Arts and Crafts in the Middle Ages

J >> Julia De Wolf Addison >> Arts and Crafts in the Middle Ages

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The well-known mosaic called the Navicella in the atrium of St.
Peter's, Rome, was originally made by Giotto. It has been much
restored and altered, but some of the original design undoubtedly
remains. Giotto went to Rome to undertake this work in 1298; but the
present mosaic is largely the restoration of Bernini, who can hardly
be considered as a sympathetic interpreter of the early Florentine
style. Vasari speaks of the Navicella as "a truly wonderful work,
and deservedly eulogized by all enlightened judges." He marvels
at the way in which Giotto has produced harmony and interchange of
light and shade so cleverly: "with mere pieces of glass" (Vasari
is so naively overwhelmed with ignorance when he comes to deal
with handicraft) especially on the large sail of the boat.

In Venice, the Mascoli chapel was ornamented by scenes from the
life of the Virgin, in 1430. The artist was Michele Zambono, who
designed and superintended the work himself. At Or San Michele in
Florence, the painter Peselli, or Guliano Arrigo, decorated the
tabernacle, in 1416. Among other artists who entered the field of
mosaic, were Baldovinetti and Domenico Ghirlandajo, the painter who
originated the motto: "The only painting for eternity is mosaic."

In the sixteenth century the art of mosaic ceased to
observe due limitations. The ideal was to reproduce exactly in
mosaic such pictures as were prepared by Titian, Pordenone, Raphael,
and other realistic painters. Georges Sand, in her charming novel,
"Les Maitres Mosaistes," gives one the atmosphere of the workshops
in Venice in this later period. Tintoretto and Zuccato, the aged
painter, are discussing the durability of mosaic:--"Since it resists
so well," says Zuccato, "how comes it that the Seignory is repairing
all the domes of St. Mark's, which to-day are as bare as my skull?"
To which Tintoretto makes answer: "Because at the time when they
were decorated with mosaics, Greek artists were scarce in Venice.
They came from a distance, and remained but a short time: their
apprentices were hastily trained, and executed the works entrusted
to them without knowing their business, and without being able
to give them the necessary solidity. Now that this art has been
cultivated in Venice, century after century, we have become as
skilful as even the Greeks were." The two sons of Zuccato, who
are engaged in this work, confide to each other their trials and
difficulties in the undertaking: like artists of all ages, they
cannot easily convince their patrons that they comprehend their art
better than their employers! Francesco complains of the Procurator,
who is commissioned to examine the work: "He is not an artist.
He sees in mosaic only an application of particles more or less
brilliant. Perfection of tone, beauty of design, ingenuity of
composition, are nothing to him.... Did I not try in vain the
other day to make him understand that the old pieces of gilded
crystal used by our ancestors and a little tarnished by time,
were more favourable to colour than those manufactured to-day?"
"Indeed, you make a mistake, Messer Francesco," said he, "in
handing over to the Bianchini all the gold of modern manufacture.
The Commissioners have decided that the old will do mixed with
the new."... "But did I not in vain try to make him understand
that this brilliant gold would hurt the faces, and completely ruin
the effect of colour?"... The answer of the Procurator was, "The
Bianchini do not scruple to use it, and their mosaics please the
eye much better than yours," so his brother Valerio, laughing,
asks, "What need of worrying yourself after such a decision as
that? Suppress the shadows, cut a breadth of material from a great
plate of enamel and lay it over the breast of St. Nicaise, render
St. Cecilia's beautiful hair with a badly cut tile, a pretty lamb
for St. John the Baptist, and the Commission will double your salary
and the public clap its hands. Really, my brother, you who dream
of glory, I do not understand how you can pledge yourself to the
worship of art." "I dream of glory, it is true," replied Francesco,
"but of a glory that is lasting, not the vain popularity of a day.
I should like to leave an honoured name, if not an illustrious
one, and make those who examine the cupolas of St. Mark's five
hundred years hence say, 'This was the work of a conscientious
artist.'" A description follows of the scene of the mosaic workers
pursuing their calling. "Here was heard abusive language, there
the joyous song; further on, the jest; above, the hammer: below,
the trowel: now the dull and continuous thud of the tampon on the
mosaics, and anon the clear and crystal like clicking of the glassware
rolling from the baskets on to the pavement, in waves of rubies and
emeralds. Then the fearful grating of the scraper on the cornice,
and finally the sharp rasping cry of the saw in the marble, to say
nothing of the low masses said at the end of the chapel in spite
of the racket."

[Illustration: MOSAIC IN BAS-RELIEF, NAPLES]

The Zuccati were very independent skilled workmen, as well as being
able to design their own subjects. They were, in the judgment of
Georges Sand, superior to another of the masters in charge of the
works, Bozza, who was less of a man, although an artist of some
merit. Later than these men, there were few mosaic workers of high
standing; in Florence the art degenerated into a mere decorative
inlay of semi-precious material, heraldic in feeling, costly and
decorative, but an entirely different art from that of the Greeks
and Romans. Lapis-lazuli with gold veinings, malachite, coral,
alabaster, and rare marbles superseded the smalts and gold of an
elder day.

CHAPTER XI

ILLUMINATION OF BOOKS

One cannot enter a book shop or a library to-day without realizing
how many thousands of books are in constant circulation. There was
an age when books were laboriously but most beautifully written,
instead of being thus quickly manufactured by the aid of the
type-setting machine; the material on which the glossy text was
executed was vellum instead of the cheap paper of to-day, the
illustrations, instead of being easily reproduced by photographic
processes, were veritable miniature paintings, most decorative,
ablaze with colour and fine gold,--in these times it is easy to
forget that there was ever a period when the making of a single
book occupied years, and sometimes the life-time of one or two
men.

In those days, when the transcription of books was one of the chief
occupations in religious houses, the recluse monk, in the quiet
of the scriptorium, was, in spite of his seclusion, and indeed,
by reason of it, the chief link between the world of letters and
the world of men.

The earliest known example of work by a European monk dates from
the year 517; but shortly after this there was a great increase
in book making, and monasteries were founded especially for the
purpose of perpetuating literature. The first establishment of
this sort was the monastery of Vivaria, in Southern Italy, founded
by Cassiodorus, a Greek who lived between the years 479 and 575,
and who had been the scribe (or "private secretary") of Theodoric
the Goth. About the same time, St. Columba in Ireland founded a
house with the intention of multiplying books, so that in the sixth
century, in both the extreme North and in the South, the religious
orders had commenced the great work of preserving for future ages
the literature of the past and of their own times.

Before examining the books themselves, it will be interesting to
observe the conditions under which the work was accomplished. Sometimes
the scriptorium was a large hall or studio, with various desks
about; sometimes the North walk of the cloister was divided into
little cells, called "carrels," in each of which was room for the
writer, his desk, and a little shelf for his inks and colours.
These carrels may be seen in unusual perfection in Gloucester. In
very cold weather a small brazier of charcoal was also introduced.

Cassiodorus writes thus of the privilege of being a copyist of
holy books. "He may fill his mind with the Scriptures while copying
the sayings of the Lord; with his fingers he gives life to men
and arms against the wiles of the Devil; as the antiquarius copies
the word of Christ, so many wounds does he inflict upon Satan. What
he writes in his cell will be carried far and wide over distant
provinces. Man multiplies the word of Heaven: if I may dare so to
speak, the three fingers of his right hand are made to represent
the utterances of the Holy Trinity. The fast travelling reed writes
down the holy words, thus avenging the malice of the wicked one,
who caused a reed to be used to smite the head of the Saviour."

When the scriptorium was consecrated, these words were used (and
they would be most fitting words to-day, in the consecration of
libraries or class rooms which are to be devoted to religious study):
"Vouchsafe, O, Lord, to bless this workroom of thy servants, that all
which they write therein may be comprehended by their intelligence,
and realized by their work." Scriptorium work was considered equal
to labour in the fields. In the Rule of St. Fereol, in the sixth
century, there is this clause: "He who doth not turn up the earth
with his plough, ought to write the parchment with his fingers."
The Capitulary of Charlemagne contains this phrase: "Do not permit
your scribes or pupils, either in reading or writing, to garble the
text; when you are preparing copies of the Gospels, the Psalter,
or the Missal, see that the work is confided to men of mature age,
who will write with due care." Some of the scribes were prolific
book transcribers. Jacob of Breslau, who died in 1480, copied so
many books that it is said that "six horses could with difficulty
bear the burden of them!"

The work of each scriptorium was devoted first to the completion
of the library of the individual monastery, and after that, to
other houses, or to such patrons as were rich enough to order books
to be transcribed for their own use. The library of a monastery
was as much a feature as the scriptorium. The monks were not like
the rising literary man, who, when asked if he had read "Pendennis"
replied, "No--I never read books--I write them." Every scribe was
also a reader. There was a regular system of lending books from
the central store. A librarian was in charge, and every monk was
supposed to have some book which he was engaged in reading "straight
through" as the Rule of St. Benedict enjoins, just as much as the one
which he was writing. As silence was obligatory in the scriptorium
and library, as well as in the cloisters, they were forced to apply
for the volumes which they desired by signs. For a general work,
the sign was to extend the hand and make a movement as if turning
over the leaves of a book. If a Missal was wanted, the sign of the
cross was added to the same form; for a Gospel, the sign of the
cross was made upon the forehead, while those who wished tracts to
read, should lay one hand on the mouth and the other on the stomach;
a Capitulary was indicated by the gesture of raising the clasped
hands to heaven, while a Psalter could be obtained by raising the
hands above the head in the form of a crown. As the good brothers
were not possessed of much religious charity, they indicated a
secular book by scratching their ears, as dogs are supposed to
do, to imply the suggestion that the infidel who wrote such a book
was no better than a dog!

This extract is made from a book in one of the early monastic libraries.
"Oh, Lord, send the blessing of thy Holy Spirit upon these books,
that, cleansing them from all earthly things, they may mercifully
enlighten our hearts, and give us true understanding, and grant
that by their teaching they may brightly preserve and make a full
abundance of good works according to Thy will." The books were
kept in cupboards, with doors; in the Customs of the Augustine
Priory of Barnwell, these directions are given: "The press in which
the books are kept ought to be lined with wood, that the damp of
the walls may not moisten or stain the books. The press should be
divided vertically as well as horizontally, by sundry partitions,
on which the books may be ranged so as to be separated from one
another, for fear they be packed so close as to injure one another,
or to delay those who want them."

We read of the "chained books" of the Middle Ages, and I think
there is a popular belief that this referred to the fact that the
Bible was kept in the priest's hands, and chained so that the people
should not be able to read it for themselves and become familiar
with every part of it. This, however, is a mistake. It was the
books in the libraries which were chained, so that dishonest people
should not make way with them! In one Chapter Library, there occurs
a denunciation of such thieves, and instructions how to fasten the
volumes. It reads as follows: "Since to the great reproach of the
Nation, and a greater one to our Holy Religion, the thievish
disposition of some who enter libraries to learn no good there,
hath made it necessary to secure the sacred volumes themselves
with chains (which are better deserved by those ill persons, who
have too much learning to be hanged, and too little to be honest),
care shall be taken that the chains should neither be too long nor
too clumsy, more than the use of them requires: and that the loops
whereby they are fastened to the books may be rivetted on such a
part of the cover, and so smoothly, as not to gall or graze the
books, while they are moved to or from their respective places.
And forasmuch as the more convenient way to place books in
libraries is to turn their backs out showing the title and other
decent ornaments in gilt work which ought not to be hidden, this
new method of fixing the chain to the back of the book is
recommended until one more suitable shall be contrived."

Numerous monasteries in England devoted much time to scriptorium
work. In Gloucester may still be seen the carrels of the scribes
in the cloister wall, and there was also much activity in the book
making art in Norwich, Glastonbury, and Winchester, and in other
cities. The two monasteries of St. Peter and St. Swithin in Winchester
were, the chronicler says, "so close packed together,... that between
the foundation of their respective buildings there was barely room
for a man to pass along. The choral service of one monastery
conflicted with that of the other, so that both were spoiled, and
the ringing of their bells together produced a horrid effect."

One of the most important monasteries of early times, on the Continent,
was that conducted by Alcuin, under the protection of Charlemagne.
When the appointed time for writing came round, the monks filed
into the scriptorium, taking their places at their desks. One of
their number then stood in the midst, and read aloud, slowly, for
dictation, the work upon which they were engaged as copyists; in
this way, a score of copies could be made at one time. Alcuin himself
would pass about among them, making suggestions and correcting
errors, a beautiful example of true consecration, the great scholar
spending his time thus in supervising the transcription of the
Word of God, from a desire to have it spread far and wide. Alcuin
sent a letter to Charlemagne, accompanying a present of a copy
of the Bible, at the time of the emperor's coronation, and from
this letter, which is still preserved, it may be seen how reverent
a spirit his was, and how he esteemed the things of the spiritual
life as greater than the riches of the world. "After deliberating
a long while," he writes, "what the devotion of my mind might find
worthy of a present equal to the splendour of your Imperial dignity,
and the increase of your wealth,--at length by the inspiration of
the Holy Spirit, I found what it would be competent for me to
offer, and fitting for your prudence to accept. For to me inquiring
and considering, nothing appeared more worthy of your peaceful
honour than the gifts of the Sacred Scriptures... which, knit
together in the sanctity of one glorious body, and diligently
amended, I have sent to your royal authority, by this your faithful
son and servant, so that with full hands we may assist at the
delightful service of your dignity." One of Alcuin's mottoes was:
"Writing books is better than planting vines: for he who plants a
vine serves his belly, while he who writes books serves his soul."

Many different arts were represented in the making of a mediaeval
book. Of those employed, first came the scribe, whose duty it was
to form the black even glossy letters with his pen; then came the
painter, who must not only be a correct draughtsman, and an adept
with pencil and brush, but must also understand how to prepare
mordaunts and to lay the gold leaf, and to burnish it afterwards
with an agate, or, as an old writer directs, "a dogge's tooth set
in a stick." After him, the binder gathered the lustrous pages and
put them together under silver mounted covers, with heavy clasps.
At first, the illuminations were confined only to the capital letters,
and red was the selected colour to give this additional life to the
evenly written page. The red pigment was known as "minium." The
artist who applied this was called a "miniator," and from this,
was derived the term "miniature," which later referred to the
pictures executed in the developed stages of the art. The use of
the word "miniature," as applied to paintings on a small scale,
was evolved from this expression.

[Illustration: A SCRIBE AT WORK: 12TH CENTURY MANUSCRIPT]

The difficulties were numerous. First, there was climate and temperature
to consider. It was necessary to be very careful about the temperature
to which gold leaf was exposed, and in order to dry the sizing
properly, it was important that the weather should not be too damp
nor too warm. Peter de St. Audemar, writing in the late thirteenth
century, says: "Take notice that you ought not to work with gold
or colours in a damp place, on account of the hot weather, which,
as it is often injurious in burnishing gold, both to the colours
on which the gold is laid and also to the gilding, if the work
is done on parchment, so also it is injurious when the weather
is too dry and arid." John Acherius, in 1399, observes, too, that
"care must be taken as regards the situation, because windy weather
is a hindrance, unless the gilder is in an enclosed place, and
if the air is too dry, the colour cannot hold the gold under the
burnisher." Illumination is an art which has always been difficult;
we who attempt it to-day are not simply facing a lost art which
has become impossible because of the changed conditions; even when
followed along the best line in the best way the same trials were
encountered.

Early treatises vary regarding the best medium for laying leaf on
parchment. There are very few vehicles which will form a connecting
and permanent link between these two substances. There is a general
impression that white of egg was used to hold the gold: but any
one who has experimented knows that it is impossible to fasten
metal to vellum by white of egg alone. Both oil and wax were often
employed, and in nearly all recipes the use of glue made of
boiled-down vellum is enjoined. In some of the monasteries there
are records that the scribes had the use of the kitchen for drying
parchment and melting wax.

The introductions to the early treatises show the spirit in which
the work was undertaken. Peter de St. Audemar commences: "By the
assistance of God, of whom are all things that are good, I will
explain to you how to make colours for painters and illuminators
of books, and the vehicles for them, and other things appertaining
thereto, as faithfully as I can in the following chapters." Peter
was a North Frenchman of the thirteenth century.

Of the recipes given by the early treatises, I will quote a few,
for in reality they are all the literature we have upon the subject.
Eraclius, who wrote in the twelfth century, gives accurate directions:
"Take ochre and distemper it with water, and let it dry. In the
meanwhile make glue with vellum, and whip some white of egg. Then
mix the glue and the white of egg, and grind the ochre, which by
this time is well dried, upon a marble slab; and lay it on the
parchment with a paint brush;... then apply the gold, and let it
remain so, without pressing it with the stone. When it is dry,
burnish it well with a tooth. This," continues Eraclius naively,
"is what I have learned by experiment, and have frequently proved,
and you may safely believe me that I shall have told you the truth."
This assurance of good faith suggests that possibly it was a habit
of illuminators to be chary of information, guarding their own
discoveries carefully, and only giving out partial directions to
others of their craft.

In the Bolognese Manuscript, one is directed to make a simple size
from incense, white gum, and sugar candy, distempering it with
wine; and in another place, to use the white of egg, whipped with
the milk of the fig tree and powdered gum Arabic. Armenian Bole is
a favourite ingredient. Gum and rose water are also prescribed,
and again, gesso, white of egg, and honey. All of these recipes
sound convincing, but if one tries them to-day, one has the doubtful
pleasure of seeing the carefully laid gold leaf slide off as soon
as the whole mixture is quite dry. Especially improbable is the
recipe given in the Brussels Manuscript: "You lay on gold with well
gummed water alone, and this is very good for gilding on parchment.
You may also use fresh white of egg or fig juice alone in the same
manner."

Theophilus does not devote much time or space to the art of
illuminating, for, as he is a builder of everything from church
organs to chalices, glass windows, and even to frescoed walls, we
must not expect too much information on minor details. He does not
seem to direct the use of gold leaf at all, but of finely ground
gold, which shall be applied with its size in the form of a paste,
to be burnished later. He says (after directing that the gold dust
shall be placed in a shell): "Take pure minium and add to it a
third part of cinnibar, grinding it upon a stone with water. Which,
being carefully ground, beat up the clear white of an egg, in
summer with water, in winter without water," and this is to be
used as a slightly raised bed for the gold. "Then," he continues,
"place a little pot of glue on the fire, and when it is liquefied,
pour it into the shell of gold and wash it with it." This is to be
painted on to the gesso ground just mentioned, and when quite dry,
burnished with an agate. This recipe is more like the modern
Florentine method of gilding in illumination.

Concerning the gold itself, there seem to have been various means
employed for manufacturing substitutes for the genuine article.
A curious recipe is given in the manuscript of Jehan de Begue,
"Take bulls' brains, put them in a marble vase, and leave them for
three weeks, when you will find gold making worms. Preserve them
carefully." More quaint and superstitious is Theophilus' recipe
for making Spanish Gold; but, as this is not quotable in polite
pages, the reader must refer to the original treatise if he cares
to trace its manufacture.

Brushes made of hair are recommended by the Brussels manuscript,
with a plea for "pencils of fishes' hairs for softening." If this
does not refer to _sealskin_, it is food for conjecture!

And for the binding of these beautiful volumes, how was the leather
obtained? This is one way in which business and sport could be combined
in the monastery, Warton says, "About the year 790, Charlemagne
granted an unlimited right of hunting to the Abbot and monks of
Sithiu, for making... of the skins of the deer they killed...
covers for their books." There is no doubt that it had occurred
to artists to experiment upon human skin, and perhaps the fact
that this was an unsatisfactory texture is the chief reason why
no books were made of it. A French commentator observes: "The
skin of a man is nothing compared with the skin of a sheep....
Sheep is good for writing on both sides, but the skin of a dead
man is just about as profitable as his bones,--better bury him,
skin and bones together."

There was some difficulty in obtaining manuscripts to copy. The
Breviary was usually enclosed in a cage; rich parishioners were bribed
by many masses and prayers, to bequeath manuscripts to churches. In
old Paris, the Parchment Makers were a guild of much importance.
Often they combined their trade with tavern keeping, in the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries. The Rector of the University was glad
when this occurred, for the inn keeper and parchment maker was
under his control, both being obliged to reside in the Pays Latin.
Bishops were known to exhort the parchment makers, from the pulpit,
to be honest and conscientious in preparing skins. A bookseller,
too, was solemnly made to swear "faithfully to receive, take care
of, and expose for sale the works which should be entrusted to
him." He might not buy them for himself until they had been for
sale a full month "at the disposition of the Masters and Scholars."
But in return for these restrictions, the bookseller was admitted
to the rights and privileges of the University. As clients of the
University, these trades, which were associated with book making,
joined in the "solemn processions" of those times; booksellers,
binders, parchment makers, and illuminators, all marched together
on these occasions. They were obliged to pay toll to the Rector
for these privileges; the recipe for ink was a carefully guarded
secret.

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