the hunchback of notre dame-第35章

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Hence　Raphael；　Michael　Angelo；　Jean　Goujon；　Palestrina；　those　splendors　of　the　dazzling　sixteenth　century。

Thought　emancipates　itself　in　all　directions　at　the　same　time　as　the　arts。　　The　arch…heretics　of　the　Middle　Ages　had　already　made　large　incisions　into　Catholicism。　　The　sixteenth　century　breaks　religious　unity。　　Before　the　invention　of　printing；　reform　would　have　been　merely　a　schism；　printing　converted　it　into　a　revolution。　　Take　away　the　press；　heresy　is　enervated。　Whether　it　be　Providence　or　Fate；　Gutenburg　is　the　precursor　of　Luther。

Nevertheless；　when　the　sun　of　the　Middle　Ages　is　completely　set；　when　the　Gothic　genius　is　forever　extinct　upon　the　horizon；　architecture　grows　dim；　loses　its　color；　becomes　more　and　more　effaced。　　The　printed　book；　the　gnawing　worm　of　the　edifice；　sucks　and　devours　it。　　It　becomes　bare；　denuded　of　its　foliage；　and　grows　visibly　emaciated。　　It　is　petty；　it　is　poor；　it　is　nothing。　　It　no　longer　expresses　anything；　not　even　the　memory　of　the　art　of　another　time。　　Reduced　to　itself；　abandoned　by　the　other　arts；　because　human　thought　is　abandoning　it；　it　summons　bunglers　in　place　of　artists。　　Glass　replaces　the　painted　windows。　　The　stone…cutter　succeeds　the　sculptor。　Farewell　all　sap；　all　originality；　all　life；　all　intelligence。　It　drags　along；　a　lamentable　workshop　mendicant；　from　copy　to　copy。　　Michael　Angelo；　who；　no　doubt；　felt　even　in　the　sixteenth　century　that　it　was　dying；　had　a　last　idea；　an　idea　of　despair。　　That　Titan　of　art　piled　the　Pantheon　on　the　Parthenon；　and　made　Saint…Peter's　at　Rome。　　A　great　work；　which　deserved　to　remain　unique；　the　last　originality　of　architecture；　the　signature　of　a　giant　artist　at　the　bottom　of　the　colossal　register　of　stone　which　was　closed　forever。　　With　Michael　Angelo　dead；　what　does　this　miserable　architecture；　which　survived　itself　in　the　state　of　a　spectre；　do？　　It　takes　Saint…Peter　in　Rome；　copies　it　and　parodies　it。　　It　is　a　mania。　It　is　a　pity。　　Each　century　has　its　Saint…Peter's　of　Rome；　in　the　seventeenth　century；　the　Val…de…Grace；　in　the　eighteenth；　Sainte…Geneviève。　　Each　country　has　its　Saint…Peter's　of　Rome。　　London　has　one；　Petersburg　has　another；　Paris　has　two　or　three。　　The　insignificant　testament；　the　last　dotage　of　a　decrepit　grand　art　falling　back　into　infancy　before　it　dies。

If；　in　place　of　the　characteristic　monuments　which　we　have　just　described；　we　examine　the　general　aspect　of　art　from　the　sixteenth　to　the　eighteenth　century；　we　notice　the　same　phenomena　of　decay　and　phthisis。　　Beginning　with　Fran？ois　II。；　the　architectural　form　of　the　edifice　effaces　itself　more　and　more；　and　allows　the　geometrical　form；　like　the　bony　structure　of　an　emaciated　invalid；　to　become　prominent。　　The　fine　lines　of　art　give　way　to　the　cold　and　inexorable　lines　of　geometry。　　An　edifice　is　no　longer　an　edifice；　it　is　a　polyhedron。　　Meanwhile；　architecture　is　tormented　in　her　struggles　to　conceal　this　nudity。　　Look　at　the　Greek　pediment　inscribed　upon　the　Roman　pediment；　and　vice　versa。　　It　is　still　the　Pantheon　on　the　Parthenon：　Saint…Peter's　of　Rome。　　Here　are　the　brick　houses　of　Henri　IV。；　with　their　stone　corners；　the　Place　Royale；　the　Place　Dauphine。　　Here　are　the　churches　of　Louis　XIII。；　heavy；　squat；　thickset；　crowded　together；　loaded　with　a　dome　like　a　hump。　　Here　is　the　Mazarin　architecture；　the　wretched　Italian　pasticcio　of　the　Four　Nations。　Here　are　the　palaces　of　Louis　XIV。；　long　barracks　for　courtiers；　stiff；　cold；　tiresome。　　Here；　finally；　is　Louis　XV。；　with　chiccory　leaves　and　vermicelli；　and　all　the　warts；　and　all　the　fungi；　which　disfigure　that　decrepit；　toothless；　and　coquettish　old　architecture。　　From　Fran？ois　II。　to　Louis　XV。；　the　evil　has　increased　in　geometrical　progression。　　Art　has　no　longer　anything　but　skin　upon　its　bones。　　It　is　miserably　perishing。

Meanwhile　what　becomes　of　printing？　　All　the　life　which　is　leaving　architecture　comes　to　it。　　In　proportion　as　architecture　ebbs；　printing　swells　and　grows。　　That　capital　of　forces　which　human　thought　had　been　expending　in　edifices；　it　henceforth　expends　in　books。　　Thus；　from　the　sixteenth　century　onward；　the　press；　raised　to　the　level　of　decaying　architecture；　contends　with　it　and　kills　it。　　In　the　seventeenth　century　it　is　already　sufficiently　the　sovereign；　sufficiently　triumphant；　sufficiently　established　in　its　victory；　to　give　to　the　world　the　feast　of　a　great　literary　century。　　In　the　eighteenth；　having　reposed　for　a　long　time　at　the　Court　of　Louis　XIV。；　it　seizes　again　the　old　sword　of　Luther；　puts　it　into　the　hand　of　Voltaire；　and　rushes　impetuously　to　the　attack　of　that　ancient　Europe；　whose　architectural　expression　it　has　already　killed。　　At　the　moment　when　the　eighteenth　century　comes　to　an　end；　it　has　destroyed　everything。　In　the　nineteenth；　it　begins　to　reconstruct。

Now；　we　ask；　which　of　the　three　arts　has　really　represented　human　thought　for　the　last　three　centuries？　which　translates　it？　which　expresses　not　only　its　literary　and　scholastic　vagaries；　but　its　vast；　profound；　universal　movement？　which　constantly　superposes　itself；　without　a　break；　without　a　gap；　upon　the　human　race；　which　walks　a　monster　with　a　thousand　legs？Architecture　or　printing？

It　is　printing。　　Let　the　reader　make　no　mistake；　architecture　is　dead；　irretrievably　slain　by　the　printed　book；slain　because　it　endures　for　a　shorter　time；slain　because　it　costs　more。　　Every　cathedral　represents　millions。　　Let　the　reader　now　imagine　what　an　investment　of　funds　it　would　require　to　rewrite　the　architectural　book；　to　cause　thousands　of　edifices　to　swarm　once　more　upon　the　soil；　to　return　to　those　epochs　when　the　throng　of　monuments　was　such；　according　to　the　statement　of　an　eye　witness；　〃that　one　would　have　said　that　the　world　in　shaking　itself；　had　cast　off　its　old　garments　in　order　to　cover　itself　with　a　white　vesture　of　churches。〃　~Erat　enim　ut　si　mundus；　ipse　excutiendo　semet；　rejecta　vetustate；　candida　ecclesiarum　vestem　indueret~。　　（GLABER　RADOLPHUS。）

A　book　is　so　soon　made；　costs　so　little；　and　can　go　so　far！　How　can　it　surprise　us　that　all　human　thought　flows　in　this　channel？　　This　does　not　mean　that　architecture　will　not　still　have　a　fine　monument；　an　isolated　masterpiece；　here　and　there。　　We　may　still　have　from　time　to　time；　under　the　reign　of　printing；　a　column　made　I　suppose；　by　a　whole　army　from　melted　cannon；　as　we　had　under　the　reign　of　architecture；　Iliads　and　Romanceros；　Mahabahrata；　and　Nibelungen　Lieds；　made　by　a　whole　people；　with　rhapsodies　piled　up　and　melted　together。　　The　great　accident　of　an　architect　of　genius　may　happen　in　the　twentieth　century；　like　that　of　Dante　in　the　thirteenth。　　But　architecture　will　no　longer　be　the　social　art；　the　collective　art；　the　dominating　art。　　The　grand　poem；　the　grand　edifice；　the　grand　work　of　humanity　will　no　longer　be　built：　it　will　be　printed。

And　henceforth；　if　architecture　should　arise　again　accidentally；　it　will　no　longer　be　mistress。　　It　will　be　subservient　to　the　law　of　literature；　which　formerly　received　the　law　from　it。　　The　respective　positions　of　the　two　arts　will　be

inverted。　　It　is　certain　that　in　architectural　epochs；　the　poems；　rare　it　is　true；　resemble　the　monuments。　　In　India；　Vyasa　is　branching；　strange；　impenetrable　as　a　pagoda。　　In　Egyptian　Orient；　poetry　has　like　the　edifices；　grandeur　and　tranquillity　of　line；　in　antique　Greece；　beauty；　serenity；　calm；　in　Christian　Europe；　the　Catholic　majesty；　the　popular　naivete；　the　rich　and　luxuriant　vegetation　of　an　epoch　of　renewal。　The　Bible　resembles　the　Pyramids；　the　Iliad；　the　Parthenon；　Homer；　Phidias。　　Dante　in　the　thirteenth　century　is　the　last　Romanesque　church；　Shakespeare　in　the　sixteenth；　the　last　Gothic　cathedral。

Thus；　to　sum　up　what　we　have　hitherto　said；　in　a　fashion　which　is　necessarily　incomplete　and　mutilated；　the　human　race　has　two　books；　two　registers；　two　testaments：　masonry　and　printing；　the　Bible　of　stone　and　the　Bible　of　paper。　　No　doubt；　when　one　contemplates　these　two　Bibles；　laid　so　broadly　open　in　the　centuries；　it　is　permissible　to　regret　the　visible　majesty　of　the　writing　of　granite；　those　gigantic　alphabets　formulated　in　colonnades；　in　pylons；　in　obelisks；　those　sorts　of　human　mountains　which　cover　the　world　and　the　past；　from　the　pyramid　to　the　bell　tower；　from　Cheops　to　Strasburg。　The　past　must　be　reread　upon　these　pages　of　marble。　　This　book；　written　by　architecture；　must　be　admired　and　perused　incessantly；　but　the　grandeur　of　the　edifice　which　printing　erects　in　its　turn　must　not　be　denied。

That　edifice　is　colossal。　　Some　compiler　of　statistics　has　calculated；　that　if　all　the　volumes　which　have　issued　from　the　press　since　Gutenberg's　day　were　to　be　piled　one　upon　another；　they　would　fill　the　space　between　the　earth　and　the　moon；　but　it　is　not　that　sort　of　grandeur　of　which　we　wished　to　speak。　　Nevertheless；　when　one　tries　to　collect　in　one's　mind　a　comprehensive　image　of　the　total　products　of　printing　down　to　our　own　days；　does　not　that　total　appear　to　us　like　an　immense　construction；　resting　upon　the　entire　world；　at　which　humanity　toils　without　relaxation；　and　whose　monstrous　crest　is　lost　in　the　profound　mists　of　the　future？　　It　is　the　anthill　of　intelligence。　　It　is　the　hive　whither　come　all　imaginations；　those　golden　bees；　with　their　honey。

The　edifice　has　a　thousand　stories。　　Here　and　there　one　beholds　on　its　staircases　the　gloomy　caverns　of　science　which　pierce　its　interior。　　Everywhere　upon　its　surface；　art　causes　its　arabesques；　rosettes；　and　laces　to　thrive　luxuriantly　before　the　eyes。　　There；　every　individual　work；　however　capricious　and　isolated　it　may　seem；　has　its　place　and　its　projection。　Harmony　results　from　the　whole。　　From　the　cathedral　of　Shakespeare　to　the　mosque　of　Byron；　a　thousand　tiny　bell　towers　are　piled　pell…mell　above　this　metropolis　of　universal　thought。　　At　its　base　are　written　some　ancient　titles　of　humanity　which　architecture　had　not　registered。　　To　the　left　of　the　entrance　has　been　fixed　the　ancient　bas…relief；　in　white　marble；　of　Homer；　to　the　right；　the　polyglot　Bible　rears　its　seven　heads。　　The　hydra　of　the　Romancero　and　some　other　hybrid　forms；　the　Vedas　and　the　Nibelungen　bristle　further　on。

Nevertheless；　the　prodigious　edifice　still　remains　incomplete。　The　press；　that　giant　machine；　which　incessantly　pumps　all　the　intellectual　sap　of　society；　belches　forth　without　pause　fresh　materials　for　its　work。　　The　whole　human　race　is　on　the　scaffoldings。　　Each　mind　is　a　mason。　　The　humblest　fills　his　hole；　or　places　his　stone。　　Retif　dè　le　Bretonne　brings　his　hod　of　plaster。　　Every　day　a　new　course　rises。　　Independently　of　the　original　and　individual　contribution　of　each　writer；　there　are　collective　contingents。　　The　eighteenth　century　gives　the　_Encyclopedia_；　the　revolution　gives　the　_Moniteur_。　　Assuredly；　it　is　a　construction　which　increases　and　piles　up　in　endless　spirals；　there　also　are　confusion　of　tongues；　incessant　activity；　indefatigable　labor；　eager　competition　of　all　humanity；　refuge　promised　to　intelligence；　a　new　Flood　against　an　overflow　of　barbarians。　　It　is　the　second　tower　of　Babel　of　the　human　race。





BOOK　SIXTH。






CHAPTER　I。

AN　IMPARTIAL　GLANCE　AT　THE　ANCIENT　MAGISTRACY。



A　very　happy　personage　in　the　year　of　grace　1482；　was　the　noble　gentleman　Robert　d'