EMILE MALE ~ GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS of MEDIAEVAL ICONOGRAPHY
EMILE MÂLE ~ GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS of MEDIÆVAL ICONOGRAPHY
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To the Middle Ages art was didactic. All that it was necessary that men should know the history of the world from the creation, the dogma of religion, the examples of the saints, the hierarchy of the virtues, the range of the sciences, arts and crafts all these were taught them by the windows of the church or by the statues in the porch.
The thirteenth century, here as always, gives its supreme form to earlier thought.
[Excerpted from The Gothic Image: Religious Art in France of the 13th Century by Emile Mâle, translated by Dora Nussey. Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1958]
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The Middle Ages had a passion for order. They organised art as they had organised dogma, secular learning and society. The artistic representation of sacred subjects was a science governed by fixed laws which could not be broken at the dictates of individual imagination. It cannot be questioned that this theology of art, if one may so put it, was soon reduced to a body of doctrine, for from very early times the craftsmen are seen submitting to it from one end of Europe to the other. This science was transmitted by the Church to the lay sculptors and painters of the thirteenth century who religiously guarded the sacred traditions, so that, even in the centuries in which it was most vigorous, mediaeval art retained the hieratic grandeur of primitive art.
These are the general principles which it concerns us to state at the outset as briefly as possible.
I
The art of the Middle Ages is first and foremost a sacred writing of which every artist must learn the characters. He must know that the circular nimbus placed vertically behind the head serves to express sanctity, while the nimbus impressed with a cross is the sign of divinity which he will always use in portraying any of the three Persons of the Trinity. He will learn that the aureole expresses eternal bliss, and belongs to the three Persons of the Trinity, to the Virgin, and to the souls of the Blessed. He must know that representations of God the Father, God the Son, the angels and the apostles should have the feet bare, while there would be real impropriety in representing the Virgin and the saints with bare feet. In such matters a mistake would have ranked almost as heresy. Other accepted symbols enabled the mediaeval artist to express the invisible, to represent that which would otherwise be beyond the domain of art. A hand emerging from the clouds, making the gesture of benediction with thumb and two fingers raised, and surrounded by a cruciform nimbus, was recognised as the sign of divine intervention, the emblem of providence. Little figures of nude and sexless children, ranged side by side in the folds of Abraham's mantle, signified the eternal rest of the life to come.
There are also accepted signs for objects of the visible world which the artist must learn. Lines which are concentric and sinuous represent the sky, those which are horizontal and undulating represent water A tree, that is to say a stalk surmounted with two or three leaves, indicates that the scene takes place on the earth; a tower pierced by a doorway is a town, while if an angel watch on the battlements it is the heavenly Jerusalem. Thus we have a veritable hieroglyphic in which art and writing blend, showing the same spirit of order and abstraction that there is in heraldic art with its alphabet, rules and symbolism.
The artist must be familiar with a multitude of precise details. He is not allowed to ignore the traditional type of the persons he has to represent. St. Peter, for example, must have curly hair, a short, thick beard and a tonsure, while St. Paul must have a bald head and a long beard. Certain details of costume are also unchangeable. Over her head the Virgin must wear a veil, symbol of virginity, and the Jews are known by their cone-shaped caps.
All these figures with their unvarying costume and arrested type have their place in traditional scenes. No matter how dramatic may be the scene in which they play a part, their every action has been previously determined. No artist would be rash enough to dare to modify the arrangement of the great scenes from the Gospel. If his subject were the Last Supper he would not be free to group the figures round the table according to his individual fancy. He would have to show at the one side Jesus and the apostles, at the other Judas Iscariot. If he would represent the Crucifixion he must place the Virgin and the lance-bearer to the right of the Cross, St. John and the man with the sponge to the left.
These examples, which it would be useless to multiply, will suffice to show in what sense mediaeval art may be called a sacred script...
Faithful to the past the thirteenth century did not relinquish the old conventions, and deviated little from tradition. By that time the canons of religious art had grown to have almost the weight of articles of faith, and we find theologians consecrating the work of the craftsmen by their authority. In the Summa Aquinas devoted a chapter to the nimbus, and in it he explained why it is the usual symbol of holiness. Art was considered as one form of the liturgy, and Gulielmus Durandus, a liturgiologist of the thirteenth century, introduced several detailed expositions of sacred works of art into his Rationale divinorum officiorum.
It was well for the art of the thirteenth century that it did so piously preserve the rudiments of this ancient symbolism, for by that means it attained the grandeur peculiar to works to which successive centuries had contributed. There was in art a something impersonal and profound, and one might say that such or such an attitude, such or such a symbolic grouping was the common choice. Surely it was not individual choice but the corporate Christian consciousness which lighted upon that sublime gesture of the Saviour when on the Day of Judgment He shows His wounds to mankind. The mind of the theologian, the instinct of the people and the keen sensibility of the artist all collaborated.
Mediaeval art is like mediaeval literature; its value lies less in conscious talent than in diffused genius. The personality of the artist does not always appear, but countless generations of men speak through his mouth, and the individual, even when mediocre, is lifted by the genius of these Christian centuries. At the Renaissance artists at considerable risk and peril freed themselves from tradition. The lesser men found it difficult to escape platitude and to attain significance in their religious work, while the great ones were no greater than the old masters who had submissively given naive expression to the thought of the Middle Ages. Following an accepted model it was possible for even a modest artist to produce a work which made a strong emotional appeal. One may well prefer the traditional Christ of the Gothic cathedrals showing His wounds to mankind to the vengeful Judge whom the genius of a Michelangelo, unhampered by tradition, conceived as cursing the lost.
II
The second characteristic of mediaeval iconography is obedience to the rules of a kind of sacred mathematics. Position, grouping, symmetry and number are of extraordinary importance.
To begin with, the whole church is oriented from the rising to the setting sun, a custom dating back to primitive Christian days for it is found even in the Apostolical Constitutions. In the thirteenth century Gulielmus Durandus cites this as a rule without exception: The foundations must be disposed in such a manner that the head of the church lies exactly to the east, that is to the part of the sky in which the sun rises at the equinox. And, as a matter of fact, from the eleventh to the sixteenth century it is difficult to find a badly oriented church. Like other traditions of mediaeval art the rule fell into neglect towards the time of the Council of Trent, the Jesuits being the first to violate it.
Each cardinal point has its significance in churches oriented in this way. The north, region of cold and darkness, is usually consecrated to the Old Testament, and the south, bathed in warm sunlight, is devoted to the New, though there are many exceptions to the rule. The western faade where the setting sun lights up the great scene of the evening of the world's history is almost invariably reserved for a representation of the Last Judgment. The mediaeval doctors, with their curiously bad etymology, connected occidens with the verb occidere and the west became for them the region of death.
After orientation it was relative position which most engrossed the artist, here again at one with the theologian. In early times certain passages in the Bible led to the belief that the right hand was the place of honour. Is it not written, for example, in the Psalms: Adstitit regina a dextris tuis in vestitu deaurato? In the Shepherd of Hermas which belongs to primitive Christian literature, the right is the place given to those who are marked out for honour. In the account of the third vision it is said that the Church caused Hermas to be seated on a bench at her side. When he would have seated himself to her right she signed to him to pass to the left, because the right is reserved for those who have suffered in the name of God. The medieval theologians in their turn laid great stress on the dignity of the right hand place, and the artists did not fail to conform to so well established a doctrine. When, for example, the Saviour is represented in the midst of His apostles, St. Peter first in dignity occupies a place to the right of the Master. In the same way in the scene of the Crucifixion or in that of the Last Judgment, the Virgin is to the right, St. John to the left...
Regard for the traditional order is especially evident when it is a question of representing the blessed who compose the Church Triumphant. On the Portail du Jugement of Notre Dame at Paris the saints ranged in the orders of the arch form, as in Dante's Divine Comedy, concentric bands round the figure of Christ. The ranks of patriarchs, prophets, confessors, martyrs and virgins are seen in succession. Such a classification conforms to that adopted in the liturgy. At Chartres the artist went further, and in the right bay of the south porch which is entirely devoted to confessors the saints round the arches are classified as laymen, monks, priests, bishops and archbishops. A saintly Pope and a saintly Emperor occupy the crown of the arch, and seem to be the two keystones of the structure.
Above the choirs of saints are the choirs of angels. These are frequently ranked by the artists in the order devised by St. Dionysius the Areopagite, who first described the invisible world with the precision and grandeur found later in Dante. His Celestial Hierarchy, translated into Latin in the ninth century by Scotus Eriugena, was often expounded by the doctors, notably by Hugh of St. Victor. It inspired the artists who carved the nine choirs of angels in the south porch at Chartres. They are there ranged in the following orders : Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Dominations, Virtues, Powers, Principalities, Archangels and Angels. All these celestial beings, according to the doctrine of the Areopagite, form as it were great luminous circles round the throne of God, their brilliance increasing in measure as they approach the source of all light. So at Chartres the Seraphim and Cherubim carry flames and balls of fire because they dwell nearest to the centre of heat and splendour.
In the art of the Middle Ages care for disposition of parts extended to the smallest detail and led to ingenious devices. For example, a little crouching figure is almost always found under the bracket which supports a large statue. The superficial observer sees in it a piece of pure decoration, but careful study has shown that each of such small figures is in vital relation to the figure above it. Apostles tread under foot the kings who persecuted them, Moses stands on the golden calf, the angels tread on the dragon of the abyss, and Christ tramples on the adder and the basilisk. At times the emblem on the bracket does not connote triumph, but relates to some feature in the life or character of the hero. At Chartres Balaam has his ass beneath his feet, the Queen of Sheba has a negro bearing gifts from Ophir, while beneath the figure of the Virgin is the burning bush. The connection between the statue and the figure beneath the bracket is so close that at Notre Dame at Paris it has been possible by the help of the storied supports to reconstruct almost to a certainty the large figures in the left doorway.
But no disposition met with more favour than that controlled by symmetry. Symmetry was regarded as the expression of a mysterious inner harmony. Craftsmen opposed the twelve patriarchs and twelve prophets of the Ancient Law to the twelve apostles of the New, and the four major prophets to the four evangelists. A window in the south transept at Chartres shows with audacious symbolism the four prophets Isaiah, Ezekiel, Daniel and Jeremiah bearing on their shoulders the four evangelists, St. Matthew, St. John, St. Mark, St. Luke. In this way the artist would tell us that although the evangelists rest upon the prophets, yet from their spiritual vantage-ground they have a wider outlook. The four and twenty elders of the Apocalypse frequently correspond to the twelve prophets and the twelve apostles. In the same way parallelism was employed when treating of the Virtues and the Liberal Arts.
Schemes of this kind presuppose a reasoned belief in the virtue of numbers, and in fact the Middle Ages never doubted that numbers were endowed with some occult power. This doctrine came from the Fathers of the Church, who inherited it from those Neo-Platonic schools in which the genius of Pythagoras had lived again. It is evident that St. Augustine considered numbers as thoughts of God. In many passages he lays it down that each number has its divine significance. The Divine Wisdom is reflected in the numbers impressed on all things. The construction of the physical and moral worlds alike is based on eternal numbers. We feel that the charm of the dance lies in rhythm, that is in number; but we must go further, beauty is itself a cadence, harmonious number. The science of numbers, then, is the science of the universe, and from numbers we learn its secret. Therefore the numbers met with in the Bible should be considered with reverent attention, for they are sacred and full of mystery. He who can read them enters into the divine plan.
The same ideas are found in the works of almost all the mediaeval doctors. Reference to the Liber formularum of Eucherius for the fifth century, to the Liber numerorum of Isidore of Seville for the seventh, to the De Universo of Rabanus Maurus for the ninth, and to the Miscellanea of Hugh of St. Victor f6r the twelfth will suffice to show how the same teaching couched in precisely the same terms was transmitted through the centuries. The symbolic meaning of each number is first dogmatically stated, to be subsequently verified by the examination of passages of Scripture in which numbers appear. The interpretations do not vary, and one feels oneself in the presence of a body of doctrine.
A few examples will give some idea of the method. From St. Augustine onwards all theologians interpreted the meaning of the number twelve after the same fashion. Twelve is the number of the universal Church, and it was for profound reasons that Jesus willed the number of His apostles should be twelve. Now twelve is the product of three by four. Three, which is the number of the Trinity and by consequence of the soul made in the image of the Trinity, connotes all spiritual things. Four, the number of the elements, is the symbol of material things the body and the world which result from combinations of the four elements. To multiply three by four is in the mystic sense to infuse matter with spirit, to proclaim the truths of the faith to the world, to establish the universal Church of which the apostles are the symbol.
Computations of this kind were often more than ingenious, and at times reached real grandeur. The number seven, regarded by the Fathers as mysterious above all others, intoxicated the mediaeval mystic. It was observed first of all that seven composed of four, the number of the body, and of three, the number of the soul is preeminently the number of humanity, and expresses the union of man's double nature. All that relates to him is ordered in series of sevens. Human life is divided into seven ages with each of which is associated the practice of one of the seven virtues. The grace necessary for the practice of these seven virtues is gained by addressing to God the seven petitions of the Paternoster. The seven sacraments sustain man in the exercise of the seven virtues, and guard him from falling into the seven deadly sins. The number seven thus expresses the harmony of man's nature, but it also expresses the harmonious relation of man to the universe. The seven planets govern human destiny, for each of the seven ages is under the influence of one of them. Thus seven invisible threads connect man with the scheme of the universe. Now the beautiful symphony made by man and the world, the music they offer to God, will last for seven periods of time, of which six have already passed. By creating the world in seven days God gave man the key to these mysteries, and the Church celebrates the sublimity of the Creator's plan when she sings His praises seven times a day. Finally, when all is said and done, what are the seven tones of the Gregorian mode but a sensible expression of the universal harmony.
There is no doubt that the mystical schools in particular were led astray by conceptions of this kind. A glance at the Arca Noe of Hugh of St. Victor gives some idea of the rapture with which such symbolic numbers were combined...
Among the doctors, the commentators on the Bible are the richest in mystical interpretations based on numbers. They tell us, for example, that if Gideon went forth with three hundred companions it was not without some hidden reason, for that number hides a mystery. In Greek three hundred is rendered by the letter tau; now T is the figure of the Cross, and so behind Gideon and his companions must be seen the vision of Christ and the Cross.
Many examples of similar deductions might be given, but it is enough to have indicated a peculiar characteristic of mediaeval thought...
There are cases in which symbolic intention can hardly be questioned, such is the close agreement between the work of writer and craftsman. The octagonal form of the baptismal font, adopted from the earliest times and persisting through the whole of the Middle Ages, is not due to mere caprice. It is difficult not to see in it an application of the teaching of the Fathers, for the number eight was to them the number of the new life. It comes after seven which marks the limit assigned to the life of man and to the duration of the world. The number eight is like the octave in music with which all begins once more. It is the symbol of the new life, of the final resurrection and of that anticipated resurrection implied in baptism.
We cannot believe that such a doctrine, taught by the early Fathers, persisted without effect. The font in the oldest baptisteries in Italy or Gaul was almost invariably octagonal in form, and in mediaeval times the baptismal fonts though frequently circular were still more frequently octagonal.
We believe that it would be possible to find mystical numbers in other parts of the cathedral, but such studies are still in their infancy and so far more imagination than method has been brought to bear on them.
III
The third characteristic of medieval art lies in this, that it is a symbolic code. From the days of the catacombs Christian art has spoken in figures, showing men one thing and inviting them to see in it the figure of another. The artist, as the doctors might have put it, must imitate God who under the letter of Scripture hid profound meaning, and who willed that nature too should hold lessons for man.
In mediaeval art there are then intentions a knowledge of which is necessary to any real understanding of the subject. When for example in scenes of the Last Judgment we see the Wise and Foolish Virgins to the right and left hand of Christ, we should thereby understand that they symbolise the elect and the lost. Upon this all the commentators on the New Testament are agreed, and they explain it by stating that the five Foolish Virgins typify the desires of the five senses, and the five Wise Virgins the five forms of the contemplative life. To take another example, it is not as rivers that the four rivers of Paradise the Gihon, Phison, Tigris, and Euphrates are represented pouring water from their urns towards the four points of the compass, but as symbols of the evangelists who flooded the world with their teaching like four beneficent streams.
An Old Testament personage in the porch of a cathedral is but a type, an adumbration of Christ, the Virgin, or the future Church. At Chartres the form of Melchizedek, priest and king, bearing the bread and wine to Abraham, should remind men of another priest and king who offered bread and wine to His disciples. At Laon, Gideon calling down rain from heaven on to the fleece he had laid on the earth, reminds men that the Virgin Mother was this symbolic fleece on whom fell the dew from on high.
A detail of apparent insignificance may hide symbolic meaning. In a window at Bourges the lion near to the tomb from which the risen Christ comes forth is a type of the Resurrection. It was generally believed in the Middle Ages that for three days after birth the cubs of the lioness gave no sign of life, but that on the third day the lion came and with his breath restored them to life. And so the apparent death of the lion represents the sojourn of Jesus in the tomb, and its birth was an image of the Resurrection.
In the art of the Middle Ages, as we see, everything depicted is informed by a quickening spirit.
Such a conception of art implies a profoundly idealistic view of the scheme of the universe, and the conviction that both history and nature must be regarded as vast symbols. We shall see later that this undoubtedly was the view of the mediaeval mind. Further, it should be remembered that such ideas were not the property of the great thirteenth century doctors alone, but were shared by the mass of the people to whom they had permeated through the teaching of the Church. The symbolism of the church services familiarised the faithful with the symbolism of art. Christian liturgy, like Christian art, is endless symbolism; both are manifestations of the same genius.
The commentaries of Gulielmus Durandus accompanying the account of any of the great Christian festivals such for example as Easter Eve show how each ceremony performed on that day is full of meaning.
The day begins with the extinction of all the lamps in the church to show how the Ancient Law which has hitherto given light to the world is now discarded. The celebrant then blesses the new fire, type of the New Law. This fire must be struck from a flint in remembrance that Christ, as St. Paul says, is the world's cornerstone. Then the bishop, the deacon and the people move towards the choir and stop in front of the paschal candle. This candle, Gulielmus Durandus teaches, is a threefold symbol. When extinguished it typifies at once the pillar of cloud which led the Children of Israel by day, the Ancient Law, and the body of the Lord; when lighted it signifies the pillar of fire which was Israel's guide by night, the New Law, and the glorious body of the risen Christ. The deacon alludes to this threefold symbolism when singing the Exultet before the candle, but he insists in particular upon the likeness of the candle to the body of the Saviour. He calls to mind that the pure wax was produced by the bee which, like the Virgin who gave birth to the Saviour, is at once chaste and fruitful. To give visible form to the similitude of the wax to the sacred body, he drives five grains of incense into the candle as a reminder both of the five wounds of Christ and of the spices brought by the holy women for His burial. Finally he lights the candle with the new fire, and the lamps are relighted throughout the church in token of the illumination of the world by the New Law.
The first part of the ceremony ends here. The second is devoted to the baptism of the neophytes, which the Church ordained should take place on that day because, says Durandus, she saw mystic affinities between the death of Jesus and the symbolic death of the new Christian who in baptism dies to the world to rise again with the Saviour. But before being led to the baptismal fonts the catechumens listen to twelve passages from the Bible dealing with the sacrament they are about to receive. These are, to give examples, the story of the Deluge whose water purified the world, the passage of the Red Sea by the Children of Israel, and the verse in Isaiah which speaks of those who thirst for the water of life. The reading ended, the bishop blesses the water. He first makes the sign of the cross above it, then dividing it into four he sprinkles it towards the four cardinal points in memory of the four rivers of the terrestrial Paradise. He next dips the paschal candle, type of Christ, into the water to remind them that Jesus was baptized in Jordan, and by His baptism sanctified all the waters of the world. He dips the candle into the font three times in remembrance of the three days passed by the Redeemer in the tomb. The baptism then begins, and the neophytes in their turn are dipped three times into the font that they may know that with Christ they die to the world, with Him are buried, and with Him rise to the life eternal.
It is evident that in such a ceremony no detail is without symbolic value.
But it is not only on special occasions such as this that the Church makes use of symbols to instruct and move the people. Daily she celebrates the sacrifice of the Mass, and in that solemn drama every detail has its significance. The chapters which Gulielmus Durandus gives to the explanation of the Mass arc among the most arresting in his Rationale.
Here, for example, is his interpretation of the first part of the divine sacrifice: The ceremony begins with the Introit, that solemn chant which expresses the waiting of patriarchs and prophets. The choir of clergy is the very choir of the saints of the Ancient Law who sigh for the coming of the Messiah whom they will never see. The bishop then enters, appearing as the living type of Christ, and his arrival symbolises the coming of the Saviour awaited by the nations. Before him at great festivals are carried seven lights to recall the seven gifts of the Spirit which rested upon the head of the Son of God, according to the word of the prophet. He advances under a triumphal canopy whose four bearers may be compared to the four evangelists. To right and left of him walk acolytes, typifying Moses and Elias, who were seen on Mount Tabor on either side of the transfigured Lord. They teach men that the authority of both the Law and the Prophets was embodied in Christ. The bishop seats himself on his throne and is silent, appearing to take no share in the first part of the ceremony. His attitude contains a lesson, for by his silence he recalls that the first years of the life of Jesus were passed in obscurity and meditation. The subdeacon, however, goes to the desk, and turning to the right he reads the Epistle aloud. Here we catch a glimpse of the first act in the drama of Redemption, for the reading of the Epistle typifies the preaching of John the Baptist in the desert. He speaks before the Saviour has begun His mission, but he speaks to the Jews alone, and the subdeacon type of the Forerunner turns to the north, the side of the Old Law. The reading ended, he bows to the bishop as John the Baptist abased himself before his Master.
The Gradual, which follows the reading of the Epistle, also relates to the mission of the Baptist. It symbolises the exhortation to repentance which he addressed to the Jews on the eve of the new era.
At this point the celebrant reads the Gospel. A solemn moment, for it is now that the active life of the Messiah begins, and His word is first heard in the world. The reading of the Gospel is itself the figure of His preaching.
The Creed follows the Gospel, as faith follows the proclamation of the truth. The twelve articles of the Creed relate to the mission of the apostles.
The Creed finished, the bishop rises and speaks to the people. In choosing this moment to instruct the faithful the Church would remind them of the miracle of her foundation. She shows them how the truth first received by the apostles instantly began to spread throughout the world.
Such is the mystical meaning which Gulielmus Durandus attributes to the first part of the Mass. The foregoing has been in the nature of a prologue to the drama which culminates in the divine sacrifice, but his comments now become so numerous and his symbolism so rich that it is impossible to give any adequate idea in a mere outline, and we would refer the reader to the original. We have said enough, however, to give some notion of the genius of the Middle Ages, and one can divine something of the teaching, the emotional appeal, and the inspiration which religious ceremonial held for the Christian of the thirteenth century. How powerfully would such poetry affect the sensitive soul of a St. Louis, and how readily does it furnish the explanation of his trances and tears. To those who would tear him from his meditation he was wont to say in a low voice, like one half-dreaming, Where am I? He had thought himself with St. John in the wilderness, or walking by the side of the Master.
The works of the old liturgiologists, despised since the seventeenth century, should without doubt be counted among the most extraordinary books belonging to the Middle Ages. Nowhere else is found such forceful radiance of soul, which transmuted things material into things of the spirit.
The vestments worn by the priest at the altar and the objects used in the ritual of the church are so many symbols. The chasuble, worn over the other vestments, is the charity which is above the precepts of the law, and is itself the supreme law. The stole which the priest passes round his neck is the light yoke of the Master, and as it is written that the Christian should cherish that yoke, the priest when putting it on or taking it off kisses the stole. The bishop's mitre with its two points symbolises the knowledge he should have of both the Old and the New Testaments, while the two ribbons attached to it are a reminder that the interpretation of Scripture should be according to both letter and spirit. The sanctus bell is the voice of the preachers. The frame to which it is suspended is a figure of the Cross, and the cord made of three twisted threads signifies the threefold interpretation of Scripture, in a historical, allegorical and moral sense. When the cord is taken in the hand in order to move the bell, it is a symbolic expression of the fundamental truth that the knowledge of the Scriptures should conduce to action.
Such constant use of symbolism will astonish those unfamiliar with mediaeval writers. One should not however affect to see in it, as did the Benedictines of the eighteenth century, nothing but the mere play of individual fancy. Symbolic interpretations were doubtless never accepted as dogma, but for all that it is noticeable that they seldom vary. For example, in the thirteenth century Gulielmus Durandus attributes the same meaning to the stole as does Amalarius in the ninth. But the interest here lies less in the interpretation itself than in the attitude of mind which it presupposes. What is significant is the scorn for things of sense, and the profound conviction that reaching out to the immaterial through the material man may have fleeting visions of God. And herein lies the true genius of the Middle Ages.
For the historian of art there are no books of greater value than the liturgical treatises, as through them he may learn to understand the spirit which moulded plastic art. The craftsmen were as skilful as the theologians in spiritualising material objects. To them were due devices which were at times ingenious, at times touching, at others impressive. They gave, for example, the form of a fortified town protected by towers to the great chandelier at Aix-la-Chapelle. The inscription tells us that this town of light is the celestial Jerusalem. Between the battlements, near to the apostles and prophets who guard the holy city, are personifications of the beatitudes of the soul promised to the elect, a marvellous realisation of the vision of St. John.
The unknown artist who surmounted a censer with figures of the three Children in the fiery furnace was well able to give plastic form to beautiful thought. The perfume which rose from the brazier was as the very prayer of the martyrs. Thus did the pious workman of the time express his deepest feelings in his work.
Another and more subtle artist gave to the crook of a bishop's crozier the form of a serpent holding a dove in its teeth, as a reminder to the pastor of the two virtues proper to his ministry. Hide the simplicity of the dove under the prudence of the serpent, says a Latin inscription engraved on the pastoral staff. Another crozier shows a serpent threatening the Virgin with his impotent jaws, while in the crook is an angel telling him that this is she whose Son will vanquish the serpent.
The artists frequently gave a literal translation of the doctrine held by the liturgiologists. Against twelve pillars in the choir of the Sainte-Chapelle the sculptors placed twelve statues of apostles carrying consecration crosses. The liturgical writers taught that when the bishop consecrated a church he should mark twelve columns in the nave or choir with twelve crosses in token that the twelve apostles are the true pillars of the temple. This is the symbolism which has been so well expressed in the interior of the Sainte-Chapelle.
Again, in the thirteenth century, all the church furniture showed the material fashioned by the spiritual. At the lectern the eagle of St. John spread his wings to support the Gospel. Beautiful angels in long robes bore in procession the crystal reliquary in which reposed the bones of saints and martyrs. Ivory figures of the Virgin opened and where their hearts should be showed engraved the story of the Passion. In the chevet of the cathedral a huge angel which dominated the whole town turned with the sun and gave a spiritual meaning to each hour.
From what has been said it is evident that mediaeval art was before all things a symbolic art, in which form is used merely as the vehicle of spiritual meaning.
Such are the general characteristics of the iconography of the Middle Ages. Art was at once a script, a calculus and a symbolic code. The result was a deep and perfect harmony. There is something musical in the grouping of the statues in the cathedral porches, and in truth all the elements of music are present. Are there not here conventional signs grouped according to the law of numbers, and is there not something of the indefinite quality of music in the infinite symbolism dimly discerned behind the outward forms? The genius of the Middle Ages, so long misunderstood, was a harmonious genius. Dante's Paradiso and the porches at Chartres are symphonies. To thirteenth century art more truly perhaps than to any other might be given the title of frozen music.
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