The Churches of Paris, from Clovis to Charles X

by Sophia Beale

The interior is, no doubt, grand. Originally lighted by windows in the walls, it is now somewhat dark and sombre, suitable to a temple for the repose of the dead. The walls have been covered with paintings, which partially relieve the dull monotony of the stone; but a building devoid of sunlight must of necessity be gloomy in a city the sky over which is, for half the year, grey and colourless.

Although the first of the 425 steps leading to the summit of the dome is upon the level of the top of the towers of Notre-Dame, the view is not nearly so interesting as from the latter. There is no river winding at our feet, and none of those guardian monsters who gaze at the city from the heights of the cathedral.

The decoration of the interior is now almost completed, and, whether for good or for evil, it is irrevocable. It was not probable that so artistic a nation as the French would allow such a building to remain in an incomplete state; they would rather run the risk of perpetuating failure than leave the work undone. We English are different. S. Paul's is double the age of the Panthéon, and we are still squabbling over its decoration; we hang up designs and drag them down again, we lay out enormous sums in the embellishment of the altar, and then we spend ever so much more in trying to circumvent our neighbours, and get rid of the ornament. It is a fate not necessarily peculiar to our country or this city, because at Brompton a magnificent church has been designed, built, and decorated in a few years, a model of refinement, beauty, and grandeur. But the embellishment of S. Paul's is attempted by spurts only, and up to the present time has left much to be desired.[79] That may perhaps be an advantage; if nothing is done, there can be nothing to regret. But the French have acted otherwise, and the Panthéon embellishment is almost an accomplished fact.

With one or two exceptions, the painting of the church has been confided to artists with reputations, wearers of the palm-embroidered coats; the procession of decorators being led by Baron Gros and Gérard, who covered the dome with pictures in the false, pretentious style of the First Empire, leaving it a glowing mass of bad taste, as a warning to their successors. Baron Gros was a great painter, an early naturalist, as witness his Battlefield of Eylau, in the Salle des Sept Cheminées of the Louvre. There is an amount of realism in the painting of the dying and the dead, of the snow and the "man of bronze," that is not surpassed by the realists of the day. But when he set to work upon Saints and Angels, he must fain idealise and sentimentalise; and so, instead of having a S. Geneviève in modest dress as befits a village maiden, we see a sprawling lady in flowing garments of silk and satin, receiving her guests of kings and queens in a cloudy apartment of the seventh heaven.

The first, or one of the first walls attacked by the decorator was Alexander Cabanel's. Here we have the Great works of S. Louis treated in the academic fashion. Learned in composition and refined in style, with a good deal of historical truth in costume and character, it is nevertheless crude and harsh in colour, unharmonious, stagey, and completely undecorative. The best of the panels is S. Louis learning to read at his mother's knee, which has a certain pathos in the fair child's expression.

The Coronation of Charlemagne by Leo III. in the old basilica of S. Peter, by Henri Lévy, looks as if it had lost its way, or had been taken to the Panthéon until a suitable dwelling could be found elsewhere. Like Cabanel's S. Louis, it is neither Classic, nor Mediæval, nor Modern—simply weak and smooth, respectable and historic, after the manner of the Delaroche school. It is a pity, for, in other hands, these subjects would have been a treasure. Think of the charming frescoes by Olivier-Merson in the gallery of the Cour de Cassation of the Palais de Justice, how exquisite is the simplicity of the boy king, and the grave beauty of his mother. The Coronation of Charlemagne is composed as an academician would be sure to conceive the subject. A flight of steps, with the emperor sitting at the top; churchmen and laymen adoring, and an Angel swooping down with a crown. At the bottom of the steps, a warrior standing with sword and shield, and a sitting monk instructing some children from an open book.

Completely opposed to these works are the panels of Puvis de Chavannes, one of the first decorative artists of our time. His painting is vague, and somewhat foggy; his figures are clumsy, thick of ankle, neck, and wrist, but otherwise attenuated to the last degree; and were it not that the far-off people are smaller than those near the spectator, no one would know that they are on different planes, for of aërial perspective there is none. Yet there is a certain purity of sentiment about this, as in all M. de Chavannes' work, which is almost Archaic. The very dulness of the surface and the opacity of the medium employed render these pictures a suitable wall covering for Soufflot's grandiose classicality. The treatment is dignified, poetic, refined, but at the same time intensely modern and realistic—witness a hen and chickens picking up some grain in the foreground, and the charming vistas of landscape background. The colour is tame, and all the members of the Geneviève family are remarkable for plainness, not to say ugliness of face and clumsiness of figure; but the feeling which pervades the whole work is that of a sort of Pagan Renaissance, suitable to Soufflot's "gâteau de Savoie."

The first of the series, properly entitled La jeunesse et la vie pastorale de Sainte-Geneviève represents the maiden praying, while a woodcutter and his wife are looking on. The centre and principal compartment is occupied with the discovery by S. Germain of her little saintship, surrounded by her father and mother and a small and admiring crowd. On the left, boatmen are contemplating the scene from the river bank, while upon the right is an old man trying to bend his knee to receive the good bishop's blessing. A youth, sick unto death, and a poor little beggar are being led to the man of God, and two women hurry up from milking to see what is going on. The Seine flows through the pastures of Nanterre, and Mont Valérien smiles down upon the company, not having yet learned the art of war. This is all delightfully pastoral and naïve. The little maid's face, as she looks up at the good bishop, is sweetness itself; the parents bend their heads, and a neighbour holds up her wee swaddled babe; but the ensemble is marred by the parrot-like profile of S. Germain and the general ugliness of the company. Ugliness is a veritable passion with Puvis de Chavannes, a gospel which he never loses faith in, a partner allied to eccentricity in all his works.

In another panel we see Faith, Hope, and Charity watching over the child's cradle, by which is a lamb, the emblem of innocence, purity, and the pastoral life. Above is a frieze of saints, illustrating the national religious history of France; SS. Paterne of Vannes, Clément of Metz, Firmin of Amiens, Lucien of Beauvais, Lucain of Beauce, Martail of Limoges, Solange of Berry, Madeleine and Marthe of Provence, Colombe of Sens, Crépin and Crépinien of Soissons, Saturnin of Toulouse, Julien of Brioude, Austremoine of Clermont, Trophime of Arles, and Paul of Narbonne.