Temple of the Grail(9)

I took a moment to reflect on my master’s wisdom, seeing that indeed it was a world that shunned the particular for the homogeneously universal. It seemed to me a quiet peaceful world, if not a little dull. However, as we walked down the central nave, we became immediately aware of the windows that, in their nature, were the only departure from the strict rule.

The long windows illuminated the five bays on either side of the nave with brilliant light, casting resplendent reflections in a play of colour – more effective perhaps, because of the grey background onto which it fell. All ten windows, with their exquisite plate tracery, depicted in a glorious concordance of transparency the four temptations of Christ, the ascension, the twelve apostles, but it was the Madonna and child between four angels that especially caught my attention. High above the second bay the Virgin sat enthroned, her violet robes simply draped over her pubescent body, cradling the Jesus child to her plump bosom. I paused in reflection, for the Virgin, dear reader, was black! I thought that my eyes and the dim light had been the cause of this strange illusion. I turned, but my master was already near the east door.

I walked to him and waited. He did not like to be interrupted while deep in thought, this could unleash a tempestuous mood that many have innocently, though unequivocally, come to know, so I waited. Moments later he turned to me.

‘To appreciate the art of architecture I am told that one must learn to see it with different eyes. You must first learn to follow the contours as they rise.’ He traced the journey of a vault, following the curves, which flow to meet a column in holy communion  . ‘In doing so, you will be lifted high into the heavenly vaults!’

I remained silent, waiting impatiently.

‘It is as important,’ he continued, ‘to appreciate art as it is to create it. Architecture raises us above all temporal things . . . It is also a fair shelter from the elements.’ He then looked at me squarely. ‘You wish to ask a question? Come . . . come . . .’

I asked him if he had noticed the Virgin, showing him where it was. He stood staring at it for long moments in silence, before remarking in an ambiguous way.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you not think it strange, master?’ I asked, thinking that it was surely out of the ordinary.

‘It is remarkable, but strange, no,’ he said, and walked away.

‘But what of the Virgin?’

‘Ahhh! The Virgin. Yes . . . Let me show you something.’

He led me the short distance to the east door, through which a wind thrust its cold hands.

The entrance spanned approximately ten feet, and was lit by two great torches whose flames licked and yawed and threatened to go out. They were attached to the stone wall on either side of a great oak door, left open throughout the day. Accompanying the proportions and bound to the very body of the two columns that flanked the entrance were two unnaturally tall figures. My fascinated eye fell firstly upon the image of the Archangel Michael who stood to the right of the door, and I was curious to find that he was dressed in knight’s mail and armour. On the left side, as one would expect, stood Gabriel, gazing upward with a smile of perennial praise, almost kneeling, preparing for a prayer that would last for all time. Above the doorway, and surmounting the arch – the area called the tympanum – there was an intricate working of Christ on his throne, surrounded by his twelve apostles.

‘What are you looking at?’ Andre broke through my speculations. In my enthusiasm for the door’s impressive sculptures, I had not noticed him pointing to a place above the Christ figure where there was a large cross intersected by a circlet of roses.

I felt my master’s breath on my cheeks as he whispered excitedly into my ear. ‘The Rose Cross! I saw it on our way to the cloisters.’

I frowned, ‘Rose Cross?’

‘Yes . . .’ he trailed off pensively.

‘But master . . . what of the black virgin?’

‘The black Madonna is not so strange.’ He shook his head. ‘There is a black Mary at Notre-Dame in Dijon, and also at Chartres, on its stained glass windows. It is the combination of rose and cross, Christian, which makes this abbey’s ornamentation interesting, it harks back to . . .’

I was about to risk a reprimand by asking more questions, when we were interrupted by a voice behind us.

It was the abbot, trying to keep his hood over his head in the inclement air, accompanied by another monk. ‘Domine dilexi decorem domus tuae, et locum habitationis gloriae tuae ... Lord I have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honour dwelleth . . . You are admiring our door.’

My master smiled wryly. ‘He found it wood and left it marble.’