true, of popularity, but full of snares and pitfalls, which, as we see on all sides, entrap some of those even who ought to have been aware of their danger.

Sculpture in moderation is above everything beautiful. Sculpture in excess is very offensive. These Spanish churches teach us this most unmistakably if they teach us anything at all; and as the main object of the study of ancient art—the main object of those who wish to “stand in the old ways where is the truth”—is to derive lessons for the present and future from the practice of the past, I am sure that, in applying the results of my study of Spanish art in the warning which I here very gravely give, I am only doing that which as an artist I am bound to do, if I care at all for my art.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE SPANISH ARCHITECTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

THE history of the architects of the middle ages has never been written, and so few are the facts which we really know about them, that it may well be doubted whether it ever can be. Yet were it possible to do so, few subjects would be more interesting. To me it always seems that the most precious property of all good art is its human and personal character. I have always had an especial pleasure in tracing out what appear to be such similarities between different buildings as seem to prove, or at least to suggest, that they were designed by the same artist; for, just as in painting, a work becomes far more precious if we know it to be really the handiwork of a Giotto or a Simone Memmi, so in the sister art a building is far more precious when we know it to be the work of an Elias of Dereham, an Alan of Walsingham, or an Eudes de Montreuil; and if we are able, as in their case to start with the knowledge that certain men did certain works, the interest of such investigations is at once manyfold enhanced.

This is precisely the point at which we have now arrived in regard to Spanish buildings; for the notices of their architects which I have given in various parts of this book are so numerous that I think I shall do well to collect them together in their order; and to sum up, as much as one can learn from the documents relating to them, as to the terms on which they carried on their work, and generally, indeed, as to the position which they held.

In the earliest period, and just when any information would have been more than usually interesting to us, I have been able to learn next to nothing of any real value as to the superintendents of Spanish buildings.

One of the first notices of an architect is that contained in an inscription in San Isidoro, Leon, to the memory of Petrus de Deo, of whom it was said, “Erat vir miræ abstinentiæ, et multis florebat miraculis;” and, what is even more to our purpose, he is said to have built a bridge. He “superædificavit” the church of San Isidoro, and, from the reference to his saintly life, one is inclined to suspect that he must have been a priest and probably a monk; if so, it is important to note the fact, inasmuch as almost all the other architects or masters of the works referred to in all books I have examined, seem to have been laymen, and just as much a distinct class as architects at the present day are. The expression “superædificavit” does not tell us much as to the exact office of Petrus de Deo; but the next notice of an architect is not only one of the earliest, but also one of the most curious; this is in the contract entered into by the Chapter of Lugo with their architect Raymundo of Monforte de Lemos, in A.D. 1129; and from the terms of his payment, which was to be either in money or in kind, it is clear that, whatever his position was, he could not leave Lugo, but was retained solely for the work there. The terms of the contract are very worthy of notice, and may be compared with some of the similar agreements with, the superintendents of English works, who frequently stipulated for a cloak of office and other payments in kind, though I doubt whether we know of any English contract of so early a date. It is clear from the payment of an annual salary, and an engagement for the term of his life, that Maestro Raymundo was distinctly an architect, not a mere builder or contractor; it seems that he was a layman, and that his son followed the same profession. The title given him in the contract, “Master of the works,” is, as we shall find, that which in course of time was usually given to the architect; though I am not inclined to think that it makes it impossible that he should also have wrought with his own hands. Indeed, the very next notice of an architect is of one who certainly did act as sculptor on his own works. This was Mattheus, master of the works at Santiago Cathedral. The warrant issued by the king Ferdinand II., in A.D. 1168, granted him a pension of a hundred maravedis annually for the rest of his life,[433] and, though the amount seems to be insignificant, the fact of any royal grant being made proves, I think, not only the king’s sense of the value of a fine church, but also somewhat as to the degree of importance which its designer may have attained to, when he was recognized at all by the king. On the other hand, when twenty years later the same man (no doubt) wrote his name exultingly on the lintels of the church doorway, which was only then at last finished,[434] there can be no doubt that he had been acting there both as sculptor and architect: and if, from a modern point of view, he lost caste as an architect, he no doubt gained it as an artist; and even now, if one had to make the choice, one would far rather have been able honestly to put up one’s name as the author of those doorways, than as the builder of the church to which they are attached. It will be noticed that here, just as at Lugo, the master of the works was appointed at a salary for his lifetime, and held his office precisely in the same way as do the surveyors of our own cathedrals at the present day.

Much about the same time, in A.D. 1175, a most interesting document was drawn out, binding one Raymundo, a “Lambardo,”[435] to execute certain works in the cathedral at Urgel, in Cataluña. It is very difficult to say whether this Raymundo was the architect and builder, or only the builder, of the church, though I incline to believe he was both. He was to complete his work in seven years, employing four “Lambardos,” and, if necessary, “Cementarios,” or wallers, in addition; and in return he was to be paid with a Canon’s portion for the rest of his life. The mode of payment, the engagement for life, and the fact that there is no mention whatever of any materials to be provided by Raymundo, as well as the absence from the contract of any reference to a master of the works, lead, I think, to the conclusion that he was in truth the architect, but that he also superintended the execution of the works, and contracted for the labour.[436]