dwell upon these facts which are fresh in every one’s memory We have perhaps already devoted too much space to the slow and painful growth of French nationality; but we have deemed it necessary to give emphasis to this in order to make it clear that Gothic art was especially the work of a conquering race, of a minority that long dwelt apart from the conquered inhabitants of the country, without mixing at all with them; afterwards, as the result of unions forcibly effected, the gradual demoralization of feudal society and the growing influence of the customs of the majority, the vanquishing race sank from its position of independence and supremacy and underwent various modifications; the subjugated people at the same time asserted themselves, gradually recovering their influence, and, finally, gaining a real preponderance. As we have seen, architecture passed through corresponding phases; as the race which had created the religious and feudal art of the Middle Ages lost in importance, its architecture changed in character and at length disappeared with it.
From the sixteenth century it was an entirely different race that formed public opinion and impressed its feelings and tastes upon France. The almost immediate reaction was general and violent; it manifested itself in a detestation of the past coupled with a hatred of the tyrannical race which had so long remained foreign on Gaulish soil; and which was so full of vitality that it survived for centuries, reappearing at the Revolution more bitter than ever. This accounts also for the scorn in which Gothic art was long held; it was a noble art, but it was the product and the expression of an odious past.
The barbarians of the north had not, however, been the first invaders of our land; yet how different were the traces and the memories left by their invasions from those which remained from the Roman occupation. The latter had, it is true, cost much bloodshed, for our ancestors made a warlike and valiant defense; they were conquered by their dissensions and clan jealousies rather than by Roman discipline and superiority of arms. Nowhere, be it noted, did the Roman occupation leave behind it that permanent hatred engendered by the barbarian conquest. This was because Rome held out to the conquered, in compensation for her triumph, the benefits of a higher civilization and of a regular organization; the better intellects among them were immediately attracted to that centre of education whither the inquisitive and active spirit of the Gaul naturally impelled them; others enlisted in the Roman armies and gladly took their chances in the hazards of great military enterprises; even the masses watched with satisfaction the suppression of the perpetual internal conflicts, the establishment of order, with a regular municipal organization, and a systematic gathering of the taxes — which were in part applied to public works — and the founding of new cities and great institutions.
Besides, after the Roman conquest unions were immediately formed and the two races were soon considerably blended; a sort of equality was acknowledged on both sides; important government functions were delegated to the native inhabitants, some even at Rome. Nothing of the kind happened after the barbarian invasions. The Franks brutally dispossessed the Gauls; they sowed ruin throughout the land; then, haughty and scornful, they entrenched themselves in their fortresses. It was the temporary breaking-up of all civilization, and nothing was offered in compensation for the wreckage.
It is not astonishing, therefore, that memories of the past — which are far more lasting among the common people than might appear at first thought — afterwards brought about a violent and most unjust reaction against everything that perpetuated the image of that past, arts and institutions alike. Nor, in view of what has been said, is it astonishing that all tradition was cast aside at the end of the fifteenth century and that the incoming architecture gave evidence of no relationship or resemblance to the architecture of previous centuries.
An attempt has been made to account for these extraordinary divergences by assuming that Renaissance art was imported one fine morning from Italy, as a full-grown shrub, and merely planted in French soil. This assumption shows a complete misapprehension of the real hold which the roots of an art have in the very soul of a people. A distinguished botanist may bring a cedar here from Mount Lebanon in his hat, and thus propagate its culture; but it is not usually in this way that an art originates, especially one as fruitful and as productive of new varieties as that of the Renaissance.
What did in fact happen? Could the sixteenth century give birth to an entirely new and original art? No, the time had
gone by for that; none of the necessary conditions existed. There has not been in Modern Europe, and never can be, a new race, bearing in its bosom a hitherto unknown sentiment. And yet, on a smaller scale, a phenomenon did then occur which possessed some likeness to the art creations which we owe to the Arabs and to the peoples of the north. These are the facts. In the sixteenth century the French nation was constituted: Gauls, Arverni, Iberians, Celts, Goths, Burgundi, Austrasian Franks, Neustrian Franks and Normans, all, ceased to have a separate existence; the peoples of the north and of the south, so long divided by an almost impassable barrier, took the steps which resulted in their ultimate fusion into a single nation; already the most marked differences were effaced. The alloy was assuming the proper proportions which were to make of the Frenchman a distinct individual, with his own lineaments, quite unlike those of the Fleming, the Italian or the Spaniard. Certain features of the primitive races would, in the nature of things, be perpetuated, while others would entirely disappear; again, others wholly new would show themselves; as in bronze, properties of copper, zinc and tin may be detected in connection with qualities of hardness, cohesiveness and elasticity which belong to none of these metals.
In one way, therefore, it may be said that a new stock was formed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but it was singularly complex, and in no sense was it the unsophisticated race, endowed with the simple and mighty primitive passions of a barbarous people just appearing on the confines of civilized life. The Italian wars brought it in contact with a remarkable civilization, at that moment the wonder of the world; and the French nation was itself awakened. But we must insist on the wide difference between these conditions and the beginnings of civilization among barbarians; in this case there was no untouched, virgin temperament ready to borrow from a foreign civilization merely such elements as were needed for the constitution of an art peculiarly its own, an art which in its later developments would take on a physiognomy wholly unlike anything in that from which it had drawn. In Italy, France came in contact with a civilization whose sources were hers also; she merely welded again her future to her past. The term Renaissance is, therefore, not misleading; nothing like a real birth is discernible in the blossoming out of art in the sixteenth century, neither in Italy nor in France. Italy rediscovered the arts of antiquity, she promulgated her discovery; France united her artistic and literary development to her remote past.
The Italian influence was of mighty import to us; it opened up the way for us. But is this admitting the truth of the claim that we merely transplanted Italian architecture? In refutation of this claim we need only ask if the castles of Blois, Chambord and many others in France are, in any sense, copies of Italian palaces. Even when French architecture adopts Classic dispositions, it displays a grace and suppleness, a fruitfulness of arrangements and delicacy of ornamentation which plainly bear the stamp of the French temperament. The Italian Renaissance is indeed beautiful, but the French Renaissance is not less so, though its beauty is often of a very different type.
An architecture can never again be created out and out; forms, orders, or dispositions absolutely unknown can never again be invented; but, under the general proportions and within the great lines, which cannot hereafter undergo any marked change, multifold variations may be introduced amply sufficient to modify deeply its character. For example, an evident relationship certainly exists between the Henry II, Henry IV, Louis XIV and Louis XVI styles; the so-called Classic tradition has left its impress on each; but does it follow that any of them may be for a moment confounded with another?
Within the bounds of classic unity an extraordinary variety afterwards appears, art does not again pass through a radical revolution, but it develops in all directions, being constantly renewed and transformed. Perhaps, in the end, however, fully as much is gained as lost. The more primitive an art is, and the more well-defined its character, the more entirely original it shows itself to be; but the less freedom, on the other hand, is allowed it in varying this character to escape monotony. What is more nearly like a Greek temple than another Greek temple, a Roman edifice than another Roman edifice, no matter how far removed from each other the two regions in which they are encountered? One Arabic mosque differs but little from another.
Even in Gothic art, which is more flexible because, in the
course of time, it came under the influence of several different
From the sixteenth century it was an entirely different race that formed public opinion and impressed its feelings and tastes upon France. The almost immediate reaction was general and violent; it manifested itself in a detestation of the past coupled with a hatred of the tyrannical race which had so long remained foreign on Gaulish soil; and which was so full of vitality that it survived for centuries, reappearing at the Revolution more bitter than ever. This accounts also for the scorn in which Gothic art was long held; it was a noble art, but it was the product and the expression of an odious past.
The barbarians of the north had not, however, been the first invaders of our land; yet how different were the traces and the memories left by their invasions from those which remained from the Roman occupation. The latter had, it is true, cost much bloodshed, for our ancestors made a warlike and valiant defense; they were conquered by their dissensions and clan jealousies rather than by Roman discipline and superiority of arms. Nowhere, be it noted, did the Roman occupation leave behind it that permanent hatred engendered by the barbarian conquest. This was because Rome held out to the conquered, in compensation for her triumph, the benefits of a higher civilization and of a regular organization; the better intellects among them were immediately attracted to that centre of education whither the inquisitive and active spirit of the Gaul naturally impelled them; others enlisted in the Roman armies and gladly took their chances in the hazards of great military enterprises; even the masses watched with satisfaction the suppression of the perpetual internal conflicts, the establishment of order, with a regular municipal organization, and a systematic gathering of the taxes — which were in part applied to public works — and the founding of new cities and great institutions.
Besides, after the Roman conquest unions were immediately formed and the two races were soon considerably blended; a sort of equality was acknowledged on both sides; important government functions were delegated to the native inhabitants, some even at Rome. Nothing of the kind happened after the barbarian invasions. The Franks brutally dispossessed the Gauls; they sowed ruin throughout the land; then, haughty and scornful, they entrenched themselves in their fortresses. It was the temporary breaking-up of all civilization, and nothing was offered in compensation for the wreckage.
It is not astonishing, therefore, that memories of the past — which are far more lasting among the common people than might appear at first thought — afterwards brought about a violent and most unjust reaction against everything that perpetuated the image of that past, arts and institutions alike. Nor, in view of what has been said, is it astonishing that all tradition was cast aside at the end of the fifteenth century and that the incoming architecture gave evidence of no relationship or resemblance to the architecture of previous centuries.
An attempt has been made to account for these extraordinary divergences by assuming that Renaissance art was imported one fine morning from Italy, as a full-grown shrub, and merely planted in French soil. This assumption shows a complete misapprehension of the real hold which the roots of an art have in the very soul of a people. A distinguished botanist may bring a cedar here from Mount Lebanon in his hat, and thus propagate its culture; but it is not usually in this way that an art originates, especially one as fruitful and as productive of new varieties as that of the Renaissance.
What did in fact happen? Could the sixteenth century give birth to an entirely new and original art? No, the time had
gone by for that; none of the necessary conditions existed. There has not been in Modern Europe, and never can be, a new race, bearing in its bosom a hitherto unknown sentiment. And yet, on a smaller scale, a phenomenon did then occur which possessed some likeness to the art creations which we owe to the Arabs and to the peoples of the north. These are the facts. In the sixteenth century the French nation was constituted: Gauls, Arverni, Iberians, Celts, Goths, Burgundi, Austrasian Franks, Neustrian Franks and Normans, all, ceased to have a separate existence; the peoples of the north and of the south, so long divided by an almost impassable barrier, took the steps which resulted in their ultimate fusion into a single nation; already the most marked differences were effaced. The alloy was assuming the proper proportions which were to make of the Frenchman a distinct individual, with his own lineaments, quite unlike those of the Fleming, the Italian or the Spaniard. Certain features of the primitive races would, in the nature of things, be perpetuated, while others would entirely disappear; again, others wholly new would show themselves; as in bronze, properties of copper, zinc and tin may be detected in connection with qualities of hardness, cohesiveness and elasticity which belong to none of these metals.
In one way, therefore, it may be said that a new stock was formed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but it was singularly complex, and in no sense was it the unsophisticated race, endowed with the simple and mighty primitive passions of a barbarous people just appearing on the confines of civilized life. The Italian wars brought it in contact with a remarkable civilization, at that moment the wonder of the world; and the French nation was itself awakened. But we must insist on the wide difference between these conditions and the beginnings of civilization among barbarians; in this case there was no untouched, virgin temperament ready to borrow from a foreign civilization merely such elements as were needed for the constitution of an art peculiarly its own, an art which in its later developments would take on a physiognomy wholly unlike anything in that from which it had drawn. In Italy, France came in contact with a civilization whose sources were hers also; she merely welded again her future to her past. The term Renaissance is, therefore, not misleading; nothing like a real birth is discernible in the blossoming out of art in the sixteenth century, neither in Italy nor in France. Italy rediscovered the arts of antiquity, she promulgated her discovery; France united her artistic and literary development to her remote past.
The Italian influence was of mighty import to us; it opened up the way for us. But is this admitting the truth of the claim that we merely transplanted Italian architecture? In refutation of this claim we need only ask if the castles of Blois, Chambord and many others in France are, in any sense, copies of Italian palaces. Even when French architecture adopts Classic dispositions, it displays a grace and suppleness, a fruitfulness of arrangements and delicacy of ornamentation which plainly bear the stamp of the French temperament. The Italian Renaissance is indeed beautiful, but the French Renaissance is not less so, though its beauty is often of a very different type.
An architecture can never again be created out and out; forms, orders, or dispositions absolutely unknown can never again be invented; but, under the general proportions and within the great lines, which cannot hereafter undergo any marked change, multifold variations may be introduced amply sufficient to modify deeply its character. For example, an evident relationship certainly exists between the Henry II, Henry IV, Louis XIV and Louis XVI styles; the so-called Classic tradition has left its impress on each; but does it follow that any of them may be for a moment confounded with another?
Within the bounds of classic unity an extraordinary variety afterwards appears, art does not again pass through a radical revolution, but it develops in all directions, being constantly renewed and transformed. Perhaps, in the end, however, fully as much is gained as lost. The more primitive an art is, and the more well-defined its character, the more entirely original it shows itself to be; but the less freedom, on the other hand, is allowed it in varying this character to escape monotony. What is more nearly like a Greek temple than another Greek temple, a Roman edifice than another Roman edifice, no matter how far removed from each other the two regions in which they are encountered? One Arabic mosque differs but little from another.
Even in Gothic art, which is more flexible because, in the
course of time, it came under the influence of several different