Flowers from MediAEval History :: The Mystic Cathedral of Chartres

The Mystic Cathedral of Chartres

The Episcopal Church recognizes three distinct divisions: the High Church, or mystical element that, words failing, would speak by symbols; the Low Church, that would say what it means and mean what it says; and the Broad Church, that would set aside details and seek in religion a general harmony.

Though they are not so formally defined, these same divisions, being based on human temperaments, exist in other sects so literally that the same symbols have met with the identical adoption and objection. About 205, Tertullian ridiculed the use of candles on the altars of the early church, and Lactance took up the subject some hundred years later. Thereafter Saint Jerome laid these still troublesome candles at the door of the laity, especially of the women. However, the symbol and the women conquered. In this desultory search of ours for hints of the social history of the old French cathedral builders, we meet with the high and low church elements which seem, though this idea may be fanciful, to have influenced the appearance even of their respective churches. There is the grandly simple and direct architecture, the Cathedral of Laon, which inclined to Low Church, allowing its votaries considerable latitude, and the symbolically ornate cathedral at Chartres, which from remote ages has been a noted shrine of mysticism. Its site was holy ground to the early Christian and perhaps to the Druids before him. Tradition has it that even to them on this hallowed spot came a prophecy of the Messiah. (If it did, it probably came from some Jewish source in the days of the Romans.)

There is a charming story, more than legend, if less than history, of “Notre Dame Sous Terre” of Chartres. While most of the early Christians, in a spirit of hatred, were destroying false gods and their shrines, some pioneers of Christianity found in a grotto at Chartres a figure which had been worshiped by the Druids, resembling their own Madonna, whereby, to these gentle priests, she seemed doubly hallowed. Accepting her grotto as already consecrate, they located their high altar there, upon it reinstated the old Madonna of the Druids, and in a humble spirit, along with their simple converts, they bowed down before her, for upon them had descended that sovereign reverence which appreciates another man’s god.

From the time this old druidic figure was raised upon a Christian altar to this day, first honors have been accorded to her shrine. Before her or her representative have bowed, weary and footsore, every one of the French kings, from Clovis to Louis XV, as well as innumerable other pilgrims, rich or poor, gathered from every land of Christendom by the democracy of the church.

Even the revolutionists recognized this “First Lady of Chartres,” for while they lumped other relics together in general destruction they paid Notre Dame Sous Terre the back-handed compliment of a special bonfire at the cathedral door.

The Old-Time House of Prayer, which Still
Dominates the City of Chartres.

The sansculottes have passed away without individual record, but a charmingly carved representative of the old Notre Dame Sous Terre still occupies the most venerated shrine of Chartres; while its old-time spirit of church hospitality yet pervades the noble cathedral that has developed above her grotto, her clergy still smile kindly upon the pilgrim and the stranger, even though his interest in their church be solely artistic. They seem to say: “Take from our old cathedral what you may, surely her beauty is pure and holy.”

True religious art can but lead to some phase of piety, as August Rodin declares that all true art must. It may be but a chance title; however, the latest book on French Gothic speaks of “Chartres, the House of Prayer”; but certainly the feeling which has been lavished on this spot, the passionate generosity of devotees through long ages, has brought forth one of the most sacredly beautiful churches in the world.

Now let us investigate literally the claims of Notre Dame Sous Terre. Recent excavations prove that the present Cathedral of Chartres is built over a grotto, where the Druids probably held their services. In excavating under and around the choir of the cathedral, vestiges of ancient altars and idols were unearthed which prove conclusively that the symbols of the heathen were not cleared away violently. The policy of Rome tended toward religious tolerance; the gods of the Romans often mixed peaceably in the temples with the gods of the people Rome conquered, hence the cult of the Virgin might have existed along with that of the pagan gods.

In the early days of Christianity the Virgin was not given the prominence she acquired after the eighth century; this figure known as the druidic Madonna may even have represented some sweet, motherly goddess of another name. Symbols are elastic, therein lies their supreme value; they may be all things to all men. Words always have brought division to the church; symbols, unity. The wisest and kindest of the early bishops had the most grace in translating the old symbols of their converts into the picturesque language of their new church. For instance, Gregory the Great changed the pagan memorial custom of putting food on graves on a certain fÊte-day to bringing flowers for the graves and praying for the dead on All Souls Day. The early Christian missionaries at Chartres may have believed this figure to be a Madonna or they may have translated it into one. Indeed, it is not the genuineness of the figure itself that is the point of this story; it is the attitude of the Chartrians toward it.

Saint Martin, Saint Jerome
and Saint Gregory, as They Stand Forth on
a Pillar at Chartres.

From the character of the Gallo-Romaine substructure of the Chapel of Saint Lubin in the crypt of Chartres, the list of the early bishops of that diocese and the general history of the evangelization of Gaul, it is inferred that ever since the beginning of the fourth century a bishop’s church has stood on the site of the present cathedral. Mingled with all the superstition of its age there was a certain tolerant broad-church element maintained at Chartres from the first. Perhaps that made the church so peculiarly dear to the people of France, for though the French kings were crowned at Rheims and buried at Saint Denis, Chartres seems the most intimately associated with their lives. It is written that after his conversion Clovis stopped there for further instruction, and Gibbon observes his measures were sometimes moderated by the milder genius of Rome and Christianity. The Carlovingian kings were very partial to Chartres. Charles the Bald, who comes down to us familiarly as a church builder through an old picture in which he holds a cast of a cathedral in his hand, conferred the most precious of relics upon Chartres—the Sancta Camisia of the Virgin! Robert the Pious contributed a sapphire. Within her mystic walls sensible Louis the Fat pardoned his enemies; there Philippe le Bel, Charles le Bel and Philippe de Valois gave thanks for their victories, childishly presenting their armor and their beloved war-horses to this Church, their Mother. Saint Louis marched barefooted about twenty-one miles to endow Chartres with her beautiful Portail Septentrionale. And when Henry IV changed his religion, let us believe with the really good intention of bringing about a little peace on earth to Frenchmen, he elected to be consecrated at Chartres, “by reason of the peculiar devotion of his ancestors, the Dukes of Vendome, to the old cathedral, the most ancient in Christendom.” There were reasons why he could not conveniently have been crowned at Rheims like other French kings, that city being hostile to him. But Henry IV always had a clever and sufficient answer.

To return to the material story of the old bishops’ church near the well of Saint Lubin, our first dated record takes us back into a feudal war. In 743, Hanald duc d’Aquitaine, fighting the Comte de Chartres, burned the town cathedral; but when he realized what he had done he retired to a monastery to do penance all the rest of his days. Was it in superstition? Was it in true repentance? Did he burn the church by accident? That might have been. The simple piety of the Dark Ages that would build “The House of God” for all time rendered the churches the strongest of buildings, and defensive armies often resorted to them; then, too, there were spiritual objections to attacking a church. This factor was sometimes over-estimated.

A View Through the Portail of
Chartres, which Louis IX Walked Barefooted
Twenty-one Miles to Present, in a Lowly
Spirit, to the Church.

The Cathedral of Chartres was rebuilt, only to be burned down one hundred and fifteen years after by the Normans. During this siege the non-combatants of the town confidently took refuge in the cathedral with their bishop instead of buying off the pirates with gold from the Holy Altar as the people of Rheims had done (they are all gone now and God knows which did best). Unexpectedly, neither church nor bishop impressed the Normans, who overturned the city walls, burned the buildings, massacred the bishop, and every one else who came in their way; but after the Normans left, the Chartrians had the cold comfort of gathering their dead and laying them away beside the Well of Saint Lubin and “through the merits of those there reposing a crowd of miracles were wrought.” About this period the disease we now know as erysipelas came to be highly respected. In France it was called le mal des ardents; in England, the “sacred fire”; for, one thousand years ago processions like those that now visit Lourdes were pressing on to Chartres to drink of the holy spring. The world moves, but somewhat in a groove. At this Lourdes of the Dark Ages the afflicted were tended by nuns, but we find a certain telltale regulation:—after nine days (ample time for blood poisoning to develop unmistakably) the sick must go home, “cured or not.”

Was medical practice then so much worse than ours during the Rebellion, when old rags of the nation were collected and all sorts and conditions of women scraped them into lint full of germs for the wounded soldiers? But if the church was a crazy physician, she was a gentle nurse. She established a chivalry toward the sick that no Cervantes would laugh away. It lives in medical ethics, and the quixotic obligation of the doctor to leave no stone unturned for his patient has been the foundation of medical science. Some of the old Hotels-Dieu of blessed name and memory have developed into up-to-date hospitals and medical schools, like Charing Cross Hospital, London, which still enjoys its mediÆval benefice, while modern hospitals, in general, are moral descendants of the old ideal.

Again the old Church of Chartres was rebuilt, again to stand for a little over a century. This building had the satisfaction (may we not use the figure, for the mediÆval church was very human) of seeing the Normans, under Rollo, defeated by an army marching under its blessed standard, the Sancta Camisia of the Virgin borne aloft as a banner. But later, Rollo married the daughter of Charles the Simple, settled down in Normandy, presented his castle to the see of the Bishop of Chartres and adopted the Christian religion. A double victory for the church! Many of the first Norman converts were baptized a dozen times, for the sake of excitement or for the white garment given them at the ceremony. Thereafter the funeral of Rollo was rendered doubly memorable by the slaughter of one hundred captives and rich gifts to the monasteries.

In spite of the Sancta Camisia, in spite of all the remains of all of the martyrs that had been aggregating in the martyrium under the church for seven hundred years, in 962 Richard of Normandy burned the cathedral with the town. But the relics had not been powerless, for this was the last pagan outbreak. The church had the holy triumph of Christianizing her adversaries, and the martyrium, between the excellence of its building material, the water of the spring of Saint Lubin near by, and “the merits of those there reposing,” remained intact and was found in the excavations of 1901; but the spring is gone; it was probably diverted by the foundations of the present cathedral.

Though a paralyzing conviction had come upon the people, Bishop Vulpard immediately started to rebuild. It had somehow been very generally decided that the world would come to an end in the year 1000, so near at hand.

How did this private information regarding the future affect the multitude? They probably took it riotously,—at least, such has been the experience in times of plague and horror, when it seemed that the race was about to be wiped out. Indeed, it is only for others that the saner, better life is led—best of all, unconsciously led.

A Detail of the Portail Septentrionale.

We do know that at that time church building flagged. Ah, be it credited to these old builders, they worked for others rather than themselves! Nevertheless, the latter part of the tenth century is the day of vast and massive crypts of which Chartres is one of the noblest examples. Let us hope that brave old Vulpard lived to see it under way.

History has very little to say of the delusion regarding the year 1000, except that it shows that the church gained ground therefrom. Many persons thought it well to present their goods to the churches since they could not use them much longer themselves. Scarce as records are, we have one instance of the church helping the world out of one of the dilemmas arising from this misunderstanding. We do know positively that the valuables of the Church of Saint Benignus of Dijon were all sold to relieve the famine of the year 1001. Probably the ground had not been sown the previous autumn. However often it has fallen from grace, in the main the Christian Church has won its way by service. However often its services have been mistaken, it has maintained the ideal that the Christian should serve the world.

Instead of the world’s coming to an end according to their schedule, to the astonishment of the Chartrians, lightning singled out their holy church and burned it to the ground. Some of the more or less logically inclined suggested that some of the pilgrims might have been guilty of indiscretions within its consecrated walls and thus have brought down this celestial disaster.

The church had a particularly charming bishop at that time who arose to the astonishing occasion and called for help from the whole religious world regardless of nationality. He might be known as the successful correspondent of history. We still have some of his letters. The one to Cnut, King of England and Denmark, is certainly a flower of history, showing, as it does, the sympathy of a great king with a great scholar (as the times went) and a great movement. Fulbert writes, in acknowledgment of Cnut’s donation to his building fund: “When we saw the offering which you deigned to send us, we admired at once your astonishing wisdom and religious spirit; your wisdom, in that you, a prince, divided from us by language and by sea, are zealously concerned not only with the things around you but also with things that touch us; in your religious spirit, in that you, of whom we have heard speak as a pagan king, show yourself a very Christian and generous benefactor of churches and servants of God. We render lively thanks to the King of kings through whose mercy your gifts have descended upon us, and we beseech Him to make your reign happy and prosperous, to deliver your soul from all sin.” The result of Fulbert’s appeals proves that Christianity had established a brotherhood on earth. Though much of Fulbert’s structure was burned within ten years the church inherits both spiritually and materially from him; his crypt is left and it gives lines to the splendid church we know. Saint Thierry rebuilt the upper church, and it grew in beauty under Saint Ivo, who succeeded in getting the ear of Mathilda of England. Not that Saint Ivo was a snob, for in his time we may see among the records timely rebukes to royalty and dignified acknowledgment of the services of individual workmen upon the mighty edifice. After all, there is nothing sweeter than the “widow’s mite.” A great deal is said by social historians about the tax upon the communities for these splendid churches, but they overlook the joy of public giving, which also moulds and unites a people.

And now this wonderful old church, which echoes from tower to crypt with the human story, commences to speak picturesquely of the wild Holy Wars. The heavy Dark Ages developed its crypt. The body of the church passed through many metamorphoses in the time intervening until a period of the greatest religious enthusiasm crowned the cathedral with its marvelous towers.

A Thirteenth Century Statement
of the Liability of Pride to Have a Fall
Solemnly Proclaimed on the South
Portal of Chartres.

In all history is there a movement more extraordinary, more far-reaching, more curious than the crusades? They are about as surprising to a reader today as they were to the Emperor of Constantinople when the first disorderly army appeared at his gates. The monk, Guibert, who, at least, seemed to have more grasp of the subject than any other contemporary writer, ingeniously suggested that “God invented the crusades as a new way for his laity to atone for their sins and merit salvation.” Certainly they thus atoned for the great sin of inertia. No army, I suppose, was ever more confident, more surprised or more disappointed than that of the crusaders. However, this much is to be said in favor of Guibert’s hypothesis. From that time forth the laity took their place in the march of civilization. They arose and left the Dark Ages behind. New views were forced upon them at the point of the sword,—most needed of all, new civic ideals.

Separation and longing and the sweet sorrow of parting awoke the spirit of poetry, the craving for beauty; and all this new thought and feeling was soon to blossom forth in the one art, whose metier the people had already learned,—architecture.

Through a long admixture of races, by the twelfth century (hardly before it) there had arisen in Gaul genuine Frenchmen, who from the beginning were most artistic artisans and most enthusiastic partisans. They spent more on their crusades and on their churches than their neighbors, and they were to reap the rewards of extravagance, always more imposing than those of economy. Money poured into the church alike from those who went to the Holy Land, and from those who thus excused themselves from going. Incidentally the Holy Wars diverted a disorderly element of nobles and serfs from France to Palestine. During the period of the crusades the Cathedral of Chartres suffered from two fires just sixty years apart; thus in rebuilding, the overflowing religious excitement of the era came to be lavished upon the very stones of the cathedral.

In 1134 a great fire in the town of Chartres damaged the cathedral so far as to make it necessary to restore the faÇade. In spite of their own losses the Chartrians decided that their church should be finer than ever. She should have two connected towers, instead of one separated from the building as before. And the design they here evolved has become standard.

To effect these grand restorations the workmen formed themselves into permanent guilds. One especially which devoted itself to working on the cathedral was honorably known as the “Logeurs du Bon Dieu.” And the nobles who had watched the workmen growing in grace and in skill, raising themselves as they raised the temple, were finally seized with a strange and humble enthusiasm which can only be convincingly described by eye-witnesses.

“In this same year” (1144), writes Robert Du Mont, “at Chartre men began to harness themselves to carts laden with stones, wood and other things, and drag them to the site of the church, the towers of which were then a-building.”

Says AbbÉ Haimon: “Who has ever seen or heard in all the ages of the past that kings, princes and lords, mighty in their generation, swollen with riches and honor, that men and women, I say, of noble birth, have bowed their haughty necks to the yoke and harnessed themselves to carts like beasts of burden, and drawn them laden with wine, corn, oil, stone or wood and other things needful for the maintenance of life or the construction of the church, even to the doors of the asylum of Christ.”

“Mighty are the works of the Lord,” exclaims Hugh of Rouen (ready to use the example). “At Chartres men have begun, in all humility, to drag carts and vehicles of all sorts to aid the building of the cathedral, and their humility has been rewarded by miracles. The fame of these events has been heard everywhere and at last roused this Normandy of ours. Our countrymen, therefore, after receiving our blessing, have set out for that place and then fulfilled their vows. They return with the resolution to imitate these Chartrians, and a great number of the faithful of our diocese and the dioceses of our province have begun to work at the Cathedral, their Mother.”

But since it is the spirit that makes the action fine, the services of these builders were accepted only under the triple condition of confession, penitence and reconciliation with their enemies; they delivered their offerings in tears, while disciplining themselves with blows.

George Eliot speaks of a common feeling of good-will among a mass of men affecting her like music; to such music the incomparable tower of Chartres was built, and a later age sees tears transformed to pearls when another great fire destroyed the old part of the cathedral, and they had, in rebuilding, to live up to their splendid new faÇade.

A Page from the
Sculptured “Bible of the Laity,”
Chartres.

The cardinal assembled the people of Chartres around the smoking ruins of their dear old church and persuaded them to forget their personal losses and to think only of rebuilding the House of God; and the people, united by the strongest of bonds, a common disaster, arose again to work for the common good, and again Christians from far and near sent in their donations. The old chroniclers say that the very Holy Virgin multiplied her miracles. One of them we still have before us. It was then and there that an architect, whose name is forgotten but whose genius is immortal, perfected the cathedral type of thirteenth century Gothic. All designers of Gothic churches still do him homage; all lovers of Gothic architecture still sing his praise.

And the old church at Chartres grew on, gently developing her people on many lines. She watched her imagiers grow into sculptors, her glass-workers into painters, the more or less serfs of the soil develop into workmen, then guildsmen and free burghers of the town; of this they themselves have written upon her very walls. About half of the windows of the cathedral we find were presented by the guilds; the other half by kings, princes and seigneurs, lay and ecclesiastic. The glass of Chartres, by the way, is considered the finest in the world.

The eighteenth century was a bad day for churches in France; the general contempt in the air for the past led them to destroy the “barbarians’ art,” which was good, to make way for their own, which happened to be bad. The Cathedral of Chartres, as ever so truly in touch with the times, suffered from the artists in the early part of the century, while in 1793 the revolutionists invaded it. They buried the relics and appraised the barbarians’ statues at 100 francs. Then the next idea was to knock down the cathedral, which they found was not so easy; so they concluded to transform it into a Temple of Reason, wherein they behaved most unreasonably. Somebody started to destroy the immense group of the Assumption on the grand altar. It represents the Virgin on an embankment of clouds with her arms extended and her figure coming toward the congregation. Her “pied-À-terre” of clouds (excuse the hibernicism) is upheld by angels and every face and attitude in the group is full of aspiration and action. Although as sculpture, this group is not of the first order, as allegory, it is perfect. A bright idea occurred to an architect present; he put the Phrygian cap upon the head of the Virgin and a lance in her hand, and the old symbol became the new; with her arms open to the world and her eyes turned a little above it, the Virgin of Chartres became a beautiful emblem of liberty. I wonder if she impressed any of the wild congregation before her; not long thereafter Napoleon observed that “Chartres was no place for an atheist.”

Altar-piece at Chartres.
The Virgin who once Wore a Liberty Cap

In about six months the church managed to reinstate itself in its old stronghold, though the Revolutionary Commission of public works (or rather the commission for the destruction of public works) had had the impertinence to strip the lead from the cathedral roof to make its ammunition.

But the old church was built to weather all storms, and so was the French nation. The revolutionists besieged the Louvre and turned it into a public art gallery. The republic has quietly advanced much farther in its right of eminent domain and taken under its enlightened protection all the great monuments of architecture in all fair France. Nothing is more charming than the enthusiasm throughout the land, extending even to the simplest people, over these “national monuments.” As the building of them long ago formed a bond of union with the communes, so the love of them now forms a bond of union with the nation. Fostered in their shadows, French genius was able to bring forth at need architects capable of restoring them almost to their pristine beauty, a beauty which, growing out of mystic relics, seems fraught with a relic’s power through love and awe to lead men on. May its magic transform these Roman Catholic cathedrals of the Age of Faith into Holy Catholic churches of the Age of Doubt!

In the nineteenth century James Russell Lowell wrote a poem containing some lovely lines on the Cathedral of Chartres, but if a twentieth century poet approach the theme he will treat it in a more Catholic spirit, for the messages of these venerable fanes must grow broader and gentler as time goes on. A greater poet than Lowell said: “I never can feel sure of any truth but from a clear perception of its beauty.” From this idea he framed his invocation to beauty, which applies alike to a Grecian urn and to the Cathedral of Chartres:

“Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend[2] to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

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